Shame: A Stepbrother Romance (17 page)

I really hope she’s just being overly dramatic as always and what she’s saying isn’t really true.

“When did you talk to him?” I ask in a grave tone, “Andrew. When did you see him?”

“Well, he’s not pushing us away like you insist on doing, honey. He’s practically been living with us lately. I was just so happy to see him and your dad get along once again. Joe’s been so happy recently, so
encouraged
. And then you serve him with this. I really didn’t see it coming, Jo. Really didn’t see it coming…”

I can’t believe this. I’m getting angrier by the minute. The bastard’s been hanging out with daddy, sucking up to him, while he’s been quietly setting me up. How convenient! And how blind of me not to see it.

“Anyway, I’m not here to talk about Andrew. All I wanted to say was that he cares about you and you’ve practically stabbed your new family in the back with this… this filth. Now Joe is probably questioning my involvement in raising you. How could you put me in a position like that? And to think how smug I was that I had the good child, the well-behaved girl, while his son was the delinquent. And look how it turned out!”

I can’t listen to her. This is too much. She’s managed to make it all about herself and the worst thing is that I don’t really have anything to say in my defense. The video is there and it’s me who’s kneeling before a mysterious man.

“So, what
are
you here to talk about, mom?” I ask, defeated.

She places an elegant gloved hand on top of mine and squeezes lightly. That’s the first motherly thing she’s done since she’s been here.

“Oh, honey,” she says after a while, “Don’t get me wrong. It will take me time to forgive you and erase what I’ve seen from my mind, but you are still my daughter and I can’t just abandon you. It’s always been the two of us, no matter how many times we’ve had to change homes and families. I admire Joe for being so strict with his standards about his son, but I’m not him. I can’t just send you away or cut contact with you because you’ve shamed me.”

I’ve started crying again. Large, bitter teardrops roll down my face and hang from my jaw. My mom takes a tissue out of her purse and wipes me. I can smell mint and lavender. Even her tissues are more glamorous than anyone else’s.

“There, there,” she coos, “You’ll be alright. It will all be alright. What I came here to say is that you need to lay low for a while. I won’t be able to come as often and I can’t call all the time, but these things need time. Joe will forgive only when he is ready and we need to respect that.”

“He took my bookstore, mom!” I sob.

“Come on, Jo. That wasn’t really your bookstore. He paid for it, remember? It was his to take and you should have thought about that before you…” Her voice trails off.

“He insisted on paying. I could have taken a loan all on my own.”

“With what? Your stellar credit rating? Your non-existent salary? I’ve always said that we should accept the help we are offered, not try to be stubborn about it. Sometimes it’s just not possible to make it all on your own.”

I know she is right. I know it would have been years before I could scrape together the money for a down payment on the bookstore, and I know I’d have had to work some uninspiring office job to get there. Joe simply clicked his fingers and the bookstore was a reality within a month.

“But what am I supposed to do for money? Find a job?”

I would have immediately found a job just as soon as I’d climbed out of the hole I was in now, but it’s not possible any more. Not with the baby. Not with my less than perfect reputation and my face in the papers.

“That’s the other thing I came by for,” my mother says, getting up to her feet. She’s preparing to leave and though I was so unhappy to see her when she came, now I don’t want to let her go. “Here’s something to tie you over. Joe’s canceled all your lines of credit and you no longer have access to the family account. Unless you have a stash of cash somewhere around here, you’ll need to think of something. This will be enough for a few days, but I can’t do much more at this point without getting your dad suspicious.”

Stop calling that lizard my dad!
I scream inside my head, but I’m in no position to argue right now.

“Thanks mom,” I say and take a thick envelope from her outstretched hand.

She doesn’t respond and instead quickly kisses me on top of my head. Then she is gone. A small cloud of expensive perfume still lingers where she sat and I move to sit in her spot, sniffing the air. It’s ridiculous, but it comforts me.

In the next few hours I completely lose my sense of time. It both feels like I’ve been lying on this couch for ages and at the same time I can still feel my mom’s presence as if she’s just left out the door. I haven’t realized how I’ve absentmindedly started rubbing my stomach in circles. There’s nothing there. It’s as flat as ever, but I know what’s underneath. I know there is a person growing inside me and it’s the hardest thing to wrap my mind around.

I know nothing about pregnancy, apart from what I’ve seen in movies and read in magazines. Swollen ankles, fluctuating hormones, morning sickness, stretchy pants and glowing skin. That’s about the extent of my knowledge. I’ve never been interested in the subject and I haven’t even thought about children of my own.

Though I’m twenty-seven and many women my age are either mothers already or obsessed with the topic, motherhood hasn’t even crossed my mind. Maybe if I’d had a serious relationship, I would have at least considered the possibility of babies.

I guess the closest I’ve come to a relationship recently has been what I had with Andrew, but still the only thought about pregnancy I’ve had has been how to prevent it. I’ve taken my pills every single day after we started seeing each other. Except for the night of the bachelorette party and the wedding. To think that the baby has been conceived on either of those occasions makes me sick to my stomach.

I try to picture having it. I barely scraped together the money to buy two pregnancy tests. Currently I rely entirely on my mom’s donation inside that envelope. I have no game plan and I despise the baby’s father. My wounds are fresh and my hatred too strong to even begin processing. No, unfortunately this is the worst time this child could have appeared.

