“I invited Marguerite over.” Lucille tipped her head toward the ceiling. “And your father’s upstairs.”
Andrea’s wince told me she was accustomed to her father’s outbursts. She trudged into the living room, her hand still pressing on her abdomen.
“Why are you walking that way?” Lucille asked. I trailed behind them like a shadow.
Andrea kicked off her shoes and tumbled onto the couch. “I don’t feel good.” She rubbed a circle on her belly to show where it hurt.
Was she having a miscarriage? An ectopic pregnancy? I hurried to her side, knelt on the carpet, and took her hand. I felt warm, moist skin, but didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign.
“What does it feel like?” I asked.
“A dull ache.”
“Get in the car,” Lucille said. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
“No,” I said, maintaining a hold on the girl’s hand. “Call the doctor, but in the meantime Andrea should stay where she is and keep her feet elevated.”
I’d heard that a quarter of all pregnancies ended in spontaneous miscarriages. But I wouldn’t allow myself to envision the fetus washing down a toilet.
“Joe!” Lucille called, her voice shrill. In a flash Joe was roaring down the stairs and lumbering into the living room.
“Andrea’s in pain,” Lucille said.
He glanced at Andrea, then turned on me like a junkyard dog finding an intruder. “Get away from my daughter,” he yelled, stabbing his finger at me. As he advanced toward me, I shrank away, falling back on one hip.
His voice turned savage. “Get out of my house and never come back.”
I choked back a gasp. Using a hand to push myself up, I struggled to my feet. Joe’s face—distorted like a grotesque Halloween mask—hovered a foot away. I turned and ran to the front door, hearing his menacing footsteps behind me as I raced across the threshold.
I was barely outside when a fist of air whisked by me as the door slammed.
The rain pelted against my bedroom window. “Storm warnings, with gusts of wind up to forty miles an hour,” the weatherman had predicted on the eleven o’clock news the night before. “And more rain is headed our way tomorrow.”
Squalls had pummeled the southwest corner of the house all night. With Joe Walker’s voice bellowing in my ears, I’d tossed in my sleep like a swimmer caught in an undertow. Memories of fleeing the Walkers’ home like a thief escaping with his plunder kept my adrenaline pumping, and I woke to find my legs tangled in the covers and my pillow off to the side.
Getting up and wrapping myself in my bathrobe, I pattered down to the kitchen to find Charlie standing by the door waiting for me.
“Are you sure you want to go out there?” I asked, knowing he had no choice. When I opened the door, a gust of chilly air funneled in, lifting the hem of my robe. I shivered as I watched him meander over to his water dish. Then I shut the door.
My thoughts turned to Andrea, and I wondered what happened after I left. I imagined the girl lying in a hospital bed—the tiny life inside her womb forever snuffed. I was surprised at the intensity of my feelings. A miscarriage would solve everyone’s problems, but I felt numb with sadness.
I decided to call Lucille. If Joe answered the phone, I could always hang up—before he hung up on me. I dialed the Walkers’ number, and Lucille answered on the first ring.
“It’s Marguerite,” I said. “Is it safe to talk?”
“No.”
“Please tell me, how’s Andrea—and the baby?”
She hushed her voice. “Better. Andrea’s cramping has subsided, but she’s staying home from school today. You were right, the doctor said the best thing for her is to stay off her feet.” Then she hung up without saying good-bye.
“Thank God,” I said into the mouthpiece. In one way the crisis was over. But Andrea was still pregnant, and my son was still about to take a giant step into manhood long before he reached emotional maturity. The situation was far from settled.
Replacing the receiver, I considered what it would be like if Rob and Andrea got married, and the Walkers became Rob’s parents-in-law. I couldn’t imagine conversing civilly with Joe after the way he’d treated me, and he would probably be equally abusive to Rob. It would be a blessing if he never spoke to either one of us again.
As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, my thoughts progressed to my parents. I’d reached Mom on the phone the previous night and was disappointed to learn Dad hadn’t moved home. Mom had announced she was perfectly content living alone. “I think I’ll take a trip,” she’d said in a chipper voice, sounding nothing like the woman I’d spoken to the day before. “I’ve always wanted to take one of those European tours, where they do all the driving and pamper you. Travel through Italy, track down my cousins. Your father would never go anywhere unless there was a golf course.”
I didn’t ask Mom if she’d changed the door locks for fear of reminding her. “Maybe you should call Dad,” I suggested.
“No, I’m done being his doormat.” I heard a man’s voice talking in the background. “I need to hang up and get back to Rick Steves on PBS. He’s doing a segment on Rome.”
I needed to get ready for work, but I felt like crawling back into bed, pulling the covers over my head, and hiding for the rest of my life. But I had bills to pay and needed to spend the day trying to
