The pills were small and white. On Thursday morning at eleven, Dr. Brown gave me the mifepristone, misoprostol, and a prescription for both Zofran, an anti-nausea med, and Percocet, for the pain that would probably start later that day. The first pill was inserted, along with an IUD, by the doctor while I lay on the paper-covered bench, my bare legs in stirrups under the fluorescent lights. I stared up at the ceiling and counted the beige tiles to keep myself from crying.
It didn't work.
On the way home, I stopped at a Duane Reade and picked up an industrial-sized carton of maxi pads, per Dr. Brown's advice. It was a gorgeous spring day: New York in the full green of late spring and early summer. Birds chirped from all the trees planted on my sidewalk, drowning the everyday drone of cars on the busy streets. The air was balmy enough that most people walking around wore shorts. White, puffy clouds punctuated the sunshine, and every so often, a stray butterfly would wisp through the air.
Everything about it made me feel sick.
Still nauseous from the craze of hormones surging through me, I stumbled into my grandmother's house, ignoring Bubbe's questions about how the doctor's appointment had gone and whether they had given me something for the nausea. I pulled myself up the stairs, and lay in bed, waiting for the hours to tick by while cramps slowly built in my belly.
That afternoon, while Bubbe was out with her mah-jongg group and Dad had gone down to the club to meet with his band, I inserted the second pill. An hour later, the bleeding started. Contractions came and went, and I stumbled back and forth between the bathroom and my room throughout the day, hazy from the Percocet, clutching my belly every time the muscles pulled together.
Twelve hours later, it was done.
~
"How are you feeling?"
I stretched out on my bed, holding my cell phone to my ear while I stared at the ceiling. I watched as a lazy cobweb twisted limply in the dank, airless space.
"Fine," I said. My voice was groggy, like I hadn't used it in several days.
"Maybe I should rephrase," Jane said. "What are you feeling?"
Wrapped in an old terrycloth robe that I'd had since high school, I shrugged, even though she couldn't see me. It wasn't a question I wanted to answer, because thinking about what I had done just made me hurt in a completely different way that the Percocet couldn't cure.
"Nothing, really. I just feel...numb. And really tired."
"Is the cramping better now?"
I turned so I was curled on my side. The clock on my bedside table now read ten a.m. Jane, knowing what was going on, had stayed up with me through the day and into the night, picking up every time I needed to cry, needed to yell, needed to whimper, or just needed to be silent with someone else there.
"Yeah, it's pretty much done now," I mumbled. "I...I could tell when it happened."
Jane was silent. We both knew what I meant. She had been calling every hour since I'd gotten home from the clinic, worried that I didn't have the support system recommended for going through the procedure by myself. At first, I'd fought it, but no one ever tells you that an abortion is going to be painful enough that you'll want to have someone there to help. No one tells you how much it might hurt, inside and out.
"Does your grandmother know?" she asked again.
I sighed. "I don't know. Maybe."
That was the truth. I had tried to hide as much of the evidence as I could, and I had told Bubbe and my dad that the mono was acting up again. But the ginger cookies stopped appearing next to my bed, and Bubbe had been giving me awfully sad looks when she came upstairs to check on me.
"What about...you know who? Are you going to let him know what happened?"
I rolled my face into my pillow. There was that ache again, not in my belly, but in my heart. It wasn't the first time she'd brought up his name in the last twelve hours without actually saying it. At one point, when the pain was at its worst, I had cried into the phone that this was all his fault, that I missed him, that he should be here, but I'd expressly forbidden Jane to contact him at all. I didn't want him to know about this, ever.
"It's probably for the best," Jane said when I didn't respond. "You don't need any more stress."
"Yeah."
It was all relative. Just a different kind of stress.
"Did you see the Forbes profile I sent?"
I groaned. "Jane! I'm trying not to think about Brandon!"
I had, in fact, seen the magazine cover while I was waiting in line at the pharmacy. A full-page spread of Brandon's patented, thousand-watt smile had been kind of hard to miss. Luckily, I had been much too sick to do anything more than glare at it with equal parts longing and hatred. Extreme nausea will do that to you.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Jane said. "I just wondered if you had read the article. He sort of mentions you."
I flipped over onto my side. "What?"
"I'm sending it again."
With energy I hadn't felt in several days, I swiped my laptop off the ground and flipped it open on the mattress. I pulled up my email and opened the link that Jane had sent.
It was a puff piece, a typical rags-to-riches story that highlighted Brandon's many accomplishments in the financial and legal world. Most of the Q&A-style article consisted of fairly generic questions about his secrets to success, daily habits, things like that.
"Go to the fifth question," Jane directed me.
I scanned further down the page and started reading.
Forbes: Biggest regret?
[There is a long silence. Sterling rubs a hand over his face.]
Sterling: Can I plead the fifth?
