Truth or Dare (10 page)

     Aunt Ruth’s voice got louder, and Rivka could hear a few words.  She scratched idly at a mosquito bite while she listened—something about sending a letter and not getting any answer.  Why would that make her so upset?  Her Aunt Ruth really must be crazy after all.

     “Bubeleh!  What are you doing still up?”

     Her mother came around the corner suddenly, and Rivka jumped. 

     “Uh, just about to get a snack.”  Rivka jumped to her feet.

     Her mother made that annoying tick-tick sound with her tongue.  “If you’d eaten your dinner, you wouldn’t be hungry.”  She turned toward her sister.  “Aunt Ruth is going to spend the night with us.  I’m making up the bed in the guest room.  If you look in the fridge, there’s some leftover matzoh brie you can pop in the microwave.”  She motioned toward the kitchen with her chin.

     Rivka nodded.  Aunt Ruth’s eyes were swollen, and her nose was red.   She was wringing a handkerchief with both hands.  She nodded at Rivka, her eyes downcast.

     Rivka nodded back and slipped away into the kitchen.  She put the leftover matzoh brie into the microwave, heated it, topped it with sour cream and carried it over to the table.  She could still hear her mother and Aunt Ruth’s whispered voices as they retreated up the stairs. 

     She thought about what she’d heard as she dug into the snack.  Something about an unanswered letter.  To a boyfriend maybe?  Was that why her aunt was so upset? 

     It didn’t make any sense so she decided not to think about it anymore.

     Rivka started up the stairs, but then remembered she needed some staples to refill her stapler.  Her father kept all the supplies in his desk in the small alcove off the living room.    She retraced her steps and felt her way across the darkened room.  She stubbed her toe against her mother’s wing chair, and stopped for a moment to rub her foot.  She could hear her mother and Aunt Ruth moving around overhead and the bed squeaking as her mother tucked in the sheets.

     Rivka felt around until she found the chain on her father’s desk lamp.  She pulled it, and a puddle of light slanted across the center of the desk.  She was about to open the right hand drawer when she noticed a folder sitting out with the name “Ruth Weiss” printed on the tab in her father’s neat, careful lettering.

     Curious, Rivka eased it open.  Would she find the answer to Aunt Ruth’s craziness somewhere inside?  She flipped through the papers, glancing over her shoulder quickly whenever the floor creaked or a shadow moved. 

     They appeared to be legal papers of some sort—long pages black with dense, gothic-looking type.  Rivka was about to close the file when something caught her eye.  She followed the words carefully, running her finger down the page.

     It couldn’t be.  She read the paragraphs again.  There were a lot of legal terms she didn’t understand, but the meaning was still clear.

     She closed the file and made sure she put it back in exactly the same spot on her father’s desk.  Her heart beat extra fast, and her head swam.

     If what she read was true, then everything she had ever thought or known was a lie.

     Mary pushed open the door to Sobeleski’s News Stand that evening with more confidence than she’d felt in ages.  Mr. Sobeleski hadn’t noticed the missing money at all.  As a matter of fact, Mary had slipped another twenty from the stack on a couple of other occasions and—nothing, not a word.  But that was it.  She couldn’t keep pushing her luck.  Even Mr. Sobeleski was bound to catch on eventually. 

“I still can’t believe you got yourself in this condition.” 

Deirdre followed behind her mother as she yanked clothes off racks and handed them to the sales clerk who staggered under a huge pile of garments, twisting her head to and fro to avoid the pointy ends of the hangers.

“Hopefully some of these things will fit.  And hopefully they’ll hide your stomach until we figure out what to do.”

Her mother glanced in the mirror where her own trim and tanned figure flickered back at her.  Deirdre hardly ever saw her mother eat anything—she didn’t even put an olive in her nightly martini. 

“If you hadn’t waited so long to face up to reality, we’d have more options.  As it is, you’re too far along for an abortion.”

“I don’t want an abortion.”

