Little Secrets Page 14

  Ginny had filled a plate with beef barbecue on a roll, macaroni salad, red beet eggs. The same food that had been served at every baby shower she’d ever been to. She’d been starving and ate too fast; now her stomach rumbled and ached, and she wondered if it would be bad form to ask everyone to leave so she could take a nap. She leaned in the parlor doorway, looking at the stacks of gifts she’d opened. Babies needed so many things.

  “Look at all the loot.” Sean appeared beside her.

  “Yeah, I know.” She leaned against him. “Don’t be a ruffian and run off with all of it.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “That’s me, hooligan to the core. Maybe I should grow my beard again, you think?”

  “Beard. Ha. You never had a beard.” She turned to face him. “You only ever had that three days’ worth of stubble. I could never figure out if you thought it made you look like a badass, or you were just too lazy to shave.”

  “Now you know, huh?”

  “Yeah. Too lazy,” she teased, and kissed his mouth.

  He tasted of Scotch and, more faintly, of cigarettes, but that had to be her imagination because Sean had quit smoking a few years ago. The first time she got pregnant. She kissed him again and slid her hands, flat, up the soft corduroy of his jacket to cup his shoulders.

  “Were you…smoking?”

  He looked briefly guilty, then…not defiant. More like daring. “I was out back with your brother, showing him where I wanted to put the shed.”

  Surely the size or expense of a shed wasn’t that important or stressful that a discussion necessitated cigarettes. “Sean.”

  “Yeah. We were smoking. Drinking a little too. It’s a party, baby.” He nuzzled her, his mouth finding the sensitive spots on her neck and below her ear, making her shiver. “Can’t a guy get a little happy at his wife’s baby shower?”

  Ginny had never been the one to tell Sean he had to quit smoking, he’d done that on his own. Of course she’d been glad he quit. Of course she had. But now, his kisses flavored with liquor and smoke, his hands sliding up her hips to cup her waist, Ginny had a flashback to the first night they’d fucked. You couldn’t even have called it making love. No bed, no soft music or candles or slow, sweet undressing.

  The first time she’d had him inside her, they’d been at a party thrown by someone she didn’t know. A house she’d never been inside before. There’d been loud music, a table laden with food, the air thick with smoke and even the tang of marijuana. Sean had introduced her to all his friends as “his girl,” though they’d only been seeing each other for a week or so and Ginny wasn’t even sure she meant to keep going out with him. His fingers had linked with hers, his other hand free to hold his cigarette, but he was so careful to never blow the smoke at her. Considerate that way, and also in how he made sure she always had a fresh drink, a plate full of goodies if that’s what she wanted. He remembered that she liked pepperoni and not shrimp, that she preferred her drinks without ice. He’d paid attention to her back then.

  The revelation had hit her, watching him laugh with a guy whose name she still didn’t know. Sean’s hand in hers, his focus on someone else, the sheen of colored lights from the Christmas tree making pretty patterns on his face and against the soft fringes of the hair he always, always, always wore in front of his ears. She’d tugged his hand and he’d turned to her at once, making her the most important person in the room to him.

  They’d fucked in a tiny powder room, her ass slipping on cold porcelain, his jeans around his ankles. His hand over her mouth when she started to cry out. She could still taste his skin.

  “Come with me,” she whispered now and took his hand, but when she tugged him toward their powder room, Sean hung back.

  “Ginny. What are you doing?”

  No, she wanted to say. Don’t speak. Don’t refuse me. Just come into the bathroom with me and shut the door, and put yourself inside me and put your hand over my mouth so nobody hears me cry out your name.

  She laughed instead, shaky and self-conscious, her humor insincere. “Nothing. Just playing.”

  “Later,” he told her. He kissed her temple.

  But there would be no later, because it wouldn’t be the same. And that was the problem, wasn’t it, Ginny thought as she watched her husband walk away from her. Things changed. Nothing stayed the same.

  “Time for caaaake,” Barb trilled, appearing in the arched doorway between the kitchen and dining room. “Everyone, come and have some cake!”

