Daisy
I remember going to the store muttering under my breath, “Are you serious? Are you going to be one of those women who poops out a kid and has no idea how it happened?” I remember tearing open two separate pregnancy tests, peeing on both of them, and then looking down at the positive signs and going out to the store to get two more. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office to get confirmation. Five days late until it occurred to me…And then, this morning, I remember sitting up in bed whilst Hound was sleeping (we spend a few nights together a week, now) concocting this crazy plan to pretend to be pregnant, to make it all seem like part of the plan, just to see how Hound reacted. But as the day wore on, as I sat silently in the jeep and went over what I would say, I guess the nervous excitement became too much. Until we were in the house and I started dancing around like some broken weathercock.
“What do you mean?” he says, squinting at me like I’ve just spoken Latin. “What are you trying to say?”
I stroke my belly. I just want him to guess. Whenever I have something I want to say to somebody, like the time I told Dad I wanted to start studying again, I always just want them to read my mind so I don’t have to actually say it. The saying it part is the problem, the part when you have to form the words on your lips and listen to them come out of your mouth, the part where you have to turn what has before existed only in your head into something real. “Hound, really?”
He shakes his head. I get the sense he’s purposefully not saying; I think he knows, but doesn’t want to be the one to say it.
I sigh, closing my eyes, summoning my courage. “I’m pregnant,” I say, opening my eyes. “I’m pregnant with your baby, Hound. I’ve been wanting to tell you for days, but I didn’t know how. And then I got this crazy idea to—”
My cellphone starts blaring from my pocket. I want to ignore it, but these past two months I haven’t missed a single cellphone call, even at work. It could be about Dad.
When I answer the phone, I’m surprised for two reasons. Firstly, it’s Sarah’s voice coming from the speaker. Secondly, she doesn’t sound gloating, or mean, or snide. She sounds quiet and solemn and even respectful.
“Hi, Daisy,” she says. No nickname. “I…err…well, I’m the only person here who can make this call, really. Marsha’s off sick today.” She pauses, and then adds: “I’m not happy about it.”
I’m being fired. Goddamn it. I find out I’m pregnant and I’m being fired. But then, if I’m pregnant, I won’t be able to work at The Lady Shack anyway. Oh, they make a big deal about “allowing for all kinds of lifestyles” but I’ve never seen a pregnant woman in tiny shorts with her belly bulging out of her Shack tank top. The eerie thought that somehow Steven found out about my pregnancy comes to me. I shouldn’t have worn a baggy T-shirt. Stupid, I’m not showing yet. Steve spied me, somehow, somewhere, and now…But none of this is true and I know it. My mind is spinning to try and make what Sarah just said not true. “Daisy? Daisy? Are you there? Are you okay?”
She said: “Your dad’s here, Daisy. He’s beat up really bad. He can hardly talk. I don’t know what happened to him. He mumbled something. Steve thinks he said he was attacked. I don’t know who by. I don’t know, well…There’s an ambulance on the way. Daisy? Daisy?”
Fire fills my head, burning on my tongue, the fire of two months spent with the man who had something to do with hurting my father. I’ve been an idiot. I’ve been an over-trusting idiot. I’ve been an absolute moron. I think of all the times Hound and I have had sex over these past two months—I can’t think of it as making love, not now—and the anger makes it so thinking is difficult. My head aches with it. My pulsing temples feel like they might burst from my skin. I hang up the phone and stare at Hound. The change in my expression must be shocking. He takes a step back, looking at me uncertainly.
“What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”
“You don’t know?” I sneer. “You don’t fucking know!” I scream the last two words, turning away from him.
“Daisy!” He’s at my shoulder, following me as I pace from the house.
I throw open the front door, surprising Miss Stone and causing her to drop her cigarette. “Did you get a good look at—”
“We’re done here!” I snap. “Goodbye!”
“Oh! Okay!” Miss Stone takes a stunned step back as I barge past her toward the jeep.
I reach the jeep when I realize my mistake. Hound has the only car. Hound has the only car! I turn back and pace to Miss Stone, who’s climbing into her car. (Everyone has a damn car, I reflect. Everyone but me, the person who needs to get home.) “Where’s the bus station?” I ask her. “I need to get home—to Austin.”
“The bus station is quite a walk,” she says. “But there’s a car rental place just down the road.”
She gives me the directions, and right away I’m walking down the street, ignoring Hound who walks beside me.
“Daisy, will you stop?” he says. “Will you stop for just one second and talk to me? Just talk to me. Fucking hell, woman. Just stop.” He touches my arm.
I wheel on him. “Don’t you fucking touch me!” I scream. “Don’t you dare lay one finger on me!”
Lifting his hands to show he won’t touch me again, he says, “Fine, but just tell me what’s going on. Who was that on the phone?”
I stand on my tiptoes so I can almost look him right in the eyes. “All this time, I’ve been in your bed, fucking you, screwing you, and I’ve poured my heart out, and you’ve done the same, and all of it, Hound, all of it is a sad fucking joke! All this time, you’ve been trying to hurt my dad, and now you’ve succeeded. But it’s my fault, isn’t it? I never should’ve been stupid enough to trust you! What’s wrong with me!”
“Hurt? What’re you talking about?”
“Dad is at the Shack, bleeding, beat up. Tooled up. Isn’t that what you call it?”