Forbes: Not if you want the interview to end.
[Sterling laughs].
Sterling: All right, all right. Well, to be honest, my biggest regret happened just recently. I lost someone special because I kept some really important things to myself that I shouldn't have. It's easy in this business––either of my businesses, really––to get caught up in secrets. We do it all the time, whether it's maintaining attorney-client confidentiality or protecting our clients' investments. But that instinct, one that's served me really well in my professional life, cost me everything. You can't live your personal life like you run your businesses. I learned that the hard way.
[Sterling sighs and rubs his face again. He looks out the window of his office for several minutes.]
Sterling: There isn't a minute I don't miss her.
I continued scanning the rest of the article while Jane waited patiently on the end of the line for me to finish. I closed my laptop, then sank back into my pillows and sighed.
"He could have been talking about his wife," I finally said, although the thought pained me.
"Sky."
"Well, he could have. The magazine certainly thought he was, if you read the rest of the profile."
"Skylar," Jane repeated sharply. "You know that wasn't about Ms. Priss. The man just announced to the entire world that he is pining for you."
I pressed the heel of one hand into my forehead, trying to drive that bronzed, razor-edged face out of my mind again. Blue eyes, like pools of water that seemed to seep into every part of me. He was like a bad penny, always turning up. A gorgeous, charismatic, heart-melting penny.
"I can't, Jane," I said finally. "I need to move on. He's not good for me or my family."
Jane sighed through the speaker. "Fine, fine. Have you signed the papers for the DA's office?"
I blinked up at the ceiling and groaned. "I haven't."
"Seriously? Why?"
I rolled over onto my side and stared at the clock radio. Under that was the sheaf of new hire paperwork that I was supposed to bring to the D.A.'s office as soon as I could. The clock numbers were red and seemed to glare at me.
"Because I'm not sure it's the right choice," I replied lamely. Because it's in the wrong city.
"Why's that?"
Jane's voice was sharp, reflecting the frustration I rightfully deserved for shirking on yet another job opportunity so late in the game. We had just graduated from the best law school in the world less than two weeks ago. Most of the people we knew had secured jobs long before. While I'd had several offers, there was always part of me that kept holding out for something more. What that something was...I didn't know.
"Well...I was looking over my contract again," I said while I fingered the edges of my faded floral sheet. "It's not exactly going to pay off my dad's debts very quickly. Or, you know, at all. The job at Kiefer Knightly pays about three times as much, plus a signing bonus."
"Yeah, but you said no to that already, didn't you?"
I squirmed uneasily. I had said no to a job at a big firm offered to me by my mentor, but I had done it in a rage. I had done it after discovering that not only had the love of my life been lying to me about being married, but he had also decided to go behind my back to deal with a local mobster after he had promised me he would stay out of it. Though it made our lives temporarily easier, Brandon's actions had the unintended effect of making my family even more of a target now that Victor Messina knew we had access to money.
So I had fled Boston, unable to stand my ground against a man I could never seem to say no to. I had taken a job five blocks from my family's house, telling myself I was doing it to protect my dad and keep him safe, even though the best thing I could do for him would be to make more money and try to convince my family that New York was not a safe place for them anymore. I'd taken the job in cowardice.
"I think I made a mistake," was all I said to Jane.
"Sellout."
Jane was studying for the bar in Chicago with the assumption that she would be working at the State's Attorney's office. It was a great gig, but public service didn't pay much in Chicago either. She had every right to her indignation.
"Have you talked about it with Zola?" she asked, changing the subject. "He was yummy. And the way he lobbied for you to work there, methinks he likes more than your resume."
I sighed again and closed my eyes. I tried to imagine the handsome face of the young attorney who had recruited me for the job at the Brooklyn DA's office, but still all I could see was a pair of blue eyes and an unruly mop of blond. I squeezed my eyelids shut and focused harder.
"Maybe I need to make a trip up there. Help you break the bad news to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Fuck-Me-Silly, huh?"
I rolled my eyes despite the fact that Jane couldn't see me.
"Maybe you should," I said lamely. "Even though you literally just left." My comeback game was incredibly weak.
"You never know..." she teased, but I could barely hear her anymore.
My eyelids drooped. I was exhausted, maybe more than I had ever been in my life. As if on call, Brandon's kind, concerned face appeared. I was too tired to fight it anyway. Too tired to fight that warm feeling I had when I imagined I hadn't pushed him away, when I imagined that I could still fall asleep in his arms.
"Janey?" I yawned into the phone.
"Yeah, babe?"
"Thanks for calling. I love you."
"I love you too, Sky. I'm glad you're okay."
"Thanks."
I yawned again. The nausea––all of it––was actually gone. I was looking forward to a real night of sleep. And, if I was being honest, the dreams of a certain set of big shoulders that usually came with them.
