Gun Shy(78)

I lean against the sink and bite on the insides of my cheeks, waiting for the front door to close as Chris shows himself out. I listen for the sound of his engine, the crunch of gravel where the driveway meets the road, and then I search for fucking poppy seeds.

I don’t find them.

But I do find something else. Packets and packets of pills, very powerful sedatives, hidden under a floorboard in our bedroom. I turn one of the packets over, skimming all of the words, looking for the ingredients. I find the name of the drug – the opiate – and all the blood in my veins turns to ice as I carefully put the pills back, and the floorboard, and get the hell out.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.



Pike speeds like a hell demon with me in the passenger seat, but I’m still late to the appointment. Cassie is already trying to shimmy up the bed as a midwife sticks her fingers up her.

I hold her hand as the midwife finishes fingering my girlfriend and snaps off her latex gloves, tossing them in the trash as she says words like “membranes” and “breaking waters.” It’s all so primal, this baby-birthing business. It’s all so messy.

But Cassie seems sated by the reassurance that she’ll most likely go into labor any moment now that her cervix is soft, that she’s already looking a little bit dilated.

She insists we pick up McDonald’s on the way home, giant sodas and hot fries and dirty double cheeseburgers. I want to tear into the food as soon as it’s passed to us in the drive-thru, but Cassie insists we eat on plates at home like civilized humans.

In fact, the more I think about it, Cassie’s very insistent about what we eat and when. I’ve passed it off as pregnancy and her trying to be a good housewife, but after Chris’s bombshell, there’s a deep feeling of worry starting to spread in me.

It’s like a cancer in my blood, snaking down my limbs and around my heart, and by the time we get home I’m reeling.

I’m starting to think about all the nights I’ve passed out on the couch, too tired to even make it up to bed.

All the mornings waking up to Cassie’s sweet face, laughing at me because I fell asleep again.

“Go wash up,” Cassie says, bumping my hip with her belly as she takes the tray of sodas to the kitchen. I wash up in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. You’re crazy, I think to myself. The test is at fault. You’re fucking paranoid.

I head back into the kitchen and the table is all set; our dinners placed neatly in the spots where we always sit. Me at the head of the table and Cassie tucked off to the side, next to me, her back against the wall.

“Damn,” I say, picking up my Coke. “I thought I ordered Sprite. You wanna swap?”

Cassie pulls her Sprite closer to her. “I’m not supposed to have caffeine.”

“Oh,” I say. Perfectly logical explanation. You’re paranoid, the little voice in my head repeats. You’re freaking out because of the baby.

I pick at my food, suddenly not hungry. When Cassie goes to pee, I throw half of my food away and cover it with other trash. Then, I tip my Coke down the sink before taking it back to the table. Cassie reappears just as I’m sitting back in my spot, stopping short when she sees my face.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look like there’s something wrong.”

I shake my head. “I think I’ve finally realized that we’re having a baby.”

Her face falls.

“No, no, not like that!” I say, putting my hand up in protest. “I mean the birthing pool and the induction date and the fucking hot water heater. I can’t even blow the fucking thing up.”

“Oh,” she says, visibly relaxing. “Don’t worry. There’s an air pump that blows up the pool. We’ll have hours to get it full. You can use the stove to heat water if we run out.”

“Good,” I say, smiling, trying like fuck to appear like everything is normal. “I just want everything to be perfect for you. I know how much you want to have this baby at home.”

She smiles, sliding on to my lap. She’s so big that her belly sits between us, swollen and ready to burst. “We should go to bed,” she says, her hands on my chest. “Make up for the fact that we won’t be able to do it for like, a month after he or she is born.”

“We should,” I agree.

We go to bed. We do the deed. But unlike this morning, when we were laughing and I was trying not to choke on my mouthful of bacon at the same time, tonight I flip Cassie over, onto her hands and knees, and try to get done as quickly as possible. I’m almost about to come when I remember this is exactly how I saw her and Damon in the window, over a year ago, the night of her mother’s funeral. Before I can stop myself, I come inside Cassie, but with that image in my head, it feels fucking horrific.

Normally I would fall asleep immediately, as soon as my head hits the pillow. But tonight, I’m wide-awake. I feign sleep, aware that Cassie is still very much awake beside me, the glow from her phone illuminating the room slightly. I breathe slowly, I wait it out, and after about forty minutes, Cassie shakes me.

“Leo,” she whispers. “Are you awake?”

I stay “asleep.” She tries to rouse me once more, and I waver. What if she’s having labor pains? What if she needs something?

Before I can think anymore, she’s up and out of bed. It’s probably nothing. She’s so hugely pregnant that she can barely get comfortable, let alone get to sleep with the baby pummeling her with kicks. I listen intently, hearing her shuffling about in the kitchen. She’s always hungry. It’s nothing.