Chapter Twelve
Daphne
Achill rolls down my arm as I read a note that was clandestinely left on my desk while I was in a meeting. I knew we were going out later, but I had no idea the man I’ve loved for years was planning a spectacle.
The little card outlines a night-long itinerary.
He’ll pick me up in the parking garage after work.
We have a reservation at that fancy restaurant we’ve talked about a thousand times, but never had a reason, or the budget, to go.
After that, there’s the word “Helicopter.” Then it hints at “Something special.” It all sounds special.
But I can’t help but glance at my ring finger with hope, and a sigh of relief when the fresh coat of polish sparkles in the artificial light.
I had my nails done over the weekend, just in case.
I’ve envisioned the moment over and over for a while.
I’m unsure if he’ll casually drop the question one day when we’re relaxing on his couch, me in sweats with my unkempt hair wadded up like a bird’s nest. Or, perhaps, this “Helicopter” on the schedule has us going somewhere exotic, where he’ll have a flashmob perform a stunning feat just in time for me to find him on one knee in a tuxedo popping the question.
For now, though, I need to get through the rest of the workday.
“Hngh,” I grunt, grabbing my stomach on instinct.
No. Uh uh. Nope. Go away.
But the pangs hits me again, harsher this time, and I lean my chest forward on my desk.
“Girl, are you okay?” My coworker Beth stops by my office at the worst time to ask a stupid question.
Aside from being my boss, Beth is my best friend. My bosom sister. We met as teens, and we’ve suffered through all life has had to throw at us since. Her marriage to a man-sized piece of shit. Her divorce from said feces-stuffed meat suit. My parents passing. My mental breakdowns. You name it.
Beth got married to her sweetheart right out of high school, and at first, everything was great.
They had a modest three-bedroom townhouse five minutes from our office, and they planned to start a small family.
Beth got pregnant just before their first anniversary, but it was short lived.
She had a miscarriage within a week of the test results.
They tried again, but were unsuccessful.
Eventually, doctors explained that the internal damage Beth sustained at the hands of her mentally ill uncle rendered her unlikely to carry a child to term.
There are always children in need of a good home, and Beth and her husband Frank were ready to offer theirs.
They tried using a surrogate—a woman named Vicky.
She never wanted a child of her own, but always thought it was selfish of her not to use her healthy body to help provide a child to a struggling couple.
At least until the child was born. Something about the process of having a baby pass through her canal screamed, “MINE!” Again, Beth and Frank lost out.
The fight to become parents took the strength right out from under them. The miracles performed through modern science were yet to create a solution to Beth’s problem, and to avoid additional health risks later in life, she chose to have a hysterectomy.
To make matters worse, when the procedure was complete, her husband served divorce papers to her in the hospital while she was recovering. He refused to live the rest of his life with a woman who would never be able to provide him with children.
“Fine,” I blurt, but she knows me better than that.
“Oh no.” She catches on with swelling eyes. “Are you getting…” She doesn’t bother finishing her question. She knows. The pained panic on my face says it all.
Today of all days, in the white dress I specifically picked out for tonight, with the white garter and stockings, my period, strolls in to ruin it all.
“You don’t happen to have a tampon handy, do you?” I whimper.
I rush through the door to the ladies’ room, purse in hand, into the first stall.
It’s just after hours at the end of the week.
I don’t need to worry about privacy. Nobody else is here.
Ordinarily I’d take more care, but I have a dress, a night, a date to save.
I hike the white fabric up my legs and above my hips, and pull the tampon Beth gave me out of my purse.
I’m not even sure why I tucked it away to begin with. Habit, I suppose.
Peeling the wrapper off, I’m startled as I’m plunged into sudden darkness. The lights turned off, and now I can’t see a thing. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. The motion sensors should have detected me moving around. The building's lights don't just shut off like that.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice sounding small in the darkness.
No answer. Just the drip of one of the sink faucets.
I don’t smoke. But I always carry a lighter.
I love that moment at concerts when the crowd sparks up in unison, making the venue glow while we all scream out of tune to our favorite song.
Fumbling through my purse, my fingers brush against a lipstick, wallet, keys. Everything but my little fire starter.
The darkness feels thicker now, pressing against my skin. I strain my ears for any sound of someone else in the bathroom.
"Very funny," I try again, hoping maybe it’s Beth playing a prank, or that the cleaning staff has come in early. "Lights, please?"
I can’t sit here doing nothing. But I also can’t see a thing. Back on my feet, I shimmy my dress back over my butt and down my legs, then I push the stall door back open. To my surprise, an eruption of light surrounds me. Unprepared, I wince and wait for my eyes to adjust.
“Fuck!” I shout, catching my reflection in the mirror. There’s a small splotch of blood on the white fabric below my waist.
I scamper to the sink and slap the lever to start the water, then start yanking paper towels from the dispenser.
Getting them good and wet, I gently wring them free of excess liquid and step back to see myself in the mirror again.
The stain’s too low, and before I realize it, I’ve retreated to the stall door.
Finally able to see what I’m doing, I dab the wet paper to my dress, soaking the area around the blood thoroughly.
It’s only when I can feel the dampness on my skin that I realize I forgot to snatch some dry sheets.
Frustrated by everything at once, I bump my ass hard into the stall door, forcing it to crash open.
I discard the used paper towels in the toilet, return to the sinks and pull another wad from the dispenser, then press the bundle firmly to the wet spot.
I slide my feet back across the floor until I can see my full reflection again so I can assess the damage, and I think I might cry. I’m pretty sure I made it worse.
The lights cut out again, but only for a second. When they flicker back on, I get a faint chill I didn’t feel before. It’s probably my emotions.
I try to soak and pat away the stain on my dress three more times, but it’s futile. It may not look as bad as it did, but it’s a white dress with a dark blood stain.
He’ll have to take me home before we can go out.