Merryn
I’m lying on my side on a bed. Trista’s bed. I came in here as soon as Lance dropped us off and I haven’t left since. Cries and moans and intermittent sobs leave my mouth as tears stream down my face, down towards my temple, surely soaking the pillowcase underneath me.
My heavy belly rests in front of me, pulling down, forcing me to twist my back. I know I could put a pillow under my baby, supporting him or her, but I don’t have the strength. I don’t have the energy. I close my eyes and sob, trying to stay quiet. The bedroom door is closed.
I feel so badly for what I did. For betraying Jake. I didn’t know this would happen. If I had any idea I would never have done it. Would never have even considered talking to Will! And now he’s broken up with me. And I’m putting Trista out. She offered her bedroom but I know I’m just an inconvenience. An inconvenience to everybody’s lives. It would be better if I were dead. Everyone would be better off without me.
Tears still find their way out from between my closed eyelids. They streak my skin with salt, making it painful, sensitive to touch. I can’t stop it. I sniff back wet snot, thinking about how ugly I must look right now. Nobody would love me. Nobody loves me. Jake kicked me out. All I tried to do was help! But would he see it that way? No, of course not. He doesn’t think about me. He doesn’t love me. He only kept me around because I’m pregnant with his baby. But even that didn’t stop him, in the end.
Oh God, my whole body feels like shit. I just want this baby out of me. I want it all to end. My hand scoops up the pillow under me and I bury my face into it, crying out loud, muffling my painful screams into the cotton and stuffing. But when I’m done I don’t feel any better. My face and hand collapse back down. I keep sobbing. Everything is shit. I am shit.
My body rests. I can feel our — my — baby kick, moving around. It comforts me, feeling this living thing inside of me. My limbs become heavy, and I start to slip off to sleep.
I’m standing in the middle of a long alley. There are houses all down one side, garage doors lining the other. I can see Jake. I try yelling to him, but my voice makes no sound. He sees me, turns and walks away. I try running to him, but I can’t move. It’s like I’m running through water. My belly feels so heavy, and I look down. It’s huge, a monstrosity growing out of my middle. I trip, the thing is so heavy, and start to fall, slowly, down down down …
I wake up with a start, just as I hit the ground. I blink. The unfamiliar wall makes me scared.. Where am I? I don’t know where I am. And then I look around and my brain catches up with my vision and I remember that I’m at Trista’s, in her bedroom. The door is still closed. I relax my head, remember Jake at the hospital, Jake yelling at me, Jake telling me he doesn’t want me living with him anymore. And I start crying again.
It’s a vicious cycle. I cry myself to sleep, and then shock myself awake. Dreams and wakefulness blend together. I don’t know where one ends and the other begins. Every time I awaken I see the light through the window has shifted. Moving. My stomach rumbles but I ignore it, opting to cry instead. My eyes burn and they’re filled with dried, salty residue that I either wipe away, irritating the sensitive skin, or cry back into solution. I feel so weak.
I fall asleep again, wake up. The light has changed now. It’s a deeper color. More orange to it. Cry, back to sleep. Wake up and the light is darker. Tinged with red now. Close my eyes. When I open them it’s violet. The room is getting darker. The door is still closed. This time when I cry no tears come out. I close my eyes again. My body feels so heavy. Wake up and it’s dark now. I sniff. A dry sound. Plugged up. A coughing sob. No more tears. A few more sobs, but it’s not necessary. The baby’s moving. My stomach hurts, it’s so empty. Finally I get up.
All of my joints hurt. Once I’m up to sitting I have to wait to stop my head from spinning. I know it’ll be the same thing when I stand, so I give myself some time. I blink, rubbing gently at my eyes now, getting the last of the tear residue out of them. My mouth tastes terrible. I look around. Trista’s bedroom. It looks bare. Hardly lived in. There’s a police uniform hanging from the door to the closet. I stare at it, imagine Trista wearing it. She would look good. But I can’t envision her being a cop.
Okay. Stand up.
Planting my feet and using my hands for support, I push my heavy body up to standing. Just like I predicted my head spins immediately, and I stumble a few steps, grabbing onto the wall to stop from dropping back down on the bed. If I did, I don’t know if I’d have it in me to try again. I take a few deep breaths. The baby is kicking. I know, sweety. Just a bit longer. It’s not until I stood up that I realized my bladder is killing me. I’m gonna have to go pee soon. Or else I hope Trista has a mop somewhere close by.
