The Last Breath (18 page)

24

Ella Mae Andrews, March 1994

WHEN ELLA MAE
threw up her breakfast for the fourth day in a row, she knew. She didn’t need a doctor or a bunny or one of those fancy pee-on-a-stick tests Ray sold down at the pharmacy to tell her a little something had slipped by the diaphragm. She’d felt this way once before, more than eighteen years ago, complete with the nausea and exhaustion and tears and panic and cussing, lots and lots of cussing. She had known it then and she knew it now, blast it all to hell. Ella Mae knew she was pregnant.

The one thing she didn’t know—the one thing, the most important thing—was who the father was.

Good Lord. Knocked up at forty-five, and by someone who may or may not be her husband. She felt like one of those poor, pathetic, white-trash girls on
Jerry Springer,
except Ella Mae was no girl. She was an old lady. Old enough to know better, and too old to be having a baby, that was for damn sure.

Ella Mae contemplated her options on the drive to the hotel. Ray would be furious at the prospect of a baby, even if it was his. But what if the baby came out a spitting image of Dean? Ray would be furious then, too, both at her betrayal and at being made a fool.

And Dean wasn’t stupid, either. He would do the math, know the baby could just as easily be his as Ray’s. Would Dean even acknowledge his maybe-baby? Would he still want Ella Mae when she was swollen and fat, her belly filled with the fifty-fifty possibility of another man’s child?

Then again, neither of them needed to be told. She could hope for a miscarriage, or take a trip to one of those women’s clinics over in Knoxville. If she left early enough, she could make it back before Ray got home for supper. It would be like nothing ever happened. Nobody would ever have to know but her.

Only problem was, none of those options sounded particularly appealing.

At the hotel, she parked around back and climbed the short flight of stairs to room 223. Dean answered the door before she’d even finished knocking. He grabbed her by the waist, pulled her inside and gave her a kiss, a deep, long, titillating kiss that showed her how much he’d missed her. By the time he released her, they were both panting.

He pointed to her red sweater, the one he loved so much. “Take off your clothes.”

Ella Mae smiled, dropped her purse on the table by the door. “You certainly don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Not when I’ve been waiting all day for this.” Dean shucked his shoes and shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. Ella Mae peeled off her sweater, and he reached for a bag on the floor.

“What’s in there?”

“Toys.”

“Toys?” She giggled. “Like Matchbox cars and model trains?”

“Not quite.” Dean gave her one of his extra naughty smiles. “These toys are for girls.”

Ella Mae knew better than to make a Barbie reference.

“For you.” He held the bag in her direction. “Take a look.”

Ella Mae’s heart sped up, at the same time her mouth went dry. Dean’s toys excited her and terrified her at the same time. She took the bag and dumped its contents on the bed. Some of the toys were obvious, creams and vibrators and tiny strips of lace and leather. Others were more perplexing and, quite frankly, more than a little disconcerting.

“What if I don’t want to?”

He gave her a wounded look. “Why wouldn’t you want to at least try?”

“I don’t know. I just...” She pointed to a giant pink contraption, shuddering at the thought of where that thing was supposed to go. “That one looks painful.”

“It’s not. I guarantee you’ll love it.”

“But what if I don’t?”

He shrugged, tugged on her belt loop, pulled her onto his lap. “We’ll start small, work our way up. How does that sound?”

Ella Mae’s gaze went back to the pile of plastic. She thought it sounded insulting. He was that bored with her already? “Why toys all of a sudden? Where’s all this coming from?”

Dean didn’t give her an answer. Instead, he nibbled on a spot behind her right ear until she felt like she might combust, then whispered, “Come on, baby. Do it for me. Do it for us.”

There was a note of desperation in Dean’s persuasion he didn’t bother to disguise—he needed this, and he needed it with her—but that wasn’t what swayed Ella Mae. What swayed her was that last little word.

Us.

For the next few hours, Ella Mae let Dean push her to the edge of every inhibition she had, to edges of inhibitions she didn’t even know existed. More than once she asked him to stop, begged him to stop, cried out in pain mixed with pleasure mixed with something that felt awfully close to humiliation. Every time, he caught her right before she fell over the brink, pulled her back at the very last moment, only to start pushing her closer and closer to the next limit.

“Dean, wait,” she said when he picked up the scary pink contraption. “Stop.”

Dean didn’t wait. He didn’t stop.

Ella Mae scooted up the bed, moving away from Dean and his torture toys. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“What? But we were just getting started.”

“You were just getting started. I was done hours ago.”

The dismayed look that passed over his face—as sad and disappointed as a child who didn’t get his way—was appropriate, Ella Mae thought. He was acting like a baby. Next he’d be throwing a tantrum.

Which is exactly what he did. He flung down the toy, grabbed her by the ankles and jerked her back down the bed. “
We
were just getting started.” He pinned her legs under his and clamped an iron palm around both her wrists, pinning them together above her head. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

She squirmed, tried to break free, but Dean was too strong. “Dean, this isn’t funny. Let me go.”

