Eleven Weeks (25 page)

She knows.

I drop the money, and the sunshine-yellow bill falls from my hands.

I turn.

I run.

I run out of the café, through the shopping centre, and out to the car park that spans an area so wide I swear it’s four football fields, at least.

The heat is pounding down on my shoulders, the concrete beneath my feet scorching me with each step, even through my flip flops, as I bolt somewhere, anywhere, away from there.

“Stacey!”

I don’t turn around. I keep running, running.

“Stacey,” she cries again.

I slow to a stop and spin to face her, my hands on my knees, my breathing coming fast and hard.

Shae walks up to me, centimetres from my face. “How could you?”

“Shae, I didn’t know,” I say, shaking my head. Even as I do it, it seems weak.

“Like you didn’t know when my best friend had a crush on you?” she asks. I wrack my brains for what she’s talking about.

“Shae, I was twelve.” How can she seriously be mad about that? I hadn’t even realised at the time.

“And how you didn’t notice when you always got the special treatment at home?” A glassy sheen washes over her eyes. Shit, our whole family has a case of the cries today.

“You were allowed to do everything I had to work for,” she hisses. “I had to get good grades, stay in on school nights, eat my fucking vegetables.”

I widen my eyes. I’ve never heard my sister swear. She’s perfect.

“And you just had it all fed to you, on a plate. Unless you didn’t want to eat it.” Shae shakes her head, confusing her metaphors. “And now you’ve slept with my freaking boss, and are having his
baby?
”

“I didn’t know …” I raise my hand, but I have nothing.

“You know what?” She puts one hand on her hip. “You really are a dumb slut. You’re easy, you’re blonde, you’re stupid—of course you’re pregnant! Really, the only surprise here is that you did actually complete your leaving exams.”

She turns on her heel and flounces off. I swear, steam comes from her feet every time they touch the ground, and only partially due to the extreme heat wave we’re experiencing.

I crumble to the ground. My limbs feel like jelly. She truly hates me, to the very core. Everything is ruined. Why the hell did I do this? How did I let my life get this bad? This … alone?

The sun beats down and my shirt sticks to my body. My hair feels like it’s glued to my head, and I lick my lips on repeat, the air drying them almost before I can replenish.

I rub my eyes, and I’m crying a-freaking-
gain
. It’s the ugly howling sobs from before, only this time I’m on the floor of a parking lot, with families walking past. Mothers shepherd their children closer to them, urging them not to look as their kids ask why the weird lady is crying. Cars skirt to the left to avoid running me over. My chest is shaking, my breath coming in short sharp gasps. It’s hard to breathe. How did the air get so thick? How did everything get so effed up?

Michael.

I want Michael.

I want him, but even he won’t make me feel better this time. He doesn’t want me. Doesn’t need me.

I cry harder, till there are no tears, just stupid ugly sobs.

And that’s when it hits me.

He never said he doesn’t want me.

I straighten my posture just a little.

He said I never tried, never took him seriously, always dismissed him … Granted, he didn’t say he was thrilled with the whole
baby
thing … but he never said he didn’t want me.

I blink, force my eyes open wide. The harsh sun beats down and I squint again, trying to focus. Would that even make a difference? Did he just want me to fight?

I grab my phone from my pocket and dial his number. It rings, and rings, and rings and finally, on the eighth tone, he picks up.

“Stacey.” It’s a word, and it’s not full of hope.

“Michael, I need to see you. Where are you?”

“I’m at the station. Our train leaves in fifteen minutes, Stace.” His voice is slightly softer now, and it’s all the encouragement I need.

“Wait there! I’m coming.” I hit
end
, and I push myself to my feet. I’m so coming.

I start to sprint. I wish I’d brought my own car, but thankfully, the station is only about a—well, I would have said a twenty-minute jog from the café, but I’m hoping like hell it’s only fifteen.

I pump my legs up and down, my elbows swinging at right angles by my waist. I get to the parking lot fence, place one hand on the beam and clear it, running again straight away.

The pavement by the side of the main road is hot, and the exhaust fumes of the cars speeding by clog my lungs, making it hard to breathe. It’s stifling, but I keep going. I keep running. Because I have to.

Because I have to tell Michael.

I have to
fight
.

I pound the pavement, a stitch in my side sending stabbing pains against my ribs. For a split second I hope it doesn’t hurt the baby, and then I keep going anyway. Because no, I don’t want to kill this small cell of a human inside of me.

But yes, I do want to tell Michael how I feel.

Because I’m not just this baby. And I’m not just some bimbo. I’m more than this.

And I want him.

I turn and take a shortcut. The sky has turned a dark purple and a few lights sprinkle the sky above me.

I’m running.

I’m running still, only this time, my feet aren’t so much pounding the pavement as making it. It’s a little-known bush track near my street, I think the one where Kate said Lachlan kissed her for the first time.

And there it is again.

Lachlan.

Lachlan is dead.

I raise my knees higher, pump my arms faster, make the sweat pour from my body more continuously. Fuck life. Fuck the Evans.

Fuck everything.

And fuck how Michael, a guy I’ve wanted for so long, who I’d put in an out-of-reach box for so long, just suddenly expose his feelings for me when I couldn’t reach him? He’s a good thing in my life; how did I ruin this?

I. Let. It. Happen.

Shit.

Oh, shit. Oh shit. Shit, Double shit, how did I not see this before? I let him go. I said goodbye. I thought I was freeing him, but maybe … How do you know?

How do you know anything?

I run. I run faster than I’ve ever run before. Branches scratch my arms, roots trip my feet, and tears streak my cheeks and blur my vision, until I’m this stumbling, crying, beaten-up mess. How have I become this?

The surface if the ground changes, and somewhere deep inside me, I register that I’m running on road. Bitumen, grass, dirt … What does it matter? All I know is that I need to make it to the station before Michael gets on that train.

My clammy arms stick to my ribs as I try and pick up my pace, but I pump all the more faster. I can do this. I got this.

I’ve got sixty seconds left to avoid making the biggest mistake of my life.

I don’t see the car. I don’t hear the horn, nor the screeching of tyres.

All I see is white. Then an image of my baby, of what I’d imagine it looks like now.

Then Michael.

Then black.

F
LASH
.

I’m in a car, lying on stretcher. The wail of a siren roars above me and a woman is there, holding my hand, telling me to breathe.

I do.

She smiles.

Flash

I’m being pushed into a room lit way too bright with those hideous fluorescents that make everyone look ugly. People gather around me, and the woman from the ambulance is saying all sorts of words that freak the hell out of me, such as X-ray, and MRI, and suspected internal bleeding.

I flail my hand around until I finally find hers and grasp and tug on it, till she lowers down, close to my face.

“I’m pregnant,” I whisper. We make eye contact, and I think hers are bleeding for me. “Please … please make sure it’s okay.”

Because after everything, after all this, I still don’t want to kill it.

But I know I can be more. I can have Michael, too. If he’ll let me.

“What time is it?” I widen my eyes. A machine next to me starts beeping, faster, louder.

“It’s ten past six, dear,” the nurse says. “Now be a good girl and close your eyes.”

I fight. I fight so hard to keep them open. I blink, and I push my lids up, but they weigh a ton, and my hands have turned to stone.

I’m too late. Now Michael will never know.

“The baby?”

“We need an ultrasound, transvaginal now!”

It’s …

Black.

I
CRIED
.