The Crash

Chapter 41

41

POLLY

I don’t know what on earth Tegan was talking about.

She started babbling some nonsense about Hank, who wouldn’t hurt me even if there were a gun to his head. But of course, she saw the bruises Mitch gave me, and now she’s made assumptions.

It’s not like Tegan is a saint. She lied about having a husband, and she clearly got knocked up by accident. She doesn’t want this baby or even care enough not to chug whiskey from a flask during her pregnancy—while driving, no less! I’m not surprised she wrapped her car around a tree. She’s lucky she didn’t lose the baby.

I want her to admit she’s lying about having a husband. I want her to admit she’s all alone and that she doesn’t want this baby. Because if she does that, then I’ll feel certain this is the right thing to do.

Either way, this baby needs to come out ASAP. She told me she was eight months along, which means it could be a while before she goes into labor on her own. I have no doubt that the accident will speed things up, but not enough.

I spent some time working as a nurse in Labor and Delivery, and I feel confident that I could deliver her baby. I remember the doctors used to prescribe magnesium to speed the labor along, but I can’t do that here. So I start researching ways to induce labor at home.

A lot of the websites suggest sex and long walks. Well, she’s not doing either of those things. She can’t take long walks. And as for sex, I suppose I could ask Hank to…

No. No way. He’d never even agree to it.

I’ve been trying to encourage her to get out of bed into the shower, thinking maybe that will help. But it’s still not much of an athletic challenge. No, there’s no physical activity that she’s capable of right now. It’s got to be something taken orally.

After scouring the web, I eventually discover a recipe for something called Midwives Brew. The website boasts an 85 percent success rate for inducing labor within twenty-four hours. The ingredients include castor oil, apricot juice, lemon tea, and almond butter.

I check the cabinets to see what I’ve got in stock. I’ve got tea, but it’s not lemon tea. I have peanut butter but not almond butter. Orange juice but not apricot juice. Looks like I’m going to need to make a trip to the supermarket. Which means I’ll have to leave the house with Tegan alone in the basement.

It’s risky. But it’s worth it if this drink induces labor as promised. Hank is not going to let me keep that woman in the basement much longer.

When I go downstairs to serve Tegan her breakfast, she is lying in bed quietly. She seems strangely subdued compared to earlier. Maybe some of the fight has left her.

“Here you go.” I place the plate of eggs and bacon on the tray in front of her, along with a big glass of orange juice. I was careful not to include a fork—she can eat with her hands. “A nutritious breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

“You know,” I say, “when you have a child, you’ll have to make her three meals a day, every day.”

She looks at me irritably. “I know.”

“You can’t skip just because you’re tired or hurt or hungover.”

She shoots me a look but doesn’t say anything. She picks up a piece of crispy bacon and takes a bite.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, “being a mother is hard work. And you’re so young. There must be a lot of other things you want to do with your time.”

“I can handle it,” she insists, although there’s a quaver in her voice.

“Well, I hope so. But motherhood isn’t for everyone.”

I wait for her to blurt out that she’s dreading having to take care of a screaming infant. I can see in her eyes that it’s the truth. But she’s stubborn and obviously refusing to admit the truth.

Fine.

When I get back upstairs, Hank has already left for the auto shop without saying goodbye. He always says goodbye in the morning. He always kisses me, tells me he wishes he didn’t have to leave me, and then wraps me in a hug that reminds me how much he loves me. Today, he didn’t do any of that.

But the truth is I’m just glad he’s gone. I need to dash over to the supermarket, and I don’t want him to know what I’m buying.

I climb into my Bronco and drive down to the strip mall that contains the supermarket. I do a lot of my grocery shopping at the small family-owned store five minutes away, but I’m not sure if that place will have all the right ingredients. Plus, the cashier at Benny’s knows me and will wonder why I am buying such strange ingredients. Better to shop at a grocery store where I can stay anonymous.

I find all four ingredients pretty easily, and then I drop a few other items in my cart to serve as a buffer. A carton of milk. Some hamburger meat. I almost grab a can of formula, but then I wonder if it would be suspicious and decide against it. I’ll send Hank out to get some when the time comes.

I’ve got about a dozen items by the time I get to check out, where a gray-haired woman is taking her sweet time ringing up all the orders. I look down at my watch. I’ve been gone for less than an hour. It’s not that long, but it feels like an eternity when there’s a ticking time bomb in the basement.

While I’m standing in the checkout line, I can see through the sliding doors to the parking lot. There’s a cop car in the lot, and my heart sinks. Is that the same officer who was at my house yesterday? Like the other day, he’s speaking into a radio. I force myself to look away.

Is it possible he could be here for me? Did Tegan somehow get free during the short time I’ve been gone and alert the police? But no, that’s not possible. How would they know I’m at the supermarket? It’s got to be a coincidence.

Either way, I’ve got to get home as soon as possible. I need to check on Tegan.

“Well, hello there, hon,” the cashier says when it’s finally my turn. “Cold day out there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say. Usually I enjoy making chitchat with cashiers. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands these days. But today I’m irritated by this chatty cashier.

She picks up the bottle of castor oil, then looks down at the apricot juice. “You past due, sweetie?”

“Excuse me?”

The cashier looks pointedly at my stomach. I’m wearing a very bulky winter coat, so you can’t see much. I could be forty weeks pregnant for all she knows. “You’ve got all the ingredients for a German labor cocktail. I thought maybe you’re hoping to get things moving on the baby front. How many weeks are you?”

I place a hand on my belly. I consider denying it, but maybe I shouldn’t. After all, if I come back here in the future with a baby, it won’t hurt for people to think I was pregnant. “Forty-one weeks.”

“Ouch.” She winces. “Well, I’m sure you’re eager to get that little one out of you. Good luck with the cocktail! It really works.”

That’s what I’m counting on.

When I get out to the parking lot with my brown paper bag of groceries, I half expect that police officer to point a gun at me and tell me I’m under arrest. But that doesn’t happen. In fact, the police car is completely gone. I’m just being paranoid.

As I navigate back to the house, I feel increasingly uneasy about my interaction with the cashier. I should have just told her they were random ingredients. Now she’s going to remember me. What if the police start asking around about a pregnant woman? Maybe she’ll remember me and tell them I was buying ingredients to induce labor. The cashier couldn’t tell I wasn’t pregnant, but the police will know by looking at me.

Why didn’t I just keep my fool mouth shut?

But as I come to the end of the dead-end road containing my house, I forget all about the cashier. Because there’s something else to worry about.

There’s an unfamiliar car in my driveway. And a man standing on my porch, at my front door.

And he’s waiting for me.