  Ginny put on a smile. Sean’s mom, for all her useless fluttering, did make a mean red velvet cake, with icing to die for, and Ginny fully intended to take advantage of her eating-for-two status. Despite the weird plastic babies—riding carrots, of all things—the cake was pretty, all white and red and presented on the special cake platter Barb used for every special occasion.

  “You cut it,” Barb said. “I tried something new, a special recipe, because I know how much you like cherry pie, Ginny.”

  They had a cake knife, but of course it was still in a box somewhere, so Ginny took the cleaver Sean handed her. Someone made a joke about never getting between a pregnant woman and cake. Everyone laughed. Ginny pressed the blade slowly through the white icing, the dense red cake…and into something else.

  As she lifted the first piece of cake, the insides oozed and dripped with sticky red goo. Thick clots of it clung to the cleaver. One plopped onto the table. Ginny recoiled.

  Blood.

  So much blood.

  “It’s a cherrvelvet!” Barb clapped her hands. “A cherry pie inside a red velvet cake! I thought if it worked out, I’d make a cherrpumple for Thanksgiving. That’s a cherry pie inside a pumpkin pie inside an apple pie.”

  Ginny swallowed against a thin sting of bile. “It’s…great.”

  “Looks like something that got squashed on the road,” Gran said. “And why do those cherubs have such gigantic private bits?”

  God bless Gran for distracting the crowd. Ginny handed the knife to Sean. She backed away from the oozing, dripping cake.

  “We’ll need some more plates,” she said faintly. “I’ll get some.”

  In the still-unorganized pantry, Ginny let the spring-loaded door close behind her. The small room was blisteringly hot, and the stench that had so plagued the rest of the house earlier still lingered here. She put a hand over her mouth and nose and gripped the shelving with the other as she sagged.

  * * * * *

  Blood.

  There’s so much blood.

  She goes to the toilet, her back aching, her belly cramping. Ginny knows what this means. She’s always known. She could tell from the beginning. Something didn’t feel right, it never had. She never told Sean. She didn’t want him to worry. He’s been so excited.

  When she goes to the toilet and puts her hand down between her legs, her fingers come away covered in blood. Dark, thick blood. Clots of it cling to her skin. Another rush of cramping squeezes her, and Ginny cries out. There’s a woman in the next stall, so Ginny bites her lip against another cry.

  The pain is worse than it was the other times. Like her insides are tearing. Shredding. Which…they are, she thinks as another wave of pain washes over her.

  She is losing her baby.

  Everything inside her goes tight, tangled, twisted; her belly tenses. Hard like a rock. She’s not even in maternity clothes yet, just wearing a size larger, and she lifts the hem of her T-shirt to press her hands against her bare skin. The blood smears on her pale skin. There is so much of it, it’s everywhere.

  She needs to find her phone. She needs to call for help. She needs to have this not be happening, but it is. Even as she fumbles for the phone and presses the emergency number, another series of contractions push through her. She can’t speak through gritted teeth. She can only groan.

  “Are you…okay?” Someone
outside the stall raps softly.

  “No,” Ginny manages to say. “I’m losing my baby. Please call for help.”

  The sound of running feet. The slamming of the restroom door. Oh, how she wishes she’d stayed home today instead of going to the grocery store. Then she would be at home, in her own bathroom. But she’s not, she’s here, and the blood keeps coming.

  Something soft and loose happens between her legs. Something tries to slip out of her, and Ginny holds it back with one hand while she leans to unlock the stall door with the other. There are paramedics there on the other side, one young man, one older woman.

  “We’re here, hon,” says the woman and locks her gaze with Ginny’s. “We’re here now. You can let go.”

  And Ginny does.

  She lets her daughter go, and there is more blood. Always more blood. And they take her away to the hospital, where Sean doesn’t show up for hours and hours. When he does, his face is pale, his hair is mussed, he stinks of cigarettes and alcohol, maybe even the faintest hint of perfume. Ginny doesn’t even care. She can’t look at him when he’s there at last, because he’d been so convinced it would all be okay, and she’d known it wouldn’t, but she’d let him believe it.