“If that’s true, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Of course you did!” I thump him in the chest, annoyed that he just stands there, like I haven’t hit him at all. “Of course you did!” I thump him again. This time he steps back, a wounded look on his big stupid face. “I heard what you said to him. Collect your teeth. The way you said it, so casual, and then I…and then what I did with you in that alleyway. Why would I do that? What’s wrong with me? I’ve been—I feel sick, you’re making me feel sick. Looking at you is making me feel sick!”
I turn away from him, belly churning, and continue down the street. Hound walks a few paces behind me, like a dog following its owner. This sends me over the edge. Wheeling on him, I scream, “Will you just leave me alone? Even if you didn’t do it yourself, you’re part of it, Hound! You or one of your friends! You didn’t stop it, like you promised you would! This is the point of these, right?” I gesture to the engagement and wedding ring. “Isn’t that the tradeoff? So what happened? You failed, Hound, that’s what happened. I want nothing to do with you! Just leave me alone, please. Just get away from me.” I start shivering, the anger making my teeth chatter. When did I start crying? “Just get away from me before I scratch your eyes out!”
He opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and then turns and walks slowly away, fists clenched at his sides.
I don’t stand here and watch him go, afraid if I do that that I’ll be tempted to follow him. I turn around and continue toward the rental place, thinking about Dad how he was the last time I saw him, jittery, panicky, angry at Hound and angry at myself. I threw myself into Hound’s arms, I threw myself into bed with him, I threw myself into this—into this what? Into this relationship? Can it even be called that? Whatever it is, I threw myself into it and now look where I am, walking toward the man I’ve spent my life trying to protect whilst walking away from the man who may very well have had something to do with harming him. A mess.
In the rental car place, a blonde woman who’s studying a crossword with a crease between her eyebrows doesn’t look up when I enter. She just keeps looking down at that crossword, making a tutting sound, whilst I stand over her. I smooth down my hair, tap my fingernails on the desk, sigh, and still she just stares down at the crossword. I won’t get angry. I’ll stay calm. I won’t get angry. I’ll stay—
“What’s your problem?” My voice is trembling, barely restrained.
“It’s a difficult one,” the woman says, smiling tightly. “You know how you can get sucked into these things sometimes, right? Like you’ll be doing one thing and then—”
“I need to rent a car!” I blurt, causing the lady to sit up in her chair.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” She speaks as though somebody coming in here to rent a car takes her wholly by surprise.
“What sort of car are you looking for?”
“The cheapest one you have. I’m only going to Austin.”
“Well, let me see…Yes, we have one that will be quite suitable, I think. Now, total loss of hope, seven letters.”
I laugh savagely. “Despair,” I say, taking out my credit card. “The answer is despair.”
Sitting behind the wheel of a rackety old tin bucket that just might take me down Route 71 to Austin, I try and calm myself down. My breathing is coming in long, shaky in-drawn breaths, my hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel, my thoughts unable to turn away from two unwavering images: Dad covered in so much blood you can only make out a toothless black hole smile, and Hound leaning over me, thrusting. I relive the argument with Hound as I speed down the highway, wishing I’d slapped him across the face, slapped him across his big dumb face and told him I hated him. Maybe part of me suspected that the fake marriage was not completely honest—but no, no, I won’t go there. Because even if that’s true, even if I enjoyed our nights together, it doesn’t change the fact that he lied to me, doesn’t change the fact that he fucked me knowing full well he couldn’t do anything for Dad.
I pull up when I reach the Pedernales River, looking down at the sun-kissed water and toying with the rings Hound gave me: the bullshit rings, the meaningless rings. I think about the sob stories we told each other, suddenly embarrassed for revealing so much about myself. I think about how he’d sometimes trail his forefinger down my spine, the tingling sensation that would go through my body, how it would drive me crazy. I hate that girl, I despise her for lying there naked giggling whilst Dad was out there, being tooled up by Hound or his friends.
Climbing from the car, the traffic roaring a few yards away from me, I pace to the railing and wrench off the rings, looking down into the flowing water. It seems there’s something of my life in the water, the mad rush of it, the frothing whiteness, everything moving too fast for a change of course. Since Mom died…
“Stop with this self-pitying shit,” I mutter. “Stop with this self-pitying shit!” I hold the rings in the palm of my hand, the metal cool. I’m about to toss them into the water when my years-old practicality speaks up: How much are these rings worth? You might need the cash.
Laughing grimly, I drop them into my pocket and return to the tin bucket.
When I get to The Shack, Sarah meets me out front with an expression on her face I can hardly begin to pick apart. These past months she’s been going in on me pretty hard with this “joking” stuff, telling me whenever I protest that, “Oh, you should be able to take a joke, since you are one.” But now she’s forced to tell me what hospital they’ve taken Dad to, she just mumbles and looks at the ground, before turning away as quickly as she can. Maybe she’s guilty, or maybe she’s just annoyed because she thought of another hilarious joke and can’t use it today.
I drive to the hospital, which is only a couple of miles away, but the place is so busy I have to wait in line for five minutes. Some guy at the front of the line is trying to convince a nurse that he hasn’t been given his medication, even though he’s twitching like crazy and dribbling. “Come on, Patsy, you know I wouldn’t lie to you, doll. You know I wouldn’t!”
Finally a smiling black lady asks me, “What can I do for you, dear?”
I tell her, and she replies that my father is being seen to by the doctor and nurses at the moment and I won’t be able to see him for a few hours. When I slump into the waiting room chair, a machine-made hot chocolate cupped in my hand, I let my head fall back and close my eyes, trying not to think about if dad could be dying a floor above me, and trying not to think about my baby, whose grandfather might be dead before it’s born.