His hand came out of nowhere, connecting with her cheek with a sharp smack that shocked the fight right out of her. Her eyes watered, and she whimpered into the mattress.

With his free hand, Dean grabbed her roughly by the chin and jerked her head so she was looking straight up at him. His expression was angry, his words ones she thought she’d never, ever hear from a lover. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ella Mae, but when you don’t behave, you force me to do things I don’t want to do. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Ella Mae blinked, and she gave the slightest nod.

“And will you still understand if I let go of your arms and legs?”

Another nod.

His palm loosened on her wrists.

She adjusted her arms but left them heavy on the bed.

“Good girl.” He released one ankle, then the other.

She didn’t move, barely breathed.

“Very good girl.” His naughty smile said otherwise. He reached for the pink toy with one hand, grabbed a handful of her hair with another. “Now be still and this won’t hurt a bit.”

For the next however long it lasted, Ella Mae squeezed her eyes shut and let Dean have his way. Sometimes she felt pleasure. Mostly she felt pain. After a while, she stopped feeling anything at all.

The next morning, Ella Mae threw up her breakfast again. Afterward she wiped her mouth, pulled herself up on the sink and gave herself a good long look in the mirror.

And this time, she knew exactly what she had to do.

25

I SPEND DAYS
obsessing about Dean’s words. That he needed to tell Ella Mae he was sorry. That he didn’t mean to do whatever he did. That Ella Mae was going to have his baby. No matter how I twist and turn his comments around in my mind, I can’t come up with any other explanation than that he did something awful to Ella Mae, her baby or both. Otherwise why would he be looking for her forgiveness?

After dinner on Friday I call Cal with the news, who insists Dean has officially lost his whiskey-chuggin’ mind and commands me in his lawyer voice to cease and desist any further contact. I call Jeffrey, who tells me he’s about to board a plane to Chicago, where he tracked down Allison Sullivan’s latest address, and asks me to email him the recording of Dean’s confession. And I call Lexi, who apparently still isn’t talking to me. After two rings, she pushes my call through to voice mail. I punch End and settle for a text.

Aren’t you supposed to be the older, more mature sister? Whatever happened to conversation? You know what that is, right? A verbal back and forth?

Two seconds later, my cell phone chirps.

Do you have anything to say that’s not about the wife killer? Because otherwise I’m not interested.

My fingers tick out a reply.

Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. Dean Sullivan says he’s sorry and that he didn’t mean to do it. And then he told me Ella Mae had been pregnant with his baby.

And then I stare at the phone for a good three minutes, waiting for her reply. Finally, it comes.

Wait. Whaaat?

I roll my eyes and text her back.

Everything Dean told me points to him being the killer, not Dad. If you want to know any more than that, you’re going to have to talk to me in person.

Lexi doesn’t text back. She doesn’t call. When the screen darkens and then goes black, I slip the phone into my back pocket and head downstairs.

“Just in time,” Fannie says, looking up as I come into the living room. An episode of
The Bachelor
blares from the TV against the wall. Beyond her, Dad stirs from the racket but doesn’t wake. “The bleached-blonde airhead is about to have a meltdown.”

I drop onto the couch beside Fannie, kick off my shoes and prop my bare feet up on the coffee table. “Shocking.”

She cackles, gesturing to the TV with the remote. “As soon as they start referring to themselves in third person, you just know they’re gonna lose it. Oh, here it comes. Crazy train’s ’bout to go off the rails.”

The airhead doesn’t disappoint. Her meltdown is both spectacular and ridiculous. After a half minute of her blubbering I lose interest, concentrating instead on the still-silent hunk of metal and glass in my back pocket. Should I go out and hunt my sister down? Tackle her and sit on her chest until she listens about Dean? I quickly dismiss the thought. After this evening’s text war, I would probably need a homing device and a tranquilizer gun to catch her.

A retching noise jerks me out of my thoughts and launches Fannie off the couch. She’s at Dad’s side in an instant, rolling his head to the side with one hand while she lifts his entire upper body, pillow and all, with the other.

Whatever he heaves up cannot be what he ate. It’s greenish brown and slimy and looks nothing like digested food, and much more like something I’ve seen come out the other end of a choleric infant. Fannie gets a surge of it over her forearm and belly, not that she seems to mind.

“That’s right, sugar.” Her voice is low and soothing, her expression almost pleasant. “Get it all out. You’ll feel so much better when you do.”

“I’ll go get some towels,” I say, already halfway to the hall. There’s a fresh pile of them in the laundry room, as well as an empty bucket on top of the dryer. I snatch both and tear back into the living room, shoving the bucket under Dad’s chin just in time for him to gag up another greasy wave.

Between retches, without looking up, he snaps a hand in my direction. “Go ’way.”

His words bounce around the bucket and my brain. I shoot a glance at Fannie, thinking I must have misunderstood. “Who, me?”

He looks up then, looks straight at me. His pinched eyes leave no doubt.

Yes. Me.

The room pitches and rolls.

Dad spits then retches again, followed by a belch so vociferous, any other night it would have sent me into a fit of giggles.