"Go to sleep, Sky. You sound like you need it. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
I was already snoring.
~
I slept for another day, thanks to the last of the Percocet. I woke up the next morning to an unfamiliar woman's voice, high-pitched and muffled, filtering from the floor below my room. I pulled my head out from under my covers after a distinct squeal echoed up the stairs, followed by flirty protestations in one of the thickest Brooklyn accents I'd ever heard. That was saying something, considering I was a local.
"Danny! You are so bad! Eeee, that pinches!"
My dad's voice, normally mild and gentle, crooned in response. "You know you like it, Katie."
I slapped my blankets down and sat up, suddenly very, very awake. Katie?
Two months ago, Bubbe had informed me that my dad, a man who dated about as frequently as he visited country clubs (which was to say, pretty much never), was seeing a local girl name Katie Corleone. Less than a month later, he was back at the track, getting himself into the mess that put him in the hospital. I didn't have any hard proof that Katie Corleone was the one who got him back in the scene, and just because Corleone was an Italian name didn't mean she was wrapped up with the mob. But at the same time, the woman he'd supposedly been dating had basically vanished while he'd been recovering from his injuries.
Who the hell was this Katie, and why was my dad pinching any part of her just a few steps from where I was sleeping?
Another loud squeal and a bunch of giggles erupted from under my door. I huffed, tossed my covers aside, and made a big deal of stomping around my attic room until the squeals stopped. I threw on my robe and walked down the rickety stairs to the hallway, where the door to Dad's room was shut and more indeterminate noises were coming out.
With a glare at the door, I continued to the bathroom, and then downstairs to where Bubbe was busy wiping the kitchen counters. She was color-coordinated as always in a light blue summer shirt and matching slacks, her hair set in its helmet-like, tight gray curls. I collapsed in one of the dining chairs with a loud huff. Bubbe turned around with a jerk.
"Oh, Skylar!" she cried with mock placement of her hand to her heart. "You scared me, sneaking in here like that."
I leaned onto the table and buried my head in my hands. My body didn't ache so much anymore, but I still felt groggy from the Percocet.
"Is there any hot water?" I asked through my fingers as my hair fell over my face.
"I can make some. What do you want, tea?"
Another loud peal of laughter echoed down the stairs. I groaned and nodded as Bubbe bustled about the kitchen, uncharacteristically accommodating.
"Are you feeling better, bubbela? After your...mono?"
I peered suspiciously at my grandmother, who stood with her back to me as she put some hot water on to boil. I'd have bet ten thousand dollars she knew I didn't have mono, but Bubbe was the queen of "don't ask, don't tell." It was the game she had also played with my sex life. And, apparently, her son's.
"Who's the broad up in Dad's room?" I changed the subject, leaning back in my chair and pushing my hair out of my face. I needed a shower, but I really didn't want to go upstairs and listen to my dad getting busy.
"Broad? Oh, you mean Katie." Bubbe turned around to grab a mug from the cabinet. She glanced at me and frowned. "Skylar, why do you have to sit like that? No woman should be sitting around with her legs spread like a man on the subway."
I couldn't help but smile as I continued to slouch further in my chair, but nevertheless crossed one ankle over the other. If Bubbe was back to correcting things like my posture, I knew she wasn't so worried about me anymore.
"Katie. Yeah, I heard her name," I said. I traced a finger over the orange hexagonal patterns of the tablecloth, something Bubbe had probably owned since the late sixties. "I was asking who she is. And why she's making inappropriate noises under my bedroom door."
"Oh, Skylar, she's doing nothing of the sort!" Bubbe protested a little too loudly. She pulled the milk from the refrigerator with a flourish, then turned to face me, one small hand perched on her hip. "Katie Corleone is...your father's...friend. She's been coming around a bit for the last several months. I told you about her; I know I did."
"Maybe," I mumbled petulantly, but I remembered just fine. "You think that's the best idea when he's still in therapy? Addicts are supposed to be on the wagon for a year before they get into new relationships."
Bubbe gave a shrug that just about broke my heart. "She seems to make him happy."
"Does she."
"She does. And God knows my Danny could use some of that these days."
I watched Bubbe as she continued fixing my tea, but she didn't say anything more. Before I could reply, two pairs of footsteps came tromping down the stairs. My dad and a woman I assumed was Katie Corleone stepped into the kitchen. Bubbe waved a distant hand in their direction, but stayed focused on my tea.
I, on the other hand, gawked.
Katie Corleone didn't look like a person; she looked like a cartoon character. She was tall, a lot taller than my dad's spare frame, mostly due to her five-inch, red platform heels and the beehive of black hair piled on her head. Her bright pink lipstick shone against overly tanned skin. She couldn't have been more than thirty, but her skin made her look older. She wore massive green hoops from her ears, extremely tight boot-cut jeans, and a shirt that had rhinestones glued in the shape of a cat's face across the front.
