23. Melody #2
"Sure. We'll make a pit stop." She picks up the rifle and disassembles it with ease. Stunned by her efficiency with the weapon, I stand there slack-jawed until it's fully packed away in the carrying case. "What?"
"You're good at that," I mumble, and she smiles again.
"You will be, too, with practice. C'mon, girl. Let's get out of here."
On our way to the New Jersey shooting range, we make the previously promised pit stop. Helena stands outside the grimy bathroom stall of a random grocery store, patiently waiting for me to finish my business.
No one ever talks about how it's tricky to pee accurately, especially when you're on a time crunch. I read the instructions front to back, and it seems very straightforward, but angling my hips and shoving my arm through my thick thighs proves to be… difficult.
"You good in there?" Helena gently asks.
"Super good. Uncomfortable, but super good," I call back. "Could you, um, maybe step outside? I don't think I can pee with you listening intently."
"I'm not listening intently," she scoffs. "But sure. I'll be right outside the door, and I'll be back in five."
My bladder waits until I hear the main door swing closed before it releases. "Shit!" I nearly soak my hand—this is so gross. So demeaning. I finally get it right and bring the stick up, popping the little pink cap back on.
Using an exorbitant amount of toilet paper, I wrap the damn thing up and quickly rush to wash my hands thoroughly. I'm no expert, but I don't think piss-hands are good for shooting rifles.
"You done?" Helena pokes her head back in. "Oh, good. Where is it?"
I point to the TP-wrapped abomination. "I can't look. Oh, fuck, I can't look. It said three minutes for it to be conclusive."
Fuck. Fuck! What if it's positive? What if it's negative?
What have I done? What have I gotten myself into?
Shit, what if I have another episode while I'm pregnant—if I'm pregnant—and something happens, and it hurts the fetus?
What if the kid's worse than me? What if Dante was lying when he said all those sweet things?
I slump to the floor and let out a pitiful whine. "I can't do this, Helena."
"Shush, honey. Just another minute or so. You can do this," she mumbles soothingly, staring with laser focus at the little test window.
While she waits silently, my mind races with all sorts of terrifying scenarios.
Me, heavily pregnant, dead on the street.
Murdered by… someone. Anyone. Me, slashed from ear to ear, bleeding out at the hands of another nameless, faceless person.
Me, screaming in agony while pushing this maybe-baby out.
"I really don't think I can do this," I whine again.
"Well, you have to." Helena whirls around with the test held high. "Congrats, momma."
Oh, fuck . There it is, in pink and white. Two lines. Two fucking lines. This is real. This is very real. This is too real. I try to stand, but my vision swims, and I slide back down.
"Whoa, whoa! Nope, no standing yet. You're okay. You're fine. You're safe, Mel." She crouches in front of me and swipes my hair away from my suddenly sweaty forehead. "We'll sit here for a few, and then we'll be on our way. Off to the range, just like any other day."
"But it's not any other day! It's today! It's now! I'm fucking pregnant!" I shriek as my nose fills with snot. I hate being an ugly crier, but now isn't the time to be upset about appearances.
"Congratulations?" A middle-aged woman appears in the doorway, brows furrowed under her halo of blonde curls. "Or condolences?"
"Congratu-dolences sounds about right," Helena laughs. The stranger looks even more confused and edges past us to one of the stalls.
"We need to get out of here," I grumble and attempt to stand again. Helena grips my arm and allows me to lean on her. "Oh, but before we go, can we grab snacks?"
"Of course. Snacks make everything better." Helena smiles and sweeps me out the door, making a beeline for the chips and candy aisle.
The grocery store is pretty deserted, which I appreciate. Nothing like a gaggle of gawking strangers to make me feel super self-conscious about crying recently. A bored-looking teenager barely looks up from stocking the shelves as we pass. Yeah, Helena's right. This does make everything better.
"You know what I really want?" I muse as I sort through the vast array of snackery. "Pickle chips."
"What, like the ones they put on sandwiches? Little pickle coins?" She scans the aisle. "I don't think those are with the snacks."
"No, like pickle-flavored potato chips. Aha!" I locate the green crinkly bag and raise it in the air. "I am triumphant!"
"You are so pregnant. And a bit of a dork," Helena laughs and snatches a bag of cheesy popcorn. I mean, she's not wrong.
Bang!
The rifle's recoil jolts into my shoulder, and I lean into it, feet apart, one in front of the other. A hundred yards down the lane, the target wobbles on impact. I hit it, though not at the center. I line up my sight again and inhale, exhale, pull the trigger.