Not tonight.

Tonight I clutch the towels to my suddenly tight chest and frown. “Where am I supposed to go?”

Fannie winks at me over Dad’s head. “Be a sweetie and fetch me some clean sheets and blankets, would ya? And there’s a fresh pair of pajamas hanging in the laundry room. Then after you bring all that, I’m gonna need you to get everything ready for his sponge bath. The container is in the bathtub, fill it about halfway with lukewarm water. Dip your elbow in to make sure it’s not too hot, okay?”

By now Dad seems to be winding down. His heaves are fewer and shorter, and the last handful have produced more air than vomit. Still, he doesn’t lift his face out of the bucket.

“Think you can help me out, sugar?” Fannie pastes on a smile and gives me her best nurse face, making me think Dad’s not the only patient here.

I nod, dropping the towels on the back of the couch without another word. As I trudge down the hallway toward the laundry room, a rush of resentment swirls in my chest. After my first unforgettable fuckup with Dad, when I stood frozen while he writhed around in agony, I’ve been waiting for another chance to prove myself. Now, finally, I get one, and my father doesn’t want me anywhere near him.

And just like that, the anger fades, leaving behind a stout, pulsing ache in the center of my chest.

My father doesn’t want me anywhere near him. Even though I apologized. Even though I told him I believed him. I don’t know what else to say. A quick and bone-deep exhaustion settles over me, sapping my strength and making each step feel like I’m wading through wet cement. If nothing I say or do is enough, why am I even here?

In a haze, I fetch the clean linens. I prepare the sponge bath. By the time I bring the last load into the living room, Dad’s stomach is empty and he’s quiet. I come closer, and he looks away. Sighing, I pick up the giant pile of towels by Fannie’s feet and haul them down the hall.

Fannie finds me twenty minutes later in the laundry room, watching soapy water churn behind the little window and feeling sorry for myself. “You okay, sugar?”

I swipe my cheeks and glance over. “I’m fine. Can I do anything else?”

She pats my arm, ignoring the question. “Aw, sweetie, try not to take it so personally. Your father’s a proud man. He didn’t want you to see him like that, is all.”

I give her a whatever shrug, not because I believe her but mostly so she’ll stop talking. At this point, all I want to do is go upstairs, have a good cry and sleep for a week. No, a month. Fannie takes the hint, and after another gentle arm pat, slips down the hall and into the kitchen.

My bare toe has barely touched the bottom step when I hear him.

“Gia.”

Shit.

It takes every ounce of self-control to force my body to stop. To paste on a neutral expression and lean around the corner. The living room is mostly dark, but Dad is lit up by a floor lamp, shining golden light from behind his left shoulder. “Yes?”

“Kids aren’t supposed to be cleaning up after their parents, you know.” His breathing is labored, but his eyes are clear. Clear and wide and focused on me. “It’s not right. You should be out living your life, not picking up the pieces of mine.”

Fannie was right. My father is a proud man, and I know this is as close to an apology as I’m going to get.

I could tell him he wouldn’t have been the first to puke on me, or that I’ve lived in plenty of cultures where caring for your elders is not only an obligation but an honor. I could even lie and say I don’t mind cleaning up, am happy to pick up his pieces. Instead, I tell him the reason that matters most. “I only want to help.”

“I know you do.” He says it like he thinks it’s a good thing. Baby steps, I tell myself.

“Can I get you anything?”

He shakes his head, and I’m about to continue my trek upstairs when he stops me again.

“You know the other day, when I said I knew you’d be the first to leave me?” He pauses to receive my nod. “What I forgot to tell you is, I also knew you’d be the first to come back. You’re just built that way. Loyal and true. I only wish there was something better for you to come back to.”

I think about the protesters’ constant cries outside our window, about my missing-in-action uncle and my deadbeat siblings, about Dean Sullivan drowning in his lies across the frozen yard. About what’s left of Dad’s wasted life, and his less-than-warm welcome home. My father is right. There’s so little left for me here.

And then I think about Jake, and my heart gives a happy kick. In a few hours he’ll be sneaking up the porch and slipping into my bed, kissing away my worries, loving away my sorrow. “It’s not all bad,” I say, and it’s the truth. When did Jake become the anchor holding me here?

Dad falls silent for a bit, but I can tell there’s more. Everything about him—his intense stare, his parted lips, the way his body fidgets under the blanket—indicates he has more to say. Is he searching for the right words? Is he working up the nerve for a heart-to-heart? I’ll never know, because he seems to give up. His face falls and his shoulders slump, but he gestures to the chair. “Come sit with me for a spell?”

They’re not the words he was gearing up to say, but they’re good ones nonetheless. I make my way across the Rooms To Go carpet, biting back the beginnings of a smile. “I’d like that.”

The way Dad nods makes me think it was the answer he wanted to hear.

As soon as I’m settled, he clicks off the lamp and closes his eyes, and he doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. Knowing my father wants me sitting here in the dark, curled up on a chair beside him while he sleeps, is enough.