Unmaking Marchant (27 page)

“At first I thought you didn’t want me like that,” she says quietly, “because I was scared you didn’t. But now…now I think maybe I was wrong.” Her fingers skate through my hair, bringing out goosebumps on my head. “Will you just tell me? Please? What that makes you want to stay so…far from everyone? Is it…what happened to your parents?”

A wave of ice-cold dread washes through me as I think about what she said earlier. About Marissa. I remember the last time I saw her, lying so still on the pink bedspread inside her dorm room. I remember her voice through the phone down at the jail. I remember the casket—and I know I can’t tell Suri. Someone like her…someone so kind and generous; Suri would never understand.

Now that we’re as close as we’ve come to be, I’m not sure how to evade her questions—so I roll over with my back to her.

“Marchant,” she whispers. “I have another question. Do you have a baby?”

*

SURI

Remembering the picture is what woke me up. The black and white picture I saw that night in the silver picture frame, right before I heard Marchant’s footsteps coming down the hall and I dropped it by the curtains. I sneaked out of bed tonight and found it right where I left it—underneath the floor-to-ceiling curtains. One look at the image in the moonlight and I can see it’s definitely a baby. Bigger than Lizzy’s baby (I recently received a text’d image of something that looked like a lima bean).

I crawl back in bed, and a few minutes later, Marchant rouses. I lie as still as I can while he strokes my body, more gentle than he’s ever been when he thought I was awake. I’m starting to get the feeling there’s a lot he isn’t telling me.

I lean closer to him now, staring at the wide plane of his back. “Is the date on your side a child’s birthday?” I murmur.

For a moment, he goes absolutely still—not even breathing. Then he jolts up and whirls around to face me.

“What the fuck do you know about a child?”

“You left this picture out.” I grab the image from underneath my pillow and hold it out.

He snatches it away from me. He looks furious enough to spit. “That’s not your business.”

 “I didn’t mean to find it. Marchant, talk to me. I care about you. You can trust me. Are you a father?”

He’s out of the bed in one easy motion, but he doesn’t leave the room. Nor does he put down the picture frame.

“Do you have a child somewhere?” I press.

“No, I’m not a fucking father, okay?” Belatedly, I notice that his chest is heaving. “I don’t have a child.”

Understanding dawns on me, and I nod slowly. 

 “You think you understand?”

“I think I might,” I answer softly.

“Well you don’t.”

Maybe I should let it lie, but he looks so upset. “Did the baby’s mother take him or her away from you?”

“You don’t want to know what happened. I’m just your fuck buddy, remember? It’s irrelevant to you.”

I lean forward. “I think we both know that’s not true. I’m your friend, Marchant. I care about you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re a nice guy who’s only an asshole when he’s using drugs. I know you still grieve for your parents, and I bet you’re grieving for this baby, too.”

And all at once, his shoulders slump, and he raises a hand to cover up his face. “It was a girl,” he whispers. “Marissa was the baby’s mother.”

My heart twists. Is that why she was calling? Do they keep in touch?

“I haven’t talked to her in seven years,” he says, rubbing a hand back through his hair. He’s pacing now, not even looking over at me as he talks. “I don’t know why she would call. There’s nothing I can give her. Everything is done.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

He lifts his eyes to mine, and they’re so bleak, I know. I know for sure.

Tears rush into my eyes. I blink quickly. If he lost a child, it makes sense that he doesn’t want to get close. He’s had a lot of loss in his life. Too much.

He strides closer to the bed and leans over the footboard. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need your pity.”

“I don’t pity you.” I scoot closer to him, reaching out, but he takes a giant step backward.

“You know why I don’t have a daughter, Suri? Because I told her mother to have an abortion.”

*

MARCHANT

There it is. The most significant fact of my life—my March 15—spilled at her feet. I watch her face and see the horror in it.

“It was after my parents died. I drank a lot on the plane ride to New Orleans and I thought at first that I was just fucked up over what had happened. But then I got back to my room at West’s place, where I lived, and fucked our housekeeper.” Suri’s eyes widen, and I give her a miserable smile. “She was awful; this black-haired creole woman. Mean as a fucking viper. Nobody liked her, but I wasn’t thinking straight. After that, I did a bunch of Hunter’s coke and got into a fight with someone at the frat house. Broke an armchair. I was so damn mad—at everything.

“And then Marissa called. She had this church thing in the afternoons, and it was over and she wanted me to come see her. I’m not sure how I got there or even why. We were friends with benefits, not a couple. But I went to the sorority house, and Marissa started talking about scholarships. How she was worried about losing her swimming scholarship. Her mother worked at a gas station and her dad was dead. I remember that part—the part about the scholarship. And I remember her asking something about West Manor. Like could she live there. And I said hell no. it was a guys’ place, bunch of keggers and hookers and shit.

“She started crying. Asked me why I was being such an ass. I told her my parents had died. She didn’t know that yet—she had a shitty little flip phone that never got good service, and she’d been babysitting cousins in Mississippi for spring break. She hadn’t heard.

“She flipped the fuck out. Cried some more. And for some reason, seeing her act like that—over my parents— It pissed me off. I started to leave, and that’s when she pulled it out. This.” I hold up the picture with shaking fingers. I inhale deeply. “That’s all I remember from the sorority house. I went out that night and wrecked my Jeep, got booked for DUI, and Hunter bailed me out. It wasn’t till later on Monday that I found myself up on the roof of West Manor with a fifth of bourbon and one of Hunter’s guns that…” I swallow hard. “I stared down at the street, and I thought about Mom. And I remembered the only time I ever saw her do anything really fucking awful. We were at the mall, and she stepped in front of a truck in the parking lot. And I was old enough to know.”

