Spilled Milk: Based on a true story (14 page)

It roared to
life and I waited the ten minutes it usually took to boot up. A few clicks and
I opened up Google. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for so I typed in ‘LATE
PERIOD.’

Several
websites popped up, the top three flashed titles of pregnancy related late
periods and menstrual cycles. I opened the first link and scanned the article.

“Yes,
your missed period might be because you're pregnant! A simple pregnancy test
can usually help you determine if you have missed your period because you are
pregnant.”

Clicking the x
in the corner I shook my head and looked for information elsewhere. Another
article caught my attention. I read on:

“Pregnancy due dates can be determined by knowing the
first day of your last period with a simple online due date calculator.
Prenatal care is extremely important in the first trimester.”

The article
disappeared and I scrambled to type in pregnancy calculator. I couldn’t think
straight but I remembered my last period being in June, right before I went to
Florida.

“All right, figure June 18
^th
, just to be safe,” I said out
loud. I scrolled through the date selection and turned away from the screen
when the results popped up:

Congratulations!

Your
baby is due on or around: MARCH 24
^th

You
are currently: 7 ½ weeks pregnant

Symptoms at this time: Constipation, light headedness,
some nausea…

As if on cue, I
fell from the computer chair and ran to the bathroom. After a few minutes I
wiped my mouth and splashed cold water on my face. This couldn’t be happening.
Paul and I haven’t had sex since that one time months ago, way before I could
have gotten pregnant.

Weary, I headed
back into the kitchen to grab the baby monitor that started to glow a soft
green. Ethan was awake. I didn’t have time to deal with this.

I fought sleep
that night thinking about the possibility that I might be pregnant. My hand
stretched across my stomach and I begged for my period to just be late and to
show its ugly face the next day. When it didn’t, I put it off for three more
days before the nausea and exhaustion were indication enough. I knew I was
carrying Dad’s baby.

Eye’s sore from
crying, I cradled my stomach as I tortured myself on what to do next. Who was
ever going to believe this? I couldn’t just ask someone to drive me to the
pharmacy to get a pregnancy test. Who was going to take care of Ethan? How
could I hide this? I don’t even know anything about abortions, or having a
baby. I only take care of them when other people won’t.

Drenched in
sweat, a pain in my stomach jumped me from my sleep that night. I grabbed my
clock and turned it around; 2:47 A.M. Thinking it was a cramp and that my
period was finally starting I turned over and was faced with another jolt of
pain down my back and around the front of my stomach.

“Ughhh,” I
moaned, trudging towards the bathroom, suddenly nauseous. When I didn’t get
sick, I sat and rocked myself on the toilet waiting for each wave of pain to
pass. I stifled my voice as much as I could, trying not to cry out. The room
started to sway. “Stay with it, Brooke. No one’s here to pick you up off the
floor if you pass out.” I coached myself out loud, pinching the space between
my eyes.

A rush of
relief in my stomach was met with intense fear as I noticed all the blood. It
could only mean one thing. I remained motionless for a few more minutes, then
started to sob uncontrollably as I shed my clothes and turned the shower on
full blast. I placed myself on the bottom of the tub and watched the red sea of
water stream out from underneath me and disappear down the drain.

My body rocked
and swayed and I found comfort in the pellets of water kissing my body. Still
facing stomach cramps, I toweled off and pulled on a panty liner. I swallowed
three ibuprofen and crept back to my bedroom. The clock was still facing me as
I laid down, and it read 5:16 A.M. I was in the bathroom for over two hours. I
clicked on the heating pad I used for period cramps and drifted into sleep.

“Was that you
taking a shower earlier?” Mom noticed my damp hair as I made my way into the
kitchen around ten that morning. “You not feeling good? Adam had to feed Ethan
because you weren’t awake.”

I nodded, not
bothering to look up. “I’m sick, Mom. I had to shower.” I poured a glass of
water and headed back upstairs. The world could end today and I didn’t care, I
wasn’t leaving my bed that day. And I didn’t. I didn’t leave the next day
either, or the day after that.