"Well, hello there!" she exclaimed as she pranced into the kitchen, heels tapping loudly against the linoleum floor. She held out a hand with long, fake nails. "You must be Skylar, honey. I'm Katie. Your dad has told me so much about you, and ain't you just as gorgeous as he said!"
Jesus. The woman sounded like Fran Drescher. Stunned, I allowed her to shake my hand vigorously. When I got it back, my fingers smelled faintly of artificial strawberries.
"Heya, Pips!" Dad said from behind Katie.
Both of his hands, good and bad, rested familiarly on her hips. He had to peek around her shoulder since he couldn't see over the mass of hair. He was still in his bathrobe––I still hadn't seen him wear anything else in the house since I'd come home––but he had a goofy smile on his face that could only be caused by one thing.
Gross.
"Listen, baby, I gotta scoot," Katie said, turning to my dad. "But I'll see you tonight at Nick's, and then we can have some real fun, all right, handsome?"
With wide eyes, I looked to Bubbe, who was watching Katie and my dad with a hand over her mouth to cover a scowl. When Katie finished kissing her slurpy goodbyes, Bubbe turned abruptly to grab my tea, which she set in front of me with a slosh.
"Thanks," I murmured, although she clearly wasn't listening.
"I'm just going to walk Katie out," Dad said with a sheepish grin.
"Bye, Skylar! Bye, Mrs. Crosby!" Katie called before the heavy front door slammed shut behind her and Dad.
I turned to Bubbe. "What. Was. That?"
Bubbe rubbed her fingers across her very tired expression. "That," she sighed, "was Katie."
I didn't say anything, just waited. Bubbe checked out the front window and then took a seat at the table.
"She's been coming here a lot over the last few weeks," she said. "Inviting herself over for dinner. Charming your dad into taking her out, even though he's got no money to take her anywhere, poor schmuck." She sighed. "I'd say something, but sweetheart, it's the only time I ever see him smile, and that's the truth. Or do anything besides sit in that chair and watch the TV."
"You don't think it's kind of suspect? That this Italian chick who disappeared right when he was beaten up reappears just when he's starting to get better?"
Bubbe shrugged, and I hated her sad indifference. The last few months hadn't been easy for her––she'd had to sacrifice a lot forcing Dad to attend all of his different therapy appointments, sometimes against his will. My grandmother's stubbornness was a force of its own, but its limits had certainly been tested.
We sat for a minute, letting the situation sink in. The front door opened, and Dad reentered, whistling a little tune that faded the closer he got to the TV. But instead of the din of some old rerun, we heard the telltale scrape of the piano bench legs against the floor and the creaky lift and clunk of the fallboard.
Bubbe and I froze, staring at each other, almost too afraid to move.
The tones of the piano started to float through the air, one tentative note at a time. They were treble notes, bright and cheery, played slowly, up and down a diachronic scale. All with his right hand, obviously, since the left was still lame.
Silently, Bubbe and I both craned our necks to watch. The ends of Dad's old plaid bathrobe hung off the bench like tuxedo tails while he hunched over the keys, listening to each one, note by note.
Next to me, Bubbe choked on a sob. I glanced over and started, shocked to see a single tear run down her cheek. She had gained a few new wrinkles over the past few months. The sound of the high notes must have been her breaking point.
Dad played up and down the treble keys, dipping into the occasional riff or a familiar chord progression. But then there was a clear bass note: an attempt to use his left hand, the one that had regained little of its dexterity. The hand was still often wrapped up, but no longer in a cast. Covered with a crisscrossing of ugly, still-red scars, it was thin and pale compared to his left. Bubbe and I listened as Dad attempted a chord, pressing only three fingers together onto the keys. He yanked his hand back with an audible gasp of pain.
Bubbe gasped with him. I clenched the table so hard my knuckles turned white. We listened again as the piano was shut loudly and Dad shuffled back to the couch. The TV turned on, and the spell was broken.
"His last physical therapy session is next week," Bubbe muttered. "After that, he'll be over his limit for maximum coverage. He still needs more, though."
She didn't have to mention the fact that his therapy for a gambling addiction was something we had to pay out of pocket. It had already killed most of my savings. There was a clinic that ran a free outpatient program out of Columbia, but the waitlist was over a year long.
I stood up from the table. It killed me to admit it, but there was only one way I could help the situation, and it wasn't by staying in New York.
"Where are you going?" Bubbe asked. Her eyes were now dry, but a crumpled tissue sat on the table.
The opening riffs of Full House jangled through the house. It was a show that, when I was growing up, my dad had always hated. Now he was watching syrupy junk on rerun or making googly eyes with Borough Barbie. I didn't want to leave him, but I wouldn't be able to help the way he needed on a district attorney's salary.
"I have to make a phone call," I said, and went to my room.
~