Okay. Grab the door handle, pull it open. I’m hit with a delicious smell: cooking chicken, some garlic. My stomach rumbles, only succeeding in making my bladder protest further. I waddle down the hall, spot the open bathroom door next to Trista’s, and go inside. I only just make it onto the toilet, and a very satisfying thirty seconds later I hike up my pants, wash my hands, and leave.
When I step out into the hallway again I can smell it: that delicious food. My stomach rumbles again and I look to see the kitchen doorway, lights on inside. At the end of the hall is a closed door. There are noises coming from inside the kitchen. I slowly make my way over and see Trista standing at the stove, moving stuff around in a pan, her back to me. She hears me come in and turns, giving me a bland smile.
“Hi,” she says. “Are you hungry? I’m making a stir-fry.”
“That sounds great,” I say. There’s a table with chairs around it. Already my feet hurt. “Do you need a hand?”
“No no, you have a seat,” she says. “It’s almost done. Do you want anything to drink? Some tea?”
I sit down heavily in the chair. My feet thank me. “Tea would be great.”
She nods, picks up the kettle, fills it with water. On the stove is a large frying pan with chicken and vegetables. Draining in a colander on top of a pot is a mound of pasta. My stomach rumbles again, loudly this time. I see Trista give her head a small turn as she puts the kettle on to boil.
“It’ll just be a minute,” she says.
She moves quietly, the only sounds in the kitchen being her taking plates down, scooping pasta onto each of them. She still has her back to me. I watch how she moves, with a sort of awkward grace. Her wavy red hair moves when she does.
“Thanks so much,” I say, “for letting me stay here. And for letting me take your bedroom. You didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugs. “It isn’t a problem.”
She puts the colander with pasta back on the pot. A serving spoon moves chicken and veggies over to each plate.
“So you got away from the police station okay?” I ask, and she stiffens, slows down, almost stops. “I didn’t want Jake to … I mean …”
“Yeah,” her tone is clipped. “I got away.”
Nothing more to her answer. The food is served and she picks up both plates, carries them over to the table, putting one down in front of me and one down for herself. Turning around again she takes two forks out of a drawer and hands me one. I take it.
Trista sits down and tucks into her food. I do the same. It tastes amazing. Of course, when you’re as hungry as I am, almost anything tastes amazing. Still, I try not to eat too quickly. Neither Trista nor I speak. The kettle starts to whistle. She puts her fork down but I do too, laying a gentle hand on her arm.
“I’ll get it,” I tell her. She doesn’t protest so I lift myself to my feet as the kettle whistles louder. Waddle over, I turn the burner off, taking it off the heat.
“Mugs in the cupboard,” Trista points, “and there are tea bags beside it.”
I open up the ones she indicates. “What kind of tea do you want?” I ask.
“Mint is fine.”
I take down two mint tea bags and place one in each mug. Fill them with hot water, put the kettle back down. Carry them both over to the table, being careful not to spill. Trista’s chewing another mouthful as I place the hot drink in front of her.
“Thanks,” she says. I put my own drink down and then carefully lower myself back down in the chair. We continue eating.
Neither of us speak as we eat our meals. I spear chicken, broccoli, pasta, onion, each for an individual bite. Trista picks up her still-steaming mug of tea, blows the steam off the top, takes a tentative sip. Puts it back down.
“You must be really mad at Jake,” she says, and I lift my eyes to her, “for the way he acted.”
My heart feels like it’s been punched, but I try to keep the tears at bay. “Yeah,” I say, the least amount of sound so as not to give away the crack in my voice.
She shakes her head. “It was horrible. I didn’t see that coming. I don’t think anyone did. Maybe not even him.”
I don’t want to talk about this. Swallowing down the pain, I ask, “So, did you get back in touch with Flynn? Was he the one who got you out of jail?”
Trista stiffens again. Her jaw sets, her eyes locked on her plate. Finally she opens her mouth.
“Yeah. He got me out.”
Nothing more. I hesitate a moment.
“Is … everything all right between you two?”
Still stiff, but then she gives her head a tiny shake.
“No. We got into a fight. He, ah … lost his nerve. About killing Will Silver.”
“Ah.”
“Said he just wanted to run away,” she tells me. “Just up and leave town. With me.” She shakes her head again, a slightly bigger gesture this time. “But I can’t just leave. I have to do this. I have to kill Will Silver.”
