Page 58 of Wall

I pause beside my car, bend over, and hack into the slushy snow. Nothing comes out, but the urge to vomit eases somewhat. My head swims.

His voicemail picks up.This is Wall. Leave a message. Beep.

I hit end and try to call again.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

This is Wall. Leave a message. Beep.

My palms are clammy. I shrug my jacket off. I’m sweating bullets even though it’s thirty degrees out.

I need to calm down. Drive home. Then what?

I don’t know “what.” What have I done?

I hold myself as still as I possibly can. I had wine with dinner last Sunday. I had deli ham from food service for lunch on Monday. Before I swung by the pharmacy on Tuesday, I hadn’t taken a vitamin in years. Terror and grief and guilt cascade over me. What have I done?

I call John again, more ringing. I throw the phone into the passenger seat, but it bounces onto the floor, and now I can’t find it ‘cause it’s dark, and the inside light isn’t bright enough.

I’m going to the clubhouse.

I’m going to find out why he’s not answering his phone.

I turn the key and immediately a surge of energy—courage? fury?—rushes through my veins. I’m never going to pace a living room, waiting for John Wall again. I’m never calling and calling and not getting through. I’m gonna roll up to that clubhouse, and I’m gonna tell him off like I didn’t the first time.

Or I’m going puke on his shoes.

Probably that.

What is John going to say if I tell him I’m pregnant, and I’m losing it again?

He asked, that day when he came back with Janice’s ring. He said, “Do you want me to take you to the pharmacy?”

I said, “Did you want to go now?”

He said, “No.”

And that’s how we left it. Well, he scooped me off the couch, tore off my pants, and settled me on top of his dick, but we didn’t talk anymore about it.

What if he’s with some woman? What if that’s why he’s not picking up?

What if Stephanie’s at the clubhouse tonight? I intentionally didn’t ask if she’d be there because I trust him, right? I have to trust him, that’s what you’re supposed to do when you forgive someone. But what if this is history repeating itself, and I have no one to blame this time but myself?

Oh, God. History is repeating itself.

I take the turn onto Rural Route 9 too quickly, and my back wheels skid. Black ice. My heart jumps and sticks in my throat.

I need to slow down. I’m gonna throw up. There’s nothing in the car to throw up into. I gag, and then I mash my lips together.

And then there’s the clubhouse, the only building for miles, a blaze of lights in the pitch-black night. There are so many bikes, trucks, cars. I have to park along the road and tromp through the snow. I forgot to change from my clogs to my snow boots, so the heels of my socks get wet. I slip, cutting my knees on gravel and ice, pain shooting up my thigh.

Now I have wet pants too, sticking to my legs. I’m freezing.

My teeth chatter, and I realize I’ve left my coat in the car, and I’m still wearing my scrubs with the sloths that say, “No hurry. No worry.”

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