“You don’t have
the flu.” Mom pressed her lips to my forehead. “I haven’t heard you throw up or
anything. You’ve been in bed for three days.” I stared through her. I didn’t
even have the energy to humor her. No energy to lie, or talk, or even care.

On the sixth
day, when everyone was getting ready to go to an end of summer barbeque, I had
lined up twenty one pills on my bedroom floor. Composed of a concoction of
Vicodin, Percocet, Ibuprofen, Oxycontin and Valium that I borrowed from Mom’s
medicine cabinet I color coded them before putting them all in a drinking
glass.

The reality was
that I had become so numb that I couldn’t do this anymore, the charade; the
double life. I was David’s wife, his slave, his play thing- and not by choice. I
failed to alert anyone I knew as to what was happening, and I didn’t have the
strength or words to explain to anyone what was going on. Terrified, I knew
that what was happening between Dad and I was not normal, but it seemed like
there was no way to stop it.

I had failed my
brothers and sister. The honor roll student, mother’s helper, cheerleader,
perfect child was giving up. I opened my journal to the next clean page, ripped
out a piece of paper and scrawled my last entry.

Your secret has died with me.

I set the paper
down next to me. Defeated, I opened my mouth and listened as the pills slid
toward the front of the glass. Harsh knocking on my bedroom door jolted me and
I hid the cup behind the leg of my bed.

“What?” I
yelled.

“Brooke.” It
was Kat. “Phone call.”

I didn’t care.
“Take a message.” I waited to hear footsteps walking away.

“It’s Paul.
He’s called three times. He won’t let me hang up.”

I stuffed the
note under my pillow and opened the bedroom door, grabbing the phone. “Okay.
Now go away please.” I sat cross legged on the floor. “Hello?”

“I had a
horrible dream about you last night. I never dream.” His voice was panicked.
“Look, I know you are going through a lot right now with your mom, and the
baby. And I haven’t been there for you like I should have. I’m really sorry.
All day I’ve had a stomach ache thinking about you, and what it would mean if I
lost you. I’ve kinda been a jerk, and I want to make it up to you, okay? Come
over tomorrow night? Just me and you, no baby, no parents. My mom and dad are
going to dinner and Joseph is going to a friend’s house. Does that sound okay?
I really want to see you.”

I nodded into
the phone as tears gushed down the sides of my face. Realizing he couldn’t see
me, I told him I thought it would be nice and hung up. I leaned forward and
covered my face with my hands.

In a moment of
weakness the only logical choice was to end my life. Where would that leave my
siblings though? No one would protect them like I could. He would probably prey
on Kat next, no doubt. What about Ethan? I shook my head. It would never
happen, I would never let it.

 I walked the
cup into the bathroom and opened the lid of the toilet. I smiled as the colors
swirled around and disappeared. Things were going to change.

Paul and I spent
a few hours catching up and laying around. I forgot how much I missed looking
into his eyes and letting him make fun of me for my braces or tickling me until
I couldn’t breathe. We were both overly sarcastic with each other and
everything with him just felt so easy. It was late when Gina told me she’d
drive me home. “Stop calling me Mrs. Moretti. It’s Gina, call me Gina.”

Gina figured
out the longest possible route to get me home. I stretched out in the front
seat and listened while she talked about her childhood in Staten Island and how
she moved to the Poconos to give Paul and Joseph a better life. My parents had
done the same thing, moving us from Long Island, but the perks of being
isolated from everyone we knew only recently became apparent to me.

I loved the way
Gina dressed, like a business woman straight off the streets of New York City,
but with the charm of a housewife. I never knew her to frown, or be sad, or
show any emotion besides the bubbly character that she was. I accompanied her
to almost every hair and nail appointment she made. I was starting to think it
was less because she needed my opinion and more because she wanted a stand in
daughter to do girly things with her.

