I hear the detective call my name, but he sounds far away as though he’s shouting for me on the surface and I am a diver, observing the depths. There is no going back for me now.
I am on a dark street in Brooklyn, gazing up at a lit multipaned window. Nick stands naked in front of it, flaunting his petite frame to the empty street. My senses are heightened. I smell the fetid river behind me. The disturbed earth of the construction site. I feel the hard metal of my gun through the leather bag pressed against my sternum. One thought races through my head: David is my husband and the future father of my child. I will not let Nicholas take him from me.
“Liza? Liza!”
The detective stands over me. I am no longer in the chair but on the cold tile floor. My brain feels as though I’ve been in a head-on collision. The world around me is painted in chiaroscuro, highlighted by shadows.
The detective helps me sit up and scoot back against the wall. “Are you all right?”
“The hormones.” My voice sounds robotic.
“What?”
The needles pulse beneath my skin, pumping their poison into my blood stream, into my brain. Suppressing my impulse control. Sublimating my frustrated desire to procreate into violent action. Stripping me of empathy, of love.
I dig my nails into the implant site and start scratching, tearing, screaming in pain as I try to cut deeper into my flesh with my blunt claws. “The hormones. I need them out. Get them out of me. Get them out of me. Out. Out!”
Blood and flesh mix with the dirt beneath my nails. They are just a little farther down. I need a knife. I have my teeth.
As I bend my mouth to my arm, hands wrap around me. They yank my limbs back, hold my head. I think someone calls for a medic. The number 10-96 is shouted over and over. I barely hear it above my screaming as I try to wrest away from the officers and go for my bicep.
I am lifted and strapped onto a gurney. Belts restrain my arms and tie down my legs. As I writhe on the bed, begging for someone to remove the needles, a doctor jams something sharp into my thigh. My eyelashes descend, a fuzzy screen that blurs the images of the uniforms around me. Then everything goes black.
*
I wake in a hospital bed in a strange room barely big enough for the bed and the person slumped in the chair beside it. My vision is hazy from the dimmed fluorescents and whatever drugs I’ve been given. Painkillers, probably. I don’t feel a raw burning in my scraped arm or throbbing in my head. I don’t feel sad or anxious, despite the stranger in the chair.
I squint at my visitor’s arm, expecting to see a blue shirt and a policeman’s badge. Instead, I see a fuzzy navy pullover and a lock of long red hair.
“Chris?” My voice crackles like it’s coming from an ancient two-way radio.
She murmurs something, still asleep. I’ve no idea of the time. The window to my right is covered with a blue film that turns day into evening. It could be five. Could be eight. I scoot up to see better and am surprised to find that I can use my hands for leverage. They are not tied to the bed post as they had been when I got here. I remember how I got here.
“Chris.” My voice cracks as I increase my volume.
She opens her eyes slowly and turns to me. “Hey, Lizzie.” Her mouth curls in a sad smile. “You’re up.”
“How long was I out?”
She glances behind her at the window and then, realizing it doesn’t hold any clues, looks at a phone on her lap. “It’s four. I guess about a day.”
She points to my left arm. My bicep is wrapped in thick gauze. I wince as I recall clawing my skin. “You would have been up sooner, but the doctors decided that the hormones were making you hysterical so they removed them. I think the painkillers coupled with whatever they gave you at the police station made you sleep longer.”
“Have you been here the whole time?”
She gives me a weak smile. “David’s death made the news. I came as soon as I heard. The freaking police didn’t want to tell me which hospital you were sent to at first. But I called George. My ex is good for something. He phoned one of the prosecutors he used to work with when he was here, and that guy must have lit a fire under someone, because next thing I knew, the police were offering me a ride.”
“Thanks.” I force a smile. “Calling George was going above and beyond.”
She wrinkles her nose. “He’s not all bad, I guess. Emma’s having a great time in the wilderness. Apparently, there’s cell service.” She stands and glances at the open door and the light on in the hallway. Soft voices and monitors whir beyond. “They won’t let me close it.”
Chris walks toward the top of my bed, squeezing her body in the small space between the mattress and the wall. I press the button to raise the back so I can see her at a better angle. Bags weigh down her eyes. I’m better rested than she is at the moment.
“George’s friend said that the prosecutor’s office isn’t planning to press any charges against you. David was self-defense. People on the street below saw him, the fight for the gun. He would have pushed you over if you hadn’t . . .”
She trails off, not wanting to accuse me of murdering my husband. But that’s what I did. Charged or not. I know the truth. I killed them both.
“Anyway, since the cops had already charged David with Nick’s death, they’re considering that case closed too. David killed his boyfriend, probably to keep him from exposing their relationship before he was ready, and then tried to shut you up when you found out.” Chris looks up at the ceiling and blinks away a tear. “I’m so sorry, Liza.”
“Hey, there’s no reason for you to be sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have told you everything. You weren’t ready. It made you want to run to David and try to make things right with him, or something.” She twists her hair and then releases it. “He could have killed you.” Again, she looks at the tiled ceiling, trying not to cry. “Some friend I am.”
I grasp her hand. It feels cold compared to mine, which has been wrapped beneath the hospital blanket. “You are the best friend anyone could ever ask for. You’re my family.”
“Yeah.” She offers a little smirk. “Well, I guess I’ll have to stop bitching about George now since you clearly win in the asshole husband department. Like, hands down. No competition.”
She’s trying to make me laugh, to smile, but I can’t. I think it might be a long time before I feel anything.
“I was going to head to my apartment and get some food. A change of clothes.” She pulls at her pant legs, expanding them like a striped tent. She’s wearing the same pajama bottoms that she had on when I last saw her. I may be imagining it, but I see sand on the thighs. “Can I get you anything?”
What do I still have? My marriage is over. My husband is dead. I won’t ever have a baby. After what I did, I won’t ever have peace of mind.
I think of an aspirin bottle and how close I came as a teenager to cutting my life short. That’s not how I want my story to end. I am a fiction writer. I can imagine a new beginning for me. I have my freedom. I have my family. I have Chris. Trevor. And Beth. I’ll always have Beth.
“Would you bring my laptop?” I ask. “I have to finish a chapter.”
Chapter 19