She makes me feel worth it. Like I’m worth the fucking trouble. I’m not throwing that away. I can’t.
I’m lost in my head as I turn onto Stripes. I’m picking up my speed when someone steps in front of my bike, causing me to hit the brakes. The woman sniffs loudly, then mutters something, and I notice, there’s another woman with her. I frown at them, realizing that they’re both wearing dark clothing. One of them is carrying a box. I look around, and I realize there’s a lot of cars on our street. A fucking ton of cars, all parked right by the curb, the line of them going on as far as I can see, down past the cemetery, toward where Marley’s mother lives.
“Sorry.” I give them a nod and keep on pedaling, and then there’s more women in black. A fucking herd of them.
I’m catching bits and pieces of their conversation—enough that I hear the word “dead.”
For reasons I don’t understand, I press my bike’s brakes. “Ma’am. Excuse me.”
They all turn to me—four ladies with puffy, white hair.
“What’s all the commotion? Something happen?”
“Oh yes,” one says, pushing tissue underneath her glasses. “Poor Miss Roberts, Miss Delphina Roberts passed. She fell and hit her head. A brain bleed.”
I can’t speak, can’t even move as blood booms in between my own ears. “Fuck.”
The women gasp.
“Sorry,” I shout as I pedal off.
All I heard at first was “Miss Roberts.” I’m shaking so hard, I can barely ride. But it’s not Marley. It’s not Marley who died. It’s her mother.
*
All I want to do is get to her. I know she’s probably at her mom’s, but still, I check our driveway to be sure. I find her car there, so I fly up the stairs and pound her door—and no one answers.
Fuck. That means that someone must have been here waiting when she got back. By herself. Goddammit.
I hurry down the stairs and, with my bike still spinning the grass, I head toward my car. But it’s probably too crowded at the bottom of the hill to park—and I don’t want to roll up on my motorcycle. I go back to the bike. Instead of riding on the sidewalk, I steer into the road, sticking close to the cars along the curb and hoping to fuck that my reflectors work okay. I can’t die before I get to Marley.
As I coast down the hill, I see her mom’s small house is overrun by people: mostly older ladies wearing dark dresses and bearing food. Marley’s mother was hard to get along with—according to her—but I always got the impression she had a lot of friends. Besides, in Fate, when people die, it’s a big deal regardless.
I park my bike under a tree between Mar’s mom’s house and the one next door, and run my hand back through my hair, wishing I had a hat.
But Fuck it. Who cares if I’m spotted?
I elbow my way gently through the crowd in front of the door, drawing stares from several women, one of whom hiss-whispers my name. Then I’m inside, inhaling the stench of cigarette smoke and something good…like maybe cake. My gaze flies around the small family room, but I don’t see Marley.
I move leftward with the crowd of women whispering and crying, toward what ends up being a tiny kitchen—and there’s Marley, standing by the oven with an ashen face. A short woman with spiky, brown and gray hair has her hand on Marley’s arm. When Marley looks up and sees me, she blinks slowly, like she’s waking from a dream. I take a step toward her, and her eyes roll as she collapses.
6
Marley
Why am I inside an RV? That’s the first thought I have when I open my eyes. Then a shadow passes over me, and I hear Gabe say, “Marley?”
I start shivering…like, really shivering, and someone unfamiliar murmurs, “Let’s get another blanket. Move on back a little here, sir.”
I can’t figure out what’s going on—and then Gabe’s hands shift around mine, and it hits me like a clap of thunder.
Mom.
I suck a big breath back, and someone—someone female—says, “You’re okay, ma’am. We’re just riding to the hospital.”
“We are? Why?”
Gabe’s face tightens as he says, “You fainted.”
“Sometimes passing out can happen when there’s high emotions,” someone says, and I crane my neck till I see a woman in a blue—an EMT, I realize.
“Am I in an ambulance? It looks like an RV.”
Suddenly I see my brother on the porch at Fendall House.
“Marley. You need to sit down.”
I did.
“Mom’s dead. Your friend Kat found her.”
It’s suck a shock—even now—it makes me gag, and then I’m getting sick. The EMT holds a bag to my mouth. I feel Gabe’s hands on my shoulders, and they make me feel good until I remember what he said down by the lake.
After I get sick, I shut my eyes and Gabe takes my hand, and I want to cry but don’t feel sad enough, which doesn’t make good sense because my mom is dead. Surely I should be sad.
Then we’re getting out of the ambulance, and Gabe is walking by me with his worried face and wide, serious eyes.
I feel like I’ve had a Xanax, which is unnerving, because I haven’t. Zach offered me one, but I told him “no” because I might be pregnant.
Oh my God. I fainted. And I just threw up.
I’m crying now—because what if I am pregnant—and Gabe is holding my hand as I’m settled in a curtained area, and then a nurse is there asking me questions. I can’t answer them, because I can’t stop crying. Finally, she asks me once more what happened, and I swallow and wail, “I think I’m pregnant.”
Mom is dead. And I’m pregnant.
The nurse draws blood and Gabe is in the corner, in a plastic chair, and this is so surreal. How can this be real life? My mother fell and hit her head and