Page 5 of Wicked Things
“At some point, that knowledge became something I accepted, though. I stopped thinking about passing her off to be dealt with by someone else. She became more than my sister. She became my responsibility. My sole reason for getting out bed in the morning. She was so young. She was just a kid. She wanted to play and sing and dance, so I gave her as many opportunities to do that as I could. I held her hand when she needed me to. I held her body when it was bruised and broken. I held her close, and I held her tight, and she felt safe despite the illness that was tearing her apart from the inside.
“And now she is gone.” I stare at the tiny coffin for a moment, unable to speak. A heavy, suffocating blanket of hurt hangs over the church; it seems as though even the limestone statues of the saints are holding their breath. Eventually I look away from Millie, closing my eyes. You could hear a pin drop. “I am twenty-six years old,” I whisper. “I am twenty-six years old, and I’ve carried more hurt and suffering on my back than anyone should. Millie carried more, though. She carried it with a light heart, and she never complained. And now that she’s gone, I’m done. I’m done with everything. I’m done with trying so hard to live up to expectations. I’m done trying to hold up the goddamn sky. I’m done trying to be good. To always do the right thing. I mean, where did it get me? I did everything right and she still died. I still couldn’t help her in the end. So fuck it. That’s it.” I open my eyes, scanning the shocked, tear-stained faces that are staring back at me. “And most importantly, I am done withyoufuckers.”
I step down from the lectern. I walk past Millie’s coffin, my heart tearing in two as I leave her behind. I walk rigidly down the aisle, toward the exit that seems so far away, and all I can concentrate on is putting one foot in front of the other.
This is what the end of the world feels like.
TWO
SLOANE
SIX WEEKS LATER
“Ice chips?”
“No.”
“Cucumber?”
“No.”
“Milk?”
“No!”
I’m holding a box of tissues in my hand. I consider hurling it at Zeth’s head, but he’s quick on his feet, the projectile would never actually hit him, and the effort involved in throwing the box would probably make me throw up again. My mouth fills with saliva, my stomach rolling heavily. I groan, leaning my forehead against the side of the bathtub.
“I’m not doing it,” Zeth says quietly. “No fucking way.”
I allow my eyes to close, trying to swallow down my urgent need to vomit. When I’m sick with a stomach bug, I will always just stick my fingers down my throat and get it over with. I know throwing up and getting it out of the way will actually make me feel better, if only for a short time, but this is different. I have an interloper setting up camp inside my uterus, and it won’t matter if I’m sick or not. I’ll feel shitty either way, so why put myself through the actual act?
“If you love me, you’ll do it,” I say. God, I sound so pathetic. How many women have I seen suffering from severe morning sickness at the hospital? At least twenty or thirty, I’m guessing. And every single time I’ve treated one of them, I’ve always thought they were being melodramatic. You get pregnant, you throw up. That’s life. That’s how it goes. Surely it can’t be that bad.
But it can. It really can be that bad, and I’m learning justhowbad right now. This is karma, teaching me a brutal lesson for not believing my patients.
Zeth leans against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest. His lips are pressed together into a disapproving line. There are two vertical creases between his eyebrows, underlining the fact that he’s really not impressed by what I’m requesting of him right now.
“You’re a doctor, Sloane. You know better than anyone on the face of this planet what is and is not good for a growing baby.”
“I know.”
“So explain to me how a MacDonald’s thick shake is going to make anything better right now.”
“It just is, okay! It’s what Iwant. It’s what Ineed. It is what thebabyneeds. Just go and get me the goddamn thick shake, Zeth Mayfair, or by hell’s teeth I will make your life so miserable, you’ll wish you’d never laid eyes on me.”
He blinks. He blinks again. Without saying another word, he spins on the balls of his feet and walks off down the hallway. His boots thump as he makes his way down the stairs. The front door slams.
It’s three-thirty in the morning, and the baddest motherfucker in the state of Washington has just gone out to get me MacDonald’s.
He comes home forty-five minutes later, and I’m exactly where he left me, moping on the bathroom floor. He sinks down beside me, placing a brown paper bag between his legs, then he snakes his arm around me and pulls me to him so that I’m leaning against him.
“You’re fucking impossible,” he informs me, opening up the bag with one hand.
“I know. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
He smirks. It’s one of those oh-my-god-you’re-so-fucking-hot, this-is-how-I-ended-up-pregnant-in-the-first-place smirks. I want to slap it right off his perfect, handsome face. He’s being so kind to me right now, even though I’m acting like I’m fucking possessed. He doesn’t deserve a face slap. He deserves kisses and back rubs. He deserves showering with affection. He deserves the fucking Purple Heart for putting up with my crazy ass. My eyes begin to sting. Zeth takes one look at me and pulls the thick shake he’s just driven down a mountain in the dark to get for me, handing it over as quickly as he can.
“Don’t cry,” he says gruffly. “Please do not fucking cry.”