I look down at my plate of food. Back up at her.
“Um, sorry for prying, but … would killing Will make a difference?” Trista snaps her head in my direction, her eyes annoyed yet vacant. “Sorry,” I say, “but … I’ve had similar fights with Jake. About the same thing. Whether or not we should try to kill Will. And I just don’t know if it’s worth it. All the fighting. Look at where it brought us. What it did to us. Jake gets angry a lot, and he has a quick trigger. I can tell that’s from stress. I wanted a more peaceful solution, but,” I let out a small laugh, surprising even myself, “I was too scared to tell him. I was too scared to tell him that I had plans for a peaceful solution. Isn’t that crazy? Just to talk to Will and sort things out that way, instead of resorting to guns.”
I shake my head, looking back down at my plate. Trista doesn’t say anything. I go on.
“I shouldn’t have been scared of my boyfriend’s reactions,” I tell her. “If I wasn’t then he could’ve helped me. I could’ve helped him. We could have come to a mutual decision. Some sort of agreement. Instead I went behind his back. Which I know I shouldn’t have done, but … I don’t know. I thought I was doing it for his benefit.”
I feel tears in my eyes and I wipe at them with the back of my hand, sniffing.
“Sorry. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t understand,” Trista says, her expression somewhat confused, “how you think that killing Will Silver won’t make a difference. Or that there’s a solution other than killing him. You, of all people. After what happened. You tried talking to him. And look where that led you.”
Ugh, you too? I sniff again, wiping my eyes dry. “I don’t want my baby to be born in a city of violence. I don’t want one of my final acts carrying our baby around to be an accessory to murder. Okay?”
“But if Will Silver remains alive, then this will be a city of violence. He’s a violent man.”
“He’s not evil,” I snap at her. “If that’s what you’re saying.”
Trista looks to the side, tilts her head. Shrugs her shoulders.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe you know a different Will Silver than I do. But the one I know … I would call him evil.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. I pick up my fork and keep eating instead, Trista doing the same. The tea cools down enough to drink and I take sips, being careful not to burn my tongue. When our plates are both cleared Trista stands up, stacking them, taking them to the sink.
“Thanks,” I tell her. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just … everything is so messed up. I’m just stressed out. That’s all.”
She nods, opening the cutlery drawer and taking out a spoon.
“No worries,” she says, her voice flat. She opens the fridge and takes out a jar of baby food, peas and beef.
“Who’s that for?” I ask as she twists off the cap with a pop. I didn’t know Trista had a baby.
“I have to feed my mom,” she says. She places the cap on the counter and walks past me into the hallway, opens up the closed door at the end, goes inside.
I stay in my chair. Trista left the door open. I can hear her voice, speaking softly. The sound of metal lightly scraping glass. Pushing myself up from the chair I heave up to my feet, steadying myself on the table before waddling out of the kitchen to the open doorway.
I peer inside and see Trista sitting in a chair beside a bed, in a room that’s even less decorated than Trista’s. There are no pictures on the walls. Only a few pieces of furniture lie here and there. But the real spectacle is the person on the bed: a thin, haggard-looking old woman with wispy red hair. Her eyes are open and she’s staring straight ahead, out the only window in the room. Her only movements are her eyes blinking mechanically, her mouth reacting to Trista’s spoon holding the pre-masticated food. Her jaw, chewing the paste like a cow would. Her throat, swallowing the mix of nutrients and spit.
It’s a strange sight to behold, like out of a movie.
“What …” I’m about to ask What happened? but realize that’s a rude question to ask, so I start again. “How long has she been like this?”
Trista pauses long enough to hear my question, then goes back to feeding her mom.
“Ever since my brother Sal died,” she says. “From the gunfight. Between the Chains and the Bullets.”
The gunfight. I remember that. I was there. Craig and Jake were there. That was where Sal died.
This is heavy. Trista keeps feeding her, continues her duties as daughter and caregiver. Why is she doing this? It can’t be easy on her, to have to take care of her mother like this, in this state. Why is she doing this all, by herself?
And then it hits me: she’s doing it out of love. Trista is doing this because she loves her mother. She’s not acting out of hate. It all comes together. Her wanting Will Silver dead. Going undercover with the Bullets. Wanting things to change in this city. That’s why she wants Will Silver dead so badly. Not because she hates him. But because she loves her mother instead.