I hold my breath until the emotion swelling up in my throat passes. I dare a glance at Suri. She’s staring at me with wide, kind eyes.

I stride closer, leaning over the side of the bed now so our faces are a breath apart. “I’m not a fucking drug addict. I don’t even like hard liquor. I’m a beer guy,” I sneer.

“But you’re bipolar. Like your mom.”

I look into Suri’s sad, wet eyes and I can see the sympathy. Or is it pity?

“Because I’m bipolar? You feel sorry for me. Listen what I told her. Marissa said I told her I fucking hated her. I thought she was a low-class whore who got pregnant on purpose. I told her I’d never support her or the baby. That I’d never even fucking speak to her again. Unless she got an abortion. Her mother was Catholic, Suri. She had no one. She’ll tell you I even pulled a few hundreds out of my wallet and threw them in the grass before I left that day.” My throat thickens, but I push the words out, because I want to make sure Suri understands. Why I can’t be with her. Why she needs to leave the ranch and never, ever look back. Why I’m such an asshole for even kissing her.

“I made her feel like she had to get rid of the baby—and she did.” I slump down on the foot of the bed, looking at the curtains. I can see moonlight between them—just a sliver of light in the darkness. “I got a call from her,” I say thickly. “It was the seventeenth. A Saturday. And by then I knew shit was going on with me but I was too…fucking scared to go somewhere. Like to a doctor.” My voice cracks there. I swallow. Even wait a few beats before continuing, because I’m scared I’ll fucking cry.

“Marissa called me… She was crying. She kept saying ‘I did it.’ But by that time, I was more clear-headed. That’s the way it is for me. My mania can last a long time—longer than most people’s—but I kinda come in and out.” I lean down and put my head in my hands.

“I didn’t remember what I’d told her. About the…pregnancy. She didn’t believe me of course. She sobbed and she cursed and she told me that she hated me. And when it hit me what she’d done—that when she said ‘I did it’, she meant she’d…” I shake my head. “I was…fucking ripped apart.” My eyes feel wet. I wipe them and keep on staring at the window. But my shoulders start to shake.

“I know people do it when they have to—but those people,” I rasp, “it’s a choice.” I hold my head. “I didn’t even remember. I didn’t remember telling her to— I didn’t remember.”

I feel her arms around me, feel her cheek against my back, but I don’t care. It’s not enough. Just like every time I let myself remember this, I feel like I’m falling through an abyss. Snatching at the air, trying to freeze time before I smash into the ground. Trying to freeze time for long enough to make a choice.

But I don’t have a choice. I never got one. And I never will.

24

SURI

I’m crying, but I’m trying to be quiet. This is Marchant’s moment—his pain—and I don’t want to detract from it by highlighting my own.

But I can’t stand to see him like this. I can’t stand to see him hurt. All I want is to do something to help him, but all I can offer is my arms.

I only get to hold him for a moment before he nudges me off him and turns around to face me. His eyes are red and wet. His grief has changed his face, so he looks like a stranger. Older. Harder.

“Does that answer your question? About my daughter?” His eyes bore into mine.

“Marchant, I’m so, so sor—”

“
No
.” He holds up both hands. “I don’t want to hear that shit. Save it for someone who deserves it.”

He stalks out of the room, leaving me again.

I hold my breath, counting down the hours, but he doesn’t return. It seems wrong to go looking for him. Disrespectful of his space. So I don’t leave the bed. It’s a burden, lying here when I want so much to check on him. Of course, it’s nothing compared to what pain he must be feeling. After he leaves, I look around for the picture, which I find sitting on the edge of the bed. I don’t have the heart to look at it, so I tuck it under my pillow.

I wonder how I would react if I made such a huge decision when I was in an altered state. If I’m right about what he was saying, Marchant “woke up” from the haze of his mania to find out what was going on, and the deed was done. And it seems like, though abortion is a choice for some, it might not have been the choice he would have made. Maybe he’s right; maybe Marissa made the choice she made because of how he reacted when she told him she was pregnant. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe it’s something she would have done regardless.

And as for how he acted when he was in a manic state?

It’s not his fault.

I wish I could tell him that instead of lying here hugging my pillow. I’m staring at the curtains, wondering if he’s in the house somewhere or out walking the grounds, when I hear the sound of something shattering. I’m up in a flash, headed toward the bedroom door.

I hear footsteps; a second later, the door bursts open, and I feel a warm rush of relief—expecting Marchant. I get a brief glimpse of a woman’s slim figure and long hair before I hear a cry, and something sharp stings my neck. I’m down on my knees before I know what happened. I press my hand against the spot that hurts and come away with wet fingers.

“Holy shit!” My heart is pounding as I stand back up on legs that shake. It’s dark in here; so dark I can hardly see. I’m panicking. I turn a circle, shielding myself with my arms like I do in Tai Chi, and I’m grabbed from behind.

“Die, bitch!”

I feel another slashing sting across my cheek, and strong hands throw me to the floor. I’m kicked just once before I scream.

Then Marchant is bursting through the door. The pain flares into agony as he lifts me up onto the bed.

“Suri, what happened? Talk to me, please, baby!”

“Where is she?” I croak.

Somewhere very nearby, glass shatters again, and I feel more than see Marchant hop over the bed. I’m curling into a ball, panting through the terrible stabbing in my ribs, when he yells out the broken window, “Son of a bitch!” He lunges for the cordless landline, and as I hear him barking orders to security, I whisper: “Wasn’t a…son.”

*