Middle Rage

Part 12 -- Oma

I wake up in bed to Scott kissing my shoulder, and a massive hangover. I try to remain as still as possible, piecing together why I feel so bad. It comes to me in bits that I wish away as soon as I recognize them. Racing home from Dan's to the empty house. Throwing dinner together fast to cover how I'm starting thirty minutes late. Opening a bottle of wine as I'd shoved food in the oven and turned the heat too high, knowing it'll be burnt, but on time. The first glass gone so quickly it seemed like the second glass was the real first. Wrapping myself around Scott like a alley cat when he walked through the door, pushing him up the stairs and pulling at his clothes, desperate for a quickie. The smoke alarm going off. How Scott had run down in a bathrobe to hit the button with the end of a broomstick and I'd pulled charred chicken enchiladas from the oven. Hale's scowl when he walked in the front door, having bummed a ride home because I'd neglected to pick him up from sports. Scott volunteering to get Aiden from band, all the blame laid at the feet of my wild seduction, and not the fact I'm too drunk to drive.

Scott nuzzles the back of my neck, whiskers scratching. "What's gotten into you?" he smiles against my skin. He always asks this when I act horny, a scientist conducting field research, amidst some unexpected result. Well, I'm letting another man grope me with hopes to eventually kill him, and maybe destroy my whole life in the process, I dunno, I'm kinda winging it.

I roll over, my head swollen as an infected watermelon, and smile blearily. "Hey, did I tell you Jenn's in the hospital? Broken arm."

"Holy shit!"

"I know, right?! Has some bug, got woozy and fell down the stairs."

"Woozy huh? She must've caught whatever Dan had."

Probably caught it right in the guts while standing on the second floor landing. I nod somberly.

"Well, stay healthy, we don't want whatever they got." No, we sure as hell don't. He plants a jovial kiss on my boob. "You gonna take the kids to school today?" I groan for theater, but also because it's true. With a laugh, he bounces off the bed. "I got it."

As the garage door rumbles open, I drag myself to the bathroom, swallow two aspirin, and while I pee, check my phone. No messages. So I text Aimee and Maria, wondering why Maria hasn't already sent out word. Or maybe she did and just left me off the chain: Jenn is in the hospital! I don't text my immediate, overwhelming guilt, but it's there. The Visine bottle, wherever it is now, with my fingerprints on it.

#

When we meet at the park for our fast-paced walking race around the lake, I'm the first to talk. "I feel so bad, you guys," I look to Maria for support. She's at the far end of our little line, and as the shortest, almost jogging to keep up. "We gotta do something."

"Why are you looking at me?" Maria snaps. "I told you not to."

"Because you were in charge with the..." I wave my hand, flapping and helpless. Maria knows everything, police-wise. We need her. "What do we even do? You saw him the day we were over there. No way she fell down the stairs by accident."

"Look, I know a little about DV. I mean, it wasn't my focus, but they covered it in grad school, because it's so common and the big take-away was that intervening is way more difficult than you might think," Aimee says. It's a mild fall afternoon, and she's wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a maternity camisole. The camisole reveals ghost creases even where it stretches over her belly, and the flannel shirt's collar is rumpled. "You've got to respect that the woman – you know, assuming the woman is the victim and the man the abuser – isn't an idiot. If she's not leaving, it's probably because leaving isn't simple or easy."