Page 79 of Blackout

Chapter Twenty-seven

Lacey

Wiping a hand over the mirror, I clear some of the steam fogging the glass. My bloodshot eyes are the first thing that comes into view and I cringe at the sight of them. I thought a shower would help me clear my head and put some distance between me and Blackie, but two minutes under the scolding spray I began to cry as I replayed everything that happened since we stepped out of Bianci’s car.

The moment I saw that cop car and the two officers staked out in front of our house, I knew something was up. Blackie had been in a bad mood since he arrived back at the cabin and at first, I thought it was because he found Nico drooling on my shoulder, but seeing those cops made me put two and two together, realizing whatever was plaguing my husband ran deeper than jealousy.

Fear enveloped me as I thought of all the reasons why they could be there—all the reasons they could slap a pair of cuffs on my husband and drag him away from me. I was so consumed by those thoughts, I didn’t pay much mind to the way Blackie seemed to be struggling. It wasn’t until I questioned him and noticed he couldn’t find his voice, that I noticed he was spiraling into a pit of self-pity. In a way, I guess I let his addictions blindside me because I figured he fucked up and fell off the wagon again and expected him to sing his typical swan song of apologies.

However, once he told me to sit down, I knew this wasn’t a well-rehearsed speech I’ve heard a million times before and with every word he spoke, I started to lose my patience. It’s true what they say about a woman changing once she’s a mother and I don’t think Blackie recognizes the change in me. I think he looks at me and still sees the girl holed up in her mother’s house, rocking in a corner, trying to escape depression, foolishly believing dancing to a song will heal the crazy in her head.

Maybe it’s not something that happens to expectant fathers. Maybe it’s not real for them until they’re holding life in their hands. But a mother holds life inside her way before she ever cradles that baby in her arms. She realizes the things that once seemed so important, are suddenly frivolous when you’re responsible for another life. Priorities change, mindsets shift and the tolerance you had for bullshit fades.

For me, I’m realizing I’m stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. When I get scared about being off my meds or spot two cops outside the house, I stop thinking about me and Blackie and think about the baby inside of me. How will it affect my child if I lose my mind? If Blackie goes to prison or doesn’t survive the next bullet where will that leave our baby?

The latter played continuously in my head as he told me what went down in that paper factory. I hated that he pointed to the gunshot wound healing on his shoulder as if it was nothing other than an occupational hazard. But what I hated more was how he referred to himself as a human shield. It's as if he has no regard for his own life. There’s a difference between an addict succumbing to temptation and a man consciously choosing to sacrifice himself on the sword. At least that’s what I told myself. I’ve always been able to deal with his addictions because he never asked to be an addict. It was something he couldn’t control. But this jumping in front of a gun and trying his luck with a murder case—that was a form of suicide I don’t know how to deal with. I guess I was hoping his threshold for danger would lessen now that there was a baby involved.

Dragging the brush through my wet hair, I continue to stare at my reflection in the mirror. Blackie’s eagerness to throw his life away isn’t the only reason for my bloodshot eyes. After I cried for my husband, I cried for my father. I hated the choices both men made and the tears I cried were of both, anger and of sadness.

I didn’t give Blackie the chance to finish telling me about the details surrounding my father’s decision. All I know is he took a deal and will be going to prison for a crime my husband committed. I have no idea how long he’ll be away. If his deal will put him behind bars for the rest of his life or simply a few years but their roles had been reversed. For the first time that I can remember, my father is on the one top of the sword, taking a proverbial bullet and I don’t know if I should thank him or curse him.

Setting the brush on the vanity, I pull my hair up on top of my head, fixing it into a messy bun before dropping the towel covering my body onto the floor. Hoping I won’t find Blackie in our bedroom, I make my way towards the door and slowly open it. Breathing a sigh of relief when I don’t spot him in the room, I head for my dresser, pulling out a pair of panties and one of Blackie’s t-shirts.

Morning sickness isn’t the only part of pregnancy kicking my ass. My breasts have gotten bigger, harder, and they fucking kill. I can’t even sleep on my stomach these days and wearing a bra is like shoving them in a torture device. Even now, as the worn cotton falls over them and brushes my nipples, I cringe and hope this is just one of those things that will go away after the first trimester.

Mentally noting to buy one of those expectant mother books and join oh, I don’t know—a dozen or so of those parenting groups on Facebook; I grab my phone from the pocket of the jeans I threw on the floor before I decided to cry a river in the shower. As I thumb through the list of contacts, I walk out of my bedroom. However, my bare feet come to a halt as I reach the middle of the hallway. Listening as Blackie walks the floors downstairs, I decide I’m not ready to face him. I’m still bitter and fear I’ll say something I can’t take back—look at the maturity. I swear sometimes I surprise myself.

Instead of walking back to our bedroom, I stop in front of one of the spare rooms. I don’t know what makes me turn the knob. Maybe I’m hiding—maybe subconsciously I know if Blackie comes up here, he’s going to head straight for our room and I’m doing everything I can to avoid him. Or maybe I’m not hiding at all. Maybe I’m searching for something—what that something is, I’m not sure.

Peace.

Assurance.

Guidance.

I’d take any of the three.

Closing the door gently behind me, I glance around the room. Aside from a box of Christmas decorations and a suitcase, both of which I’ve been asking Blackie to bring up into the attic for months, the space is empty. It’s not likely I’m going to find the answers to whatever I’m seeking in this room and yet, I still take a seat on the floor, mulling over the space, wondering if this should be the baby’s room. It takes me a good five minutes of trying to configure what wall is best suited for the crib before I realize I’m procrastinating. I’ve got months to figure out where my child is going to sleep, but I may only have hours to say goodbye to my father.

Taking a deep breath, I look down at my phone and stare at the contact, wondering when I changed it from Dad to TheLacey Whisperer, a nickname my mother gave him when I was a baby. She said he was the only one who could get me to sleep. Twenty-six years later not much has changed. He might not lull me to sleep anymore, but he always manages to calm me. If I ever need to rationalize the chaos in my head, it’s my dad who acts as my sounding board. It’s funny how a man so mentally unstable can be the voice of reason in so many situations.

Hitting send, I lift the phone to my ear and wait for him to answer. His voice sounds on the third ring, calling my name and sounding ever so calm. I’m not sure why I expected anything less of the man who made it his life’s mission to roll with the bunches and show the world he was and always will be a hardcore badass. Mental illness couldn’t knock him down and apparently, neither can an impending prison sentence.

That thought makes me smile, but it quickly fades. Tucking the phone between my ear and my shoulder, I drag my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, sucking my lip between my teeth as I try to find my voice.

“Hi, Dad,” I choke.

“There’s my girl,” he says on a sigh. “How’s it feel to be home and not holed up in that shoebox of a cabin?”

A laugh bubbles in the back of my throat and the phone nearly slips from my shoulder as I shake my head at the absurdity of his demeanor.

“I don’t know if I should laugh or cry with you,” I admit. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever did.”

“Ah,” he says with a sigh. “It’s part of my charm. Always keeping everyone guessing.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” I say.

“Blackie talk with you?”

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