  * * * * *

  Hours have passed in her memory, but only minutes in the pantry. She needed to hurry before someone who meant well came in here after her and she had to blow off her tears as more sentimentality. Ginny scanned the shelves for paper plates and napkins and found a plastic bag she remembered buying at the store. The paper goods were inside.

  As she moved to pull the bag from the shelf, her toe nudged against a bulk bag of rice she’d brought from the townhouse and dropped in the pantry without using once since they’d moved. The bag shifted, revealing the vent it had been covering, and fell on its side with the contents spilling. With a curse, Ginny bent to sweep up the grains with her fingers, too aware of the party noises from outside and expecting Sean’s mom to poke her head inside at any minute.

  Some of the rice skittered across the floor and into the vent pulsing hot air. More spilled as she tried to lift the bag and close it. Ginny grabbed a handful, debating about just tossing it back in the bag and throwing the whole thing away—the chances of them ever eating any of it seemed pretty slim at this point.

  Something moved in her hand.

  Startled, Ginny looked down at her palm. Some of the white grains of rice were…moving. Wiggling. Too stunned to even drop it at first, the low, angry buzz of something else distracted her. As she watched, a fly forced its way out of the vent. Bobbing on the currents of hot air, it tumbled drunkenly toward her.

  Ginny dropped the rice and maggots to swat at it, but the fly dive-bombed her. Disgusted, she backed up, still crouching. More flies came out of the vent, at first one by one, then in twos and threes. Twenty flies circled her. Then more.

  Ginny scrambled backwards and hit the door, which opened inward and made it impossible for anyone to open, though by now she’d started screaming. Covering her face against the flies’ assault, she tried to find the doorknob with her other hand, but her fingers skidded on the wood and missed the metal handle. She heard muffled shouts. The door bumped behind her, moving her toward the flies. She had to move forward into the thick of the buzzing swarm still pouring out of the vent so the door could open, but in her terror found it almost impossible to do it.

  “Ginny!” Sean hollered, pounding then shoving on the door hard enough to force her forward a few steps.

  The flies swept past her and into the kitchen, where the much larger space dispersed them from a thick black cloud to a more widespread swarm. Party guests screamed and ducked, running. Someone ran into the table, shaking it hard enough to topple the cake stand onto its side, spattering red velvet cake and cherry pie all over. Billy, always a quick thinker, grabbed a swatter from the hook on the side of the cabinet, and started flailing.

  “You okay?” Sean looked into her eyes, holding her upright.

  Ginny nodded, swallowing her disgust. “Yes. Gross. What the hell?”

  He looked past her into the pantry. “They must’ve been breeding in that bag of rice or something. You sure you’re okay?”

  Ginny nodded again, straightening. “Yes. Go help my brother. Get rid of them.”

  Ginny’s mom opened the back door, letting in a swirl of icy wind, but allowing the men to shoo the flies toward it. Some fell dead under Billy’s swatter and the rolled-up catalog Sean grabbed from the counter. Others flew off into the house, God only knows where, the thought of finding them later making her shudder.

  In just a few minutes, everything had calmed down, except for Sean’s mom, who sobbed over the broken cake like she’d given birth to it instead of her son. Peg and Dale made their goodbyes, while Billy wrangled his kids into the powder room to get them clean from eating the cake with their bare hands. Ginny’s mom took Barb to the living room so she could get herself under control. Sean went to the alcove to find the mop and bucket, leaving Ginny and her gran standing in the middle of the now-empty, but at least flyless, kitchen.

  Gran still clutched her glass of Scotch. Her lipstick had smudged, her carefully styled hair a little rumpled. She looked smaller than she ever had, her shoulders and back hunched. She lifted her glass in Ginny’s direction, and Ginny waited for the scolding or the accusation that Ginny had a filthy house.

  “That girl did it,” Gran said.

  “What girl? Kristen?”

  “Who’s Kristen?”

  Ginny sighed. “Billy’s daughter, Gran. You know Kristen. She’s ten? Blonde?”

