Call It What You Want(58)

I might resent my father, but I don’t like it when he’s afraid. “You’re all right,” I say gently. “I’ll fix it.”

A tap on the screen of the feeding machine silences the alarm. I pull the tubing free, work out the kink, and refeed it through. After a moment, the rhythmic clicks begin again. His breathing steadies.

“See?” I say, even though he gives me absolutely no acknowledgment. “All better.”

I wait for a moment, as if this will be the time that he blinks and turns to me and says, “Thanks, Rob.”

But of course he doesn’t. He never will.

I click off the light and turn for the doorway.

Connor is standing there.

I’m glad the light is off. This is more humiliating than when he stood over me in the cafeteria. “Don’t start something here,” I say to him, and I make an effort to keep my voice low. “If he gets really upset it can be challenging to calm him down.”

Connor doesn’t move. If I stand here, I’m going to start something myself. So I push past him and head back to my bedroom.

This time I flick the light switch. That full bottle of Coke landed on my bed and leaked all over my quilt. From the looks of it, it’s soaked all the way through.

Great.

I’m so tired.

“I didn’t know he was like that.” Connor speaks from behind me, in the hallway.

“Yeah?” I say without looking. “What did you think he was like?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t—I didn’t know.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“No.”

At least he’s honest. I sigh and start stripping my bed. Connor vanishes from the doorway.

Good. I hope he locks up.

I make a pile of bedclothes in the corner, then get a towel from my bathroom to lay over the wet spot on the mattress. Just as I’m about to go down the hallway to the linen closet, Connor reappears with folded sheets and a comforter.

This might be more shocking than the fact that he was staking out my bedroom.

“Did you lace these with anthrax?” I ask, making no effort to hide the surprise in my voice.

“Shut up.” He picks up a fitted sheet and shakes it out, then moves to the top corner of my bed. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to get the other side?”

I want to stand here, to watch him burn off some of the guilt he’s obviously feeling. I want to feel superior, just for one fraction of a second.

But I also want to go to bed. I know if I’m a dick, he won’t keep making the bed. He’ll walk out.

So I pick up the other corner. We make the bed.

I don’t thank him. My abdomen hurts the whole time.

When we finish, we’re standing on opposite sides of the bed. I finally look at him in the light. A bruise has formed along his jaw where I hit him. I probably have an identical one forming on my own face.

Maegan was right. I do have questions.

How could you ignore me when I called you?

How could you let me go through this alone?

How could you think I’m a thief?

How could you?

I don’t ask any of them. It’s not that I don’t want answers. It’s that I’m scared of what he’d say.

So we stand there staring at each other, saying nothing.

A line forms between Connor’s eyebrows. He inhales.

“Go,” I say, before he can speak. “I’m tired. I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Emotions flicker through his eyes. A quick burst of anger, then pity, then acquiescence. No remorse. No regret.

“Fine,” he says. “Whatever.” He turns and walks out. I wait, listening to his footsteps as he jogs down the staircase. The door opens and closes gently. His key finds the lock.

I don’t get into bed until I hear a car engine fire up down the street.

Thanks to those earrings in my glove box, I don’t sleep at all.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Maegan

I’ve been home for an hour, and Samantha isn’t home yet. I texted her before I came inside, because I didn’t know how she wanted to handle things with Mom.

MAEGAN: What do you want me to tell Mom? I haven’t gone in yet.

There was a long wait before a text came back, and I was worried she wasn’t going to write back at all. The phone seemed to vibrate with tension.

SAMANTHA: Tell her I ran into a friend from high school who was home for the weekend.

That was easy enough. Mom was half-asleep, watching a food documentary, and she barely mumbled “okay” when I gave her the news.

But now an hour has passed, and Samantha still hasn’t shown up.

I text her again.

MAEGAN: I’m going to sleep. You OK?

SAMANTHA: As OK as I can be, considering you told the whole party I’m pregnant.

I flinch. I did do that.

MAEGAN: They were all hammered. No one will remember.

She doesn’t say anything. I dash out another text.

MAEGAN: All OK with mom on this side

SAMANTHA: Good

Good. Figures.

Guilt and responsibility are wrestling in my head. I quickly do an internet search on my phone. Ten seconds later I have more information than I know what to do with, ranging from fetal alcohol syndrome to reports of how having a few drinks early in pregnancy doesn’t matter at all. I don’t know how much she drank, but she wasn’t falling down. She was able to walk out of there with Craig.