Part 12 (1/2)
Mary shrugged her shoulders. She looked terrified a moment at the possibility that it had happened at the frat house. That it might not be Scott's, or even Mike's, but everyone's.
”You're getting way ahead of yourself,” said Grady.
Mary sighed, nodded, fixed her eyes on the road, followed the turns, leaned into them. The campus reappeared and they pa.s.sed the colonial mansion that served as the administration building. Outside, a clique milled around a tree, cigarettes held high. A bearded boy-man was lecturing two others, using the burning stick as a wand. Mary caught his eye and the kid stopped his speech and smiled. The brick street, barely wide enough for two cars, carried them down into the south end of campus, toward the dorms, and she watched her peers milling about in the late-afternoon gloom, yelling and laughing.
Grady parked, tapped her leg, and she followed her upstairs, tracing a finger over the box. Inside was the plastic technology that would determine things from here on out.
Grady stopped her at the door. ”When you're through with it, leave it on the toilet seat. And come back. I'll go back and get it.” She pulled Mary close, kissed her cheek. ”Have a little faith.”
They stared at each other until Mary made her way down the hall.
Mary collapsed on her bed. Grady ran her palm over her spiky hair and stood. ”Which stall?”
”Second from last,” said Mary, rocking back and forth.
Grady left, and she couldn't stop fidgeting. In a bigger room she would have paced. Life's first real test, she thought, remembering her nervousness before high school exams. They tell you to be careful, they tell you to be good, they tell you everything will work out.
When Grady returned she threw herself on her bed, and Mary knew. ”Oh no,” she said, covering her eyes like a child before a distant storm.
”You need to see a doctor. These things aren't accurate.”
”No way,” she moaned, slapping her face.
Time pa.s.sed. Grady joined her, hugged her, lied to her, and an hour later, when it began to set in for real, Mary kissed Grady's cheek and got up. She picked up the phone and dialed. ”Mom?”
”Honey?”
She began to speak, but stopped short when the tears returned, then stopped for good when she found that they wouldn't stop. She set the phone on the desk. Her mother called out across the distance.
Grady picked it up. ”Is this Mary's mom?”
”Who is this?”
”My name's Grady. I'm her dorm mate.”
”I'm Freddie McDylan. What's going on?”
”Your daughter's pregnant.”
Chapter Fifteen: Where's Veronica?.
1.
Two weeks after Veronica left, Robert had yet to hear from her. He'd filed for divorce, and he knew she'd been served: she'd signed for the papers at the bank. But she hadn't called. It wasn't that he yearned for conversation, but he knew Jennifer needed an explanation. She still needed her mother.
Tonight, Robert couldn't sleep. He was hot, uncovered except by his shorts, and he stared at the ceiling, trying to put the dream into some kind of order. He couldn't figure out how long it had been going on, what exactly it all meant, but it had been more powerful, clearer, since Veronica had left. What he knew for sure was that waking up had become a drag-the dream thrilled him with exotic images, but more it filled him with a strange sense of meaning that he couldn't quite name.
Robert had frequently been bored with life. Not simply his own, but life in general. Clinically, this might be termed depression, but America's great excuse, the diagnosed life, seemed a cop-out. Still, American life seemed endlessly ba.n.a.l-how much should one strive to own, to eat, to drink, to earn, to f.u.c.k, in a single lifetime?
He went to check on Jenn. At first, he thought she was sleeping. She was still facing the wall when she called him. He jumped at her voice. ”Thought you were sleeping, honey.”
She rolled over and sat on the edge of her bed. She offered her hand and he took it. Her face was open as a harvest moon. ”Scared?” he asked, though he knew the answer. Her round eyes reminded him of her mother's-so round, so open, almost awaiting revelation.
”Are you?”
”Yeah, honey. Sure, I'm scared. It's okay to be.”
His daughter leaned up, grabbed onto the back of his neck, pressed their foreheads together. ”I think everything will be okay. We gotta stick together.”
”Do you miss her?”
Jenn nodded her head against his. She sniffled.
”I don't know everything's she's going through, but I know it has nothing to do with you.” Robert paused, thinking it over. Then he said, ”Have you ever had a problem only you knew about?”
Jenn hesitated. ”I talk too much to the dolls.” She leaned toward him. ”They're not real, you know.”
”Do they talk back?”
Jenn paused. ”Sometimes they tell me to run away. Sometimes they tell me that you and Mommy don't love each other. I tell them you do, but you get mad sometimes.”
He'd forgotten how real a child's imagination was. This wasn't a psychotic episode, or the onset of a disorder, but the child's ability to answer her own questions.
”Where is she, Daddy?”
”She's taking a break from me.”
”What about me?”
”Not you. Me.”
Jenn leaned in, kissed his cheek, and her soft, wet face brushed against his.
Robert held on. And wept.
The next morning he saw Jenn to her bus. Because of his eyes, he took a taxi to work. He paid his fare and got out, faced the English building.