  “Looks like her mother, oh that one.” Gran nodded. “Same sour face.”

  “Oh, Gran.” Ginny bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

  “Not that one. The other girl. The one with the dark hair. Like yours when you were small. I saw her upstairs.” Gran sipped from her glass with a grimace and shuffled to the sink to pour away the liquid. “Nobody knows how to make a decent drink anymore.”

  All of Billy’s kids were as blond as Kristen, all taking after their mother, as Gran had pointed out. Peg’s daughter Maria had dark hair, but she was away at college, not at the party. Ginny moved to take the empty glass before Gran could drop it.

  “You saw a picture of Maria? Upstairs?”

  Gran looked contemptuous. “Not a picture, Virginia. Listen to me. That girl. Upstairs.”

  Gran stabbed a gnarled finger, the nail painted bright red, at Ginny. “That girl looked like a hobo. Hair a mess. Wearing rags. Shameful, really. A girl like that would bring filth with her.”

  “I don’t understand.” Unease dried Ginny’s throat, so she filled Gran’s glass with water from the tap and drank it, tasting a hint of Scotch. “There was no girl, Gran.”

  Gran sighed. “I saw her, just like I’m seeing you right now. You mark my words, Virginia. She’s trouble.”

  “Who’s trouble, Mother?” Ginny’s mom came into the kitchen and gave Ginny a sympathetic glance. “I came to get Barb a cold compress.”

  “Oh. God.” Ginny grimaced and moved aside so her mom could pull a clean dishcloth from the drawer. “She’s that bad, huh?”

  Ginny’s mom lowered her voice. “I swear she almost passed out.”

  Again, Ginny bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as Sean reappeared with the cleaning supplies. He held them aloft triumphantly, then caught sight of her. His brows raised.

  “What? They weren’t where I thought they’d be.” He looked from Ginny to Gran, to her mom. “Where’s my mom?”

  “She’s calming down in the living room,” Ginny’s mom said.

  Sean sighed, shoulders slumping, and set the mop and bucket down. “Right. Okay. I’ll be back to take care of this.”

  “You never mind,” Gran said firmly. “The day a man can clean a kitchen floor better than a woman can is the day we all
get taken up to heaven on the back of a unicorn farting rainbows.”

  “Mom.” Ginny’s mom sighed and shook her head. “For God’s sake.”

  “No, Gran. You’re not cleaning my floor. It’s time for Mom to take you home anyway. You go.” Ginny shooed her. “I’ll take care of this.”

  At first, Gran didn’t move, but then she nodded and allowed Ginny’s mom to shuffle her toward the front door. There she hung back to look askance into the living room and mutter something about “ridiculous biddies,” before Ginny’s mom helped her into her coat and tied the scarf around her throat.

  In the doorway, the cold air making Ginny shiver, Gran paused and wouldn’t be moved along, even by her daughter’s arm-tugging. “You listen to me, Virginia. Get yourself a priest.”

  “Mom. What does Ginny want a priest for?”

  “That girl is trouble, Virginia. You get yourself a priest and get her out of your house.”

  Then Ginny’s mom was moving Gran off the porch and along the sidewalk toward the car, Sean’s mom was up and in the kitchen, insisting on getting on her hands and knees to take care of the mess, and Sean was pouring himself a full glass of Scotch.

  “What the hell was your grandmother talking about?” he said in an aside as Ginny tried her best to just stay the hell out of Barb’s way.

  “I have no idea. Can you get rid of that rice?”

  “Sure.” He drained the glass and set it in the sink. Then he took Ginny in his arms. “Hey. You okay? You look pale.”

  “I feel a little woozy,” Ginny told him. “I’m going upstairs to lie down, okay?”

  * * * * *

  The nursery was still bare, though soon enough all the gifts they’d received today would be brought up to fill it. Ginny stood in the empty room, remembering how she’d imagined what it would look like when it was finished. When they had a baby cooing and crying in the crib Sean had not yet put together. When she would rock her child in the chair they’d not yet bought. She put her hands on her belly.