“You’re too young to know what you want.”  Her mother slammed the door to the dressing room and began rifling through the clothes the clerk had put on a hook for them.   “Try this on.”  She handed Deirdre a babydoll top in a paisley print that reminded Deirdre of pictures she’d seen of girls at Woodstock back in the seventies.

She hated having her mother in the dressing room with her, but she didn’t dare say anything.  She glanced down at her belly as she slowly pulled her t-shirt over her head.  There really wasn’t much of anything to see yet—just a little puffiness like when she was about to get her period.

     Of course her mother had noticed it right away.  “Are you pregnant?” She’d demanded at dinner last night, pointing her fork at Deirdre as if it were a spear.  It was one of the few nights they’d all sat down together, and Deirdre had been looking forward to spending some time with her father.

     There wasn’t much she could say.  They were going to find out eventually.  Deirdre had read about girls hiding their pregnancy the entire nine months and then giving birth in a bathroom stall during prom, but she didn’t want to do that.

     She’d ducked her head and looked at her plate where the piece of rare steak had made her feel sick.  “Yes,” she’d finally admitted.  When she looked up, she’d looked at her father, not her mother.

     But he threw his knife and fork down and stalked out.  A few minutes later they heard his car starting up and pulling down the drive.

“I told you,” Deirdre pulled the top on and disappeared momentarily in the swirling fabric.  “I’m putting the baby up for adoption.  I’ve already met the couple.”

“Well you certainly can’t keep it.  Let’s face it, you can barely make your own breakfast—you’re certainly not ready to be responsible for a child.  I raised you and that’s enough so don’t look to me to do it again for your little bastard.” 

“That’s fine,” Deirdre pulled the top in place and smoothed it down over her hips.  “I told you, Ed and Maureen are going to adopt it.  If it’s a girl they’re going to call it Emily.”

Her mother snorted.  “Emily?  Well, I suppose it will be up to them to do what they want with it.”

“They’re going to take good care of it.  Maureen promised.”

“Well, what would you expect them to say?  Honestly, Deirdre, sometimes you can be so naïve, it’s frightening.”  Her mother reached out and tugged on the paisley top.

“It makes you look fat.”  She stepped back and eyed Deirdre.

“I don’t think so.”  Deirdre peeked out from beneath her bangs and looked at herself in the mirror.  “I don’t think I look fat.  I haven’t gained any weight yet.”

Her mother sighed and rummaged in her Louis Vuitton purse for her glasses.  She peered at the tag on the paisley top. 

“Let’s face it.  Everyone is going to know eventually.  I don’t know why I’m bothering.  By the time you go back to school in September, you’re going to be as big as a house.  Everyone is going to have a field day talking about it.”  She pushed her glasses up on top of her head and reached for the next garment on the hook.   “Thanks to you, I’m going to be the laughing stock of the club.”

Lance was in the kitchen talking on the phone when Pamela came through the swinging door.  The kitchen was darkened and put to bed for the night—counters wiped down, crumbs swept up. 

He dropped the phone back into the cradle somewhat abruptly.

“Who was that?”  Pamela demanded. 

“No one.”  Lance opened the freezer and pulled out a container of chocolate chip ice cream.  “Don’t worry, I’m getting a bowl.”  He grinned at Pamela, then yanked open a drawer and took out the ice cream scoop.

“It had to have been
someone
.”  Pamela pulled a stool from under the granite-topped island and sat down.  She swung her foot back and forth, idly kicking the cabinets along the side.  She knew who Lance had been talking to, but she needed him to admit it.  She drummed her fingers on the countertop, feeling the tension building in the back of her neck and head.

“It’s none of your business, okay?”  Lance put two scoops of ice cream in the bowl and tossed the scoop into the kitchen sink. It rattled briefly against the stainless steel.

“It was Becky, wasn’t it?”  Pamela grabbed his arm as he went by.  

     Lance shook himself free.  “Yes. It was Becky, okay?”
     “I told you to leave her alone.”  Pamela jumped off the stool and stood in front of her brother, her arms crossed over her chest.  She felt a rush of anger and frustration that filled her head with swirling, colored lights and left her feeling dizzy and faint.

