His head whipped back to my father. “You’re going to tell them — “ he pointed a finger. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Caleb point his finger at someone.
My father was already shaking his head. “It won’t make a difference, Caleb.”
I felt my worth at that point. A penny. I was a sidewalk toss away — a grimy piece of metal stuck to the bottom of the cup holder, couch cushions, old wallets and under the fridge between a shriveled grape and an unidentified hair — that was me. He saw no value in me, except to use me when he came up short.
Fuck. fuckfuckfuck.
Caleb’s voice was hard rock grinding itself into gravel. I couldn’t make out what he was saying until it was too late. I heard the words She’s your daughter, right before he lurched forward. I saw the tremor of shock pass across my father’s face, as my beautiful, russet haired husband threw a punch that would have had Tyson nodding in approval. My sister and my mother started screaming. I covered my ears. You’d swear they had never seen a man get put in his place. I wanted Caleb to hit him again, mostly for not loving me, but also because I was officially in a barrel of deep trouble.
“Caleb!” I grabbed him, hauled him back. His body was still twisted toward my father like he wanted to hit him again. “Let’s go. I want to leave.”
His jaw was scary. Truly. Put me in a room with a hundred hungry mountain lions before you put me in a room with Caleb's jaw.
Caleb grabbed my hand. My father, the great Charles Austin Smith was flopped face up on the chaise lounge, his nose bleeding through his fingers and his face the color of raw liver. Before we walked out, I stopped. My breath was keeping time with my heart. Caleb looked at me questioningly, and I shook my head. I faced my family. The three of them were huddled together around my father's bleeding face. My mother's eyes were terrified, as she tried to mop up the blood with a beverage napkin. My sister was saying Daddy over and over as she cried. I felt repulsed and terrified as I watched. For the first time, I didn't want to belong with them. I didn't want to be a part of their bleeding, cowering trio.
"Daddy?" He lifted his head and I saw his bloodshot eyes find me. My mother and sister stopped wailing to look at me, too. "Daddy," I repeat. "I'm never going to call you that again. You probably don't care, and that's okay, because I don't either. I'd rather be the bastard daughter of a prostitute than ever share your blood."
Caleb squeezed my hand, and we walked out.
Two days later he was dead.
Chapter Twenty-NinePresent
I stalk Cammie on Facebook. I swear all that dumb blond does is post pictures of her lunch. I hate that. I keep hoping to catch some snippet of Caleb or that slut, Olivia. I sign on to my barely used account and type in Cammie’s name. I want to see if she posted pictures of Olivia’s birthday. I want to see if Caleb was there. That’s stupid, I tell myself. Olivia is married to sexy Ghandi. There is no way Caleb would be invited. I comb through all of the pictures anyway, searching for a piece of his hands or feet or hair. All I see are pictures of Olivia. Someone had snapped a photo of her walking into the surprise party. Her mouth is open and if you didn’t know better, you’d think someone was pointing a gun at her instead of shouting Happy Birthday. She is wearing skinny jeans and a tube top. I sniff as I click through the pictures. Olivia hugging Noah, Olivia laughing with Cammie, Olivia blowing out candles on a cupcake tower, Olivia shooting someone with a water gun, Olivia getting pushed into the pool…
The very last picture is of Olivia opening a present. She is sitting on a chair with the box open in her lap. The look on her face is anything but happy. Her eyebrows are drawn together and her mouth is puckered into one of her famous side frowns. I eye the box, trying to see what’s inside of it, but all I can see is the metallic blue paper. Cammie has captioned the picture: Don’t know who this one is from?? Own up or you don’t get a thank-you card.
I look at the package suspiciously. What could be inside that would cause her to look so horrified? I click to the next pictures, but Olivia is in none of them. It’s like she disappeared after she opened that package. I shove a handful of barely thawed carrots into my mouth. Scooting my chair back, I go in search of Sam. I find him folding laundry in the nursery. Caleb has the baby, but Sam has been coming in anyway to help me live.
“You were at that party, right?”
“What party?” He opens a drawer, deposits a pile of onesies and closes it without looking at me.