Bang!
"Nailed it," I murmur to myself. Helena warned me that slow, deliberate aiming would be the first thing to work on. Action shooting would be next, but I don't know how I feel about all that. Especially in my current, uh, condition. Speaking of which, I'm ravenously thirsty.
Putting down the gun, I snag the water bottle we picked up with the snacks and chug down almost half of it.
"Thirsty work?" Helena asks from her lawn chair.
"Seems like it. You want a turn?" I gesture to the lane.
"Actually, yeah. Show you how it's done, you know?" She slaps her knees and stands, making grabby hands at the gun.
We swap places, and she settles into her position with ease.
God, Helena makes it look as natural as breathing.
I never thought I would envy something like that.
I mean, I never grew up with guns. There was no real hunting culture in the suburbs of Chicago, or at least, not in the circles my mom ran in.
To be honest, I still don't like them as a general concept. But I have a husband who does dangerous work, and I do dangerous work—occasionally. And now I'm going to be a mother. I need to be prepared to defend myself, my husband, my baby, from anything.
Helena fires off several rounds with perfect form, barely reacting to the recoil. I peer down the lane and see that her shots are perfectly grouped with deadly accuracy. She turns back to me with an overexaggerated bow, and I give her a polite golf clap.
"Thank you, thank you. Wanna get out of here?" She points her thumb over her shoulder, toward the vague area where the car is parked.
"Yeah, alright. I would suggest sushi, but I guess I can't have that anymore." The tears start to well up again, but I force those embarrassing fuckers back down. I can survive nine months without sushi. I'll just… have a lot of tempura. That's safe, right?
"Is there anything you're in the mood for that isn't raw fish?"
"Hmm. Italian? I hear it's hard work, growing a whole human. And hard work requires cheese on carbs." I watch her disassemble the gun again with her lightning-fast efficiency. "I want to learn how to do that, by the way."
"Good idea—what if I disappear? Who will be your gun caddy?" She looks up at me with a grin. "No one good enough, that's who. We'll work on it next time."
We set off for the parking lot, and while there's still a hint of sadness behind Helena's eyes, she seems to be in better spirits. As we settle in for the relatively short drive back, I open my stupid mouth.
"Did you know Valencia well?"
"Kind of," Helena says as the contented smile falls from her face.
"I mean, we weren't besties or anything.
But she was always sweet to me when I came to the office.
She kept track of what people liked and didn't like.
She'd remember things you told her about your personal life.
Like one time, I had just come back from visiting my sister.
It didn't go well. But Valencia had at least an idea of how, um, tumultuous our relationship could be.
The next time she saw me, she had some Swiss chocolate waiting. "
"You like Swiss chocolate?"
"Oh, it's my favorite. And she only knew because I mentioned it, like, literally one time." Helena laughs. "That's the kind of person she was."
I think in silence for a moment. Firstly, I'm filing away Helena's love of Swiss chocolate for literally any gift-giving occasion. Secondly, I think I know a way that I can help honor her memory. "Hey, Helena?"
"Mmhm?"
"I think if the baby's a girl, I want to give her Valencia as the middle name."
She immediately pulls into the shoulder of the highway, slamming the car into park. "Melody, I think that's absolutely perfect. Dante will agree, I'm sure. Speaking of which… when are you going to tell him?"
"Today," I answer decisively. "I'll tell him today. Thank you."
"Oh, thank god. I know we're friends, and we have the girl code, but there's no way I could keep that secret for long. He's my employer, Mel." She gives me one hard look before turning back to the steering wheel. "Shit, we need gas."
"Oh, perfect. I'm gonna go inside and get some more water—want anything?" I ask as she expertly maneuvers the car back onto the highway. We spot a gas station about half a mile up the road, which is perfect timing.
"Um, sure. Energy drink? Any of them are fine."
In short order, we pull into the station, and Helena hands over the black business credit card to the attendant while I hop out and scurry into the little store.
I love these places. I love the vast array of every snack one could ever want on a road trip or when you're stoned out of your mind at three in the morning.
Perusing the aisles, I snag another bag of my favorite dill pickle-flavored chips and loop around to the beverage fridges lining the wall.
"Mrs. Lyons?" An unfamiliar voice calls for my attention and I whirl around.
"Yes?" I don't get a chance to see who called for me, as a burst of radiating pain erupts from the back of my head and it all goes black.