     “Who the hell do you think you are?  Trying to tell me who I can and can’t see?”  Lance slapped a spoon into the bowl, and it slipped, landing on the tile floor with a clang.  “I like Becky, okay?  I really like her.  She’s smart and funny, and…and…”

     “And she’s not right for you,” Pamela slammed her hand down on the counter.  “Besides, her name isn’t really Becky, did you know that?”  She hurled the words at him as if they were stones.  

     “What?”  Lance stopped in his tracks.  “What are you talking about, Pamela?”

     Pamela laughed.  “I named her Becky. Me!”  She pointed at her own chest.  “Her name is really Rivka.”  She said it slowly and watched his expression from under half-lowered lids. She saw the look of surprise on his face and felt a ripple of triumph.  So perfect, little Becky hadn’t come clean after all. 

     “You’re making that up.”

     “No.  I’m not.  Her name is Rivka.”

     “So what?  Lots of people have nicknames.  Some people change their name altogether.  Besides, I like the name Rivka.  It’s different.”

     Pamela snorted.  “It’s disgusting.  It’s a stupid, foreign name, and I hate it.”

     Lance shrugged.  “I still like her.  I don’t care what her name is.  And I don’t care what you think!”

     “But you’re a Miller.  You can’t just go out with anyone.”  Pamela threw her last card down on the table.  If being a Miller didn’t mean anything to Lance, then nothing would.

     “I’ve told you before, this Miller thing is a bunch of crap.  You know that.  Besides, I told Becky all about it.”

     “You…did…what?”  Pamela grabbed Lance’s arm and shook him. He was saying that to upset her—he had to be. 

     “I told Becky.  I don’t want there to be anything between us.  Besides, we’re grown up now.  Things are different.”

     “You had no right, Lance.  No right at all.”  Pamela  grabbed for the counter.  She felt really dizzy and as if her head would burst.  She couldn’t believe Lance had done this to her.  “She’s going to tell everyone—“

     Lance was already shaking his head.  “Not Becky.  She’s not like that, honest.”

     Pamela stamped her foot.  “Are you crazy?  Do you know what kind of ammunition you’ve given her?”  A bead of sweat trickled slowly down her back.  She shivered.

     “You don’t know Becky.  You really don’t.”

     “Girls are all the same, don’t you know that?  Why are you so stupid?” 

     She had to do something to make the terrible feelings filling her head and burning in her chest go away, or she would die. She looked around the kitchen frantically then grabbed the bowl of ice cream from Lance’s hand.   She hurled it as hard as she could against the wall. 

     The dish ricocheted off the pantry door and shattered into a dozen pieces on the imported Italian ceramic floor.  Blobs of chocolate chip ice cream slid lazily down the pristine white walls, where it had splattered, and puddled below.

     Why did her brother have to be such a jackass?  Pamela slammed her bedroom door so hard one of the original watercolors hanging on her wall fell face first onto the carpet.

They had agreed never to tell, a long time ago when they were kids.  She could remember it as if it were yesterday—the two of them sitting under the dogwood tree way out back where no one could see them.   They’d made up a little ceremony and had taken a solemn oath to each other that it was going to be their secret forever and ever.  They had clasped hands afterwards and gone skipping back toward the house, perfectly united in this one thing.

     She threw herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow.  Her own brother had betrayed her.  Even if Becky didn’t say anything, who knew who else Lance would tell?  Maybe his next girlfriend or the one after that?

     She’d never be safe again. 

Never.

Chapter 12

Rivka lay across her bed, her feet dangling off one end, her head the other, her cell phone pressed to her ear.  It wasn't a real cell phone—just the kind you put minutes on every time you ran out.  Her parents wouldn't let her have a real one and didn't have one, themselves.  She'd bought it with money she'd saved from her birthday so she could talk to Lance without her parents knowing about it.  The thought of her mother answering the phone when he called made her cringe.  He would ask for Becky, and her mother would tell him there was no one there by that name!