Page 58 of Who I Really Am
The sore on the inside of my cheek, the one that popped up the night of the shooting, grows as we drive, and I taste blood. This is one jacked up mess we’re in. Both of us, individually and collectively.
I take the freeway, beginning the route that will carry us westward. If we’re lucky, sanity will return soon, and when I mention my plan, Annalise will tell me she’s changed her mind and we can divert to her college town. Nothing else makes sense. Kyle is a problem that can be dealt with.
I expect the most awkward of car rides, but the ocean is hardly out of view when I realize she’s fast asleep, whispering soft breaths I can barely hear above the road noise. I notice her hands, the tops of them severely bruised from the IVs, practically cradling her abdomen. Is she in pain? I know miscarriage can hurt, but this far out? Or is it her subconscious grieving the loss of her child?
Does she grieve? How does a mother feel when she loses a child that was both unexpected and inconvenient? I won’t ask because I know instinctively I’ll step in it if I do.
If it were my child…
Without a signal, I slide between two cars and pass the semi spraying misty rain and road grime onto my windshield. I’m a smart guy. Why have I never seriously considered such consequences before?
Hours have elapsed by the time I pull into a McDonald’s, still somewhere east of San Antonio. Annalise hasn’t stirred once. I cut the engine and lightly touch her arm. She jolts awake, eyes flitting as she tries to find her bearings. “Shh. You’re alright.” I squeeze gently. “We’re almost to San Antonio.”
Straightening, she pries blonde scraggles from her cheek. “McDonald’s?” Her pert nose crinkles.
“Sorry. On a budget here.” Bigtime. I pull my door handle. “Come on.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t you want something to eat?”
Another shake.
“You need food, Annalise.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That isn’t the point. You’ve been sick. You’ve lost weight. You need—”
“I have?”
I let my eyes skim over her. “Uh, yeah.”
Her lips purse.
“And FYI, that isn’t a good thing.”Women.
Her gaze shifts beyond me. “But I’m not hungry. I want to go back to sleep.”
She’s slept for hours. “Don’t you at least need to, um, visit the little girls’ room?”
One eyebrow peaks, probably at my oh-so inspired word choice more than the actual question. “No. I do not.”
“Then you aren’t drinking enough. You need fluids.”
“Yes,Dad.”
Dad? Hardly what I am to her. I mean, not even close.
But belying the snark are tears gathering in her eyes. “I…I’m just so tired.”
NowIwant to cry. I hate—hate—that she’s going through this. It’s not right. She should be lunching with friends, shopping at the mall. Taking the world by storm and launching a career with her brilliance. Math major? Yep. She’s one smart lady. She should not be dealing with the fallout from some…my mind can’t retrieve a strong enough pejorative for the rat who wanted nothing more than a trophy for his shelf. I don’t know the details of her relationship with Kyle, but I’m a great reader of people, and I know a slimeball when I meet one.
I get out and circle round, taking Annalise’s shaky hand and guiding her into the recently refurbished restaurant with ultra-modern motif. We part ways at the bathrooms, and when I emerge, she’s nowhere in sight. I order a meal for myself and throw in some extras for her. If she eats anything at all, I’ll count it a win.
She eyes the obviously loaded bag and multiple drinks when she shuffles from the bathroom. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“Yes, but we both know you lie.” I flash a wink to take any sting from my words.