“You poor little thing,” I whisper to the tiny bean inside me. “I wish you’d happened to someone who’d wanted you. I wish one day you could be welcomed into the world with a smile and tears of joy. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my little baby, but I’m not ready to be your mother…”

The sobs stifle my words and I sink deeper into the soft couch, pressing a pillow to my face to muffle my wails.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It takes me three days to emerge from the complete apathy that’s taken over me. Mostly, it’s thanks to the lack of necessities I need to survive. Thank God for toilet paper and food or I’d have never left my little cave of sorrow. I will make my grocery store run a quick affair, because I’ve started to look no better than a junkie and I can’t bear the thought of running into someone who might recognize me.

I haven’t showered since that morning when I lost the bookstore and everything in my life started accelerating downhill. I can’t gather the motivation. I simply keep moving from room to room, performing the basic routine to stay alive. I sleep, I drink water, occasionally I eat when the nausea is not too strong.

I keep dodging Ashleigh’s calls and message her that I need time alone. She seems to have got the point, because I haven’t had any new missed calls from her. On the other hand, Andrew keeps calling, sometimes up to ten, fifteen times a day. I’m not budging. I couldn’t care less for his deceptive words. Finally, I just switched off my phone and threw it in the linen closet.

Ever since I woke up this morning to find my fridge wiped clean and knew I would be forced to go out, I’ve been possessed by one thought. Either it’s easier for my brain to obsess over something completely inconsequential or I’ve clearly gone mad, because I now firmly believe that the only way to turn my luck around is to have another tarot reading. The more I think of it, the more I’m prone to blame this entire fiasco on the cards.

I know. It makes no sense, but desperate brains cling to the smallest bits of hope.

I have so many questions and no one to ask, so I can at least fool myself that I can get the answers from a deck of cards. I have no more tears. I’ve cried them all out and what I need now is action.

Most of all, I need reassurance that my decision to get rid of the baby is the right one as the intense feeling of guilt has lodged itself in my throat and I can hardly breathe when I think about it.

I’ve meticulously gone through the entire apartment, but my own tarot deck is nowhere to be found. Now that all my clothes, shoes and papers are out of closets, shelves and drawers and spread out on the floor, I’m sitting in the middle of the messy piles, realizing that the cards are not here. Maybe I’ve given them to Ashleigh. Maybe they are hiding somewhere.

If it wasn’t sad, it would be almost funny where my brain goes after days of complete seclusion and misery. I’m imagining my cards hiding from me! That’s okay though, because I take it as a sign. The only way to make sure that there’s light at the end of the tunnel is to ask those same cards that predicted the crisis in the first place. I know what I have to do. I need to go back to the bookstore. The grocery store is not that far from it, so I’ll be shooting two birds with one stone anyway.

I quickly kick my way through the books and papers and sleek my hair back into a ponytail in front of the closet mirror. That’s the only way to hide just how greasy and unappealing I look right now. I dig out a pair of socks, the old jacket and a scarf and head for the door. Before I open it, I listen for any signs that Andrew might be camping outside. Even if the tears are all dried up, the paranoia is still there.

I brave out, holding my breath and let out a deep sigh. Of course there’s no one there.

I completely forget about the grocery store in my blind obsession with the tarot cards, so I end up walking straight past it, past BeWitched, past the next block of gray, wet buildings until I end up in front of the bookstore. For a moment I’m overwhelmed with nostalgia. I realize I’m digging through my pocket for the keys by habit and command myself to stop and get a grip.

Though the lights inside are on in the gloomy morning, the Christmas lights have been switched off. Apparently no one needs Christmas cheer when disintegrating a business. Those nasty rats! I see a thin, dry-looking woman sitting behind
my
counter, working on
my
computer, while a man is carrying a storage box out from the back of the shop.

The sight makes me so furious, I can feel my blood boiling and I need to remind myself once again why I’m here. I can’t let emotions get the better of me. Get the cards and get out of here. That’s the plan. I press the door handle.

“Can I help you?” the woman asks lethargically as she is considering me above her rimless reading glasses. “The bookstore doesn’t work any more. There is a sign at the door, if you haven’t—”

“I know,” I cut her short. “I’m the owner. I mean, I used to be the owner.” I clear my throat. It’s painful to admit the truth.

“Oh, miss Highfield,” the woman smiles with her lips, though her eyes remain cold and uncaring. “Did someone call you?”

“No. Actually, that’s why I’m here,” I say, trying not to get distracted by the man who is depositing another box of books on top of the first one, but misses and it topples over, spilling all the new shiny volumes on the floor. I’m trying my hardest not to strangle him and run to the books’ rescue.

Remember the plan
, I tell myself and look back at the woman. “The thing is, I’m having problems with my cell phone and it’s the only contact I’ve given you, so I wasn’t sure if anyone did call me. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by to see if you needed me for anything.”

“That’s considerate,” the woman drones, “But no, I don’t think we need you, miss. We are handling things alright, right Adam?”

The man puffs in response. It’s so humiliating to stand here and think of stupid excuses to stay in my own shop another minute.
Not your shop anymore,
I need to remind myself.

“So, I guess I can just leave my new number then and I’ll be on my way.”

The woman doesn’t seem to care whether I leave anything, but shoves a piece of paper and a pen towards me anyway. I slowly scribble down some made up numbers and all the while my mind is working hard to find a way to get to the back of the store. Thankfully, nature comes to my rescue and in a powerful wave of nausea I become almost green in the face, pressing both my hands to my mouth.

“Are you okay?” the woman says alarmed. I nod, but she’s not buying it. She’s probably just scared I’ll puke all over her papers. “Please, the restroom is at the back of the store.”

I want to slap her. What kind of retarded person would give me directions in my own bookstore? I take it anyway and rush away. That’s all the opportunity I need, for when I come out of the bathroom refreshed, I immediately spot the tarot card shelf, which is conveniently out of view from the front desk. I quickly yank the familiar deck and accompanying book off the shelf and stuff them in my jacket.