“Olivia’s party, Sam.” His eyes travel from my crossed arms to my tapping foot.
“I will not feed into your stalker tendencies.”
“What was in that blue box Olivia opened?”
Sam’s eyes snap to my face.
“How do you know about that?”
“I was on ... uh ... Facebook.”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. The box didn’t have a card. She took one look inside that sucker and ran into the house. I didn’t see her again after that. I think Noah took her home.”
“What happened to the box?” Why am I so interested?
“I think Cammie has it.”
I grab his arm. “Ask her.”
He shakes himself free, his brow creased into three deep lines. I point to his forehead.
“You should really consider Botox for that.”
“I am not digging around in the Olivia obsession box for you.”
“I’m not obsessed with her,” I counter. “I just want to revel in what made her upset.”
“Don’t you and Nancy do enough Olivia bashing as it is?”
I screw up my nose. Could there ever be enough Olivia bashing? That woman should have to wear a sign on her back that says ‘White Trash Boyfriend Stealer’.
“Say what you like, Sam, but she didn’t try to destroy your life.”
I am walking toward the living room when his voice catches up to me.
“From what I hear, she saved yours.”
I spin and glare. I can’t believe he just said that. How completely untrue. I am sick, sick, sick of being forced to feel grateful to that sly looking bitch for something anyone could have done. I could have hired any attorney I wanted. Olivia was forced on me.
“Is that what Cammie told you?”
He puts the last clean bottle in the cabinet and faces me.
“Isn’t that what happened? She took your case and won it?”
“For God’s sake! That was her job.”
“Why did she take your case?”
I am already pale, but when someone asks me that question, e.g., my mother, my sister, my friends … I can always feel the color in my skin peel back. Why did she take the case? Because Caleb asked her to. Why did Caleb ask her to? At first, I thought it was because she lied to him. He was collecting on her guilt, making her pay up for the deceit by defending his wife. But, then I intercepted a look. A look. How long can a look be … truly? A look can be a second long, a freaking, harmless second, and it can tell long, complicated stories. You can see three years in a second-long look. You can see longing, too. I hadn’t known that until I saw it for myself. I wish I hadn’t seen it. I wish I could never see another look transferred between two people with history.
"It seems to me, you give loyalty to all of the wrong people," he says.
"What are you talking about?" I snap.
"Oh, I don't know. You almost take the fall for that father of yours, when he obviously treated you like crap, and then you shove your baby off to the side like she's an inconvenience to you."
I balk.
“You can have the rest of the day off.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll see you on Monday, then.”
I don’t acknowledge him when he leaves. I go upstairs to check on Estella and then realize that she's gone. I'd been doing that lately, expecting to hear her or see her when I walk into a room. Unlike a few months ago, I don't feel relief that she's not here. I feel...
What do I feel? I hate that. I definitely don't want to think about my feelings.
I go to the freezer and pull out the lima beans. Weighing the bag in my hand for a few seconds, I suddenly toss them back like I'm pitching for the Marlins.
I grab my car keys from the hook in the kitchen and head for the garage. My fast car is in the garage: my pre-baby, lots of fun, cherry red convertible. I pat the hood before I get in. Then I'm zipping past my mommy-mobile, past the mailboxes and down the street.
I feel lost. I feel lost and incredibly angry. I jerk to a stop in the parking lot of the grocery store. Marching inside, I don't miss a beat as I snatch up a basket and head for the candy aisle. I empty the shelf of chocolate covered raisins and grab an armful of Twizzlers. When I dump everything on the belt at the register, the kid ringing me up looks at me with wide eyes.
"Will that be — "
"That's all," I shout. "Unless you want to give me a new life."
He's still gaping at me when I snatch up my load and run for the car.
The first thing I do when I get home is empty my freezer of vegetables. I cut the bags open, one by one, and send the colorful little niblets down the garbage disposal. I hum as I work. Then I take a swig of vodka, straight from the bottle, kick off my heels, and open the first box of chocolate covered raisins. It all goes downhill from there. I eat every last box until I am sick. I call Caleb at two A.M. His voice is slurred when he picks up.