And double damn my stomach that refuses to keep anything down.
The bathroom floor tiles are cool at least as I sit on the floor, anxiously waiting for another heave to rip through me. I have a hair dryer in one hand, plugged in and ready to dry the spot on my dress. No one wants a waitress that smells like vomit. But I don’t have the strength to turn the dryer on yet. It feels better just to sit here…and wait.
My eyes track to the edge of the bathtub, but I can’t bring myself to look at what’s sitting there. The reason I’m going to be late to work again.
I’ve only managed to arrive on time twice since I started this job, and it’s honestly a mystery why I haven’t been fired yet. Gearing myself up to walk into the diner takes some effort. The deep-fried smells have really been getting to me. Greasy bacon, the lingering scent of browning onions, burnt coffee, tuna melts on rye. The rotten dairy stench of coffee creamer and the metallic tang of ketchup when I refill the bottles. It makes my stomach roll.
Of course, I’ve always had a nervous stomach when it comes to stress. But this is different.
It’s been going on for a while now.
Hence the little plastic stick balanced on the edge of the tub at this very moment.
Just then, there’s a loud thud against the closed bathroom door. With a groan, I scoot back and brace myself against the door. The lock is broken and it doesn’t take much to push it open. A low whine sounds, followed by heavy panting from the other side.
“I don’t need any help, Miggy, but thank you,” I say.
My mom’s huge mastiff took an immediate liking to me and barely leaves my side now. I can’t go anywhere without him following me. Remembering the hair dryer, I flick it on and aim the nozzle in the crack beneath the door. For a dog that’s the size of a small horse, he sure is a weenie about a lot of things. There’s another whine followed by theclip, clip, clipof his nails on the laminate floor as he retreats. I sit there for a few minutes and turn the hair dryer onto my wet uniform. The heat feels soothing, even though I’m sweating.
Finally, I stand and unplug the hair dryer, tucking it back into the vanity drawer. I catch my reflection in the warped medicine cabinet mirror. My distorted image looks back at me. It’s hard to even recognize myself. And not completely because of the funhouse mirror, either. I look haggard, the bags beneath my eyes puffy, my hair frizzy and limp.
How the fuck did I end up here?
Oh right. Selfish father. Lying husband. The ever-tightening noose of responsibility punctuated by the ever-present theme of Extremely Disappointing men in my life. It was either leave Napa or explode. So I took off in the Jag Dante’s money had bought me and drove to the one place nobody would ever think to look for me—my mother’s apartment in Florida.
She’d been floored to find me standing on her doorstep, but even though we hadn’t spoken since she came to my wedding in Napa, she didn’t turn me away. And even better, she didn’t ask a lot of questions. In fact, she hasn’t asked me anything at all, perhaps assuming the worst about the state of my marriage. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but it’s typical of her not to get too invested in her children’s lives. She abandoned us, after all, and never looked back.
I didn’t actually intend to end up here. It just sort of happened. The only person I told was Charlie, and she’d die before telling Dante where I am. Plus, she can lie like the devil herself when she wants to…so there’s no way my ex-husband will find me. If he even wanted to…
My heart lurches at the thought of him, the same way it does a hundred times a day because I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s miserable. But there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.
Stepping back from the mirror, I can’t help freaking out about the way my reflection in the wavy glass makes my lower torso bulge strangely. So I look away and step over to the chipped, avocado-colored tub, lowering myself to sit on the edge. This whole apartment is like a freaking time capsule of what had to be the height of interior design in the 1960s. And the kitchen—it’s all turquoise cabinets and flowered linoleum flooring and this weird spiky light fixture that I’m constantly hitting my head on. I mean yeah, it’s sort of cute, it’s just…a bit much.
The timer I’d set on my phone a few minutes ago goes off. It’s time. The little plastic stick has my results waiting in its tiny window. Results I’m not ready to look at yet. Because if I don’t look, it can’t be true.
Bile burns the back of my throat, and I reach the toilet just in time to dry heave into the bowl.
Afterward, I drag myself back over to the sink and rinse my mouth out with cool water.
I need to check the stick. Just get it over with. If I let it sit too long, the results will be inaccurate.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Frankie, are you okay in there?”
My mother’s voice makes my heart lurch. I quietly scramble to put a hand against the door so she can’t come in.
“I’m fine. Be out in a minute.”
“You work soon. You’re going to be late.”
“I know, Mom. I’m just…getting ready to leave.”
“All right. Well, I’m going out now. See you tonight, darling.”
She makes it sound like we’re going to have a cozy dinner for two and then watch a movie together while she braids my hair and asks me about boys. You know, the things I wish she’d done when it still counted.
I don’t respond, just listen for her footsteps to fade away. She’s right. I am going to be late for work. And I can’t avoid this knowledge forever.