Either way, she
absorbed everything and anything I ever said with complete acceptance and I
valued her opinion and her company more than anything. There was never any
doubt in her mind when I told her of my dreams to be a writer one day or to go
to medical school. She reminded me of my grandma in that way. “You’re smart, beautiful,
and talented. You absolutely can do anything,” she’d say.

Gina was also
the first person to actually take note of the way I addressed my dad and the
things going on in my family. She had a sixth sense about knowing when
something was bothering me, but she would only call me out on it when we had
our long car rides home. She was discreet like that.

“I told my Mom
that I wanted to talk to a counselor, like you said. She told me we couldn’t
afford it.” I slowly started filling Gina in on things going on in my house. Small
things. The yelling, the tension, sometimes the electric going off.

She started to
do some observations of her own when she brought me home. She told me there are
people out there whose job is to listen to children when they need someone to
talk to. They have confidentiality rules that the law holds them to, so no
matter what I said they would never tell my parents or anyone else if I didn’t
want them to. If we had insurance, sometimes it would even be free. The idea
sounded too good to be true.

“So I told my
mom about how insurance can cover the costs so we wouldn’t have to pay, and she
said there would still be a small co-pay when we would visit. She couldn’t
afford that either.”

“I thought she
might say something like that.” Gina sighed and shook her head. “So I started
looking around. Did you know most counties have free counseling services for
people who have domestic or sexual violence issues in their house?”

I stiffened. “Uh,
no, but what’s domestic violence?” I was pretty sure I knew what sexual
violence was. I wasn’t too sure of the other word.

“I think maybe
some of the things your dad does is domestic violence. It’s when someone abuses
the people they should love. Abuse can mean threatening someone, hitting them,
or controlling them by making them feel worthless.” She tapped the steering
wheel with her fingers.

“How do you
know about all that?”

“I had a
girlfriend in college who was in a very abusive relationship. She told me all
kinds of things. She got the help she needed though and never had to see the
guy again.” I nodded and Gina continued. “Maybe we can call the place and make
you an appointment. They’re the experts, you can figure things out with them.”

“Are they
free?” I already used most of my money to help mom with her bills and I was
trying to save for a car.

“Yes, and
they’re confidential too. Just like any other counselor.”

“I don’t know
how I would get there. Could you take me?”

I wasn’t just
asking her to drive me to the counseling center. I was asking her if I could
trust her. If I could open up to her just a little bit more and agree to go to
a place that specialized in domestic and sexual violence. Whatever would be
thrown at me when I went, I needed to know that she would be there for me. I
couldn’t do this alone, I didn’t want to.

Gina smiled.
“Of course, of course I’ll take you. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll
make the call.”

We pulled up to
the Women in Crisis building three weeks later. I figured it would be easier to
explain where I was going if school had started. Gina could pick me up a half
hour before school got out and I would be able to make it back in time for
work.

The center was
just an old Victorian home with a white sign out front. A tire swing hung from
the branches of one of the trees and the sidewalk sloped leading up to the
doorway. Gina told me she would wait in the car for me, so I pulled open the
door and was greeted by the receptionist.

“Hi there, can
I help you?” She smiled and looked behind me, most likely looking for a parent.

“I’m Brooke. I
have a 2:30 appointment.”

The
receptionist ran her finger over a thick schedule book and tapped the page.
“Yep, here you are, I’ll let her know you’re here. Go ahead and take a seat.”

I picked the
closest chair to the entrance and gazed at all the toys and coloring books that
littered the cramped waiting room. It looked like a lot of children came here.

“Brooke?” I was
greeted by a wide smile and a soft tone. She was a hefty woman in a printed dress.
Her skin contrasted the pale colors she was wearing and she reached out her
hand. “I’m Midge. Want to follow me?”

I nodded and
followed her up a steep staircase. “These steps ain’t meant for us bigger
women.” She snickered at herself. “They need to make the stairs bigger or I
need to make myself smaller.”

We passed two
other doors, one that had a sign on it:
Quiet Please, Sharing is in session
.
I tried to calm my nerves by telling myself that if I didn’t like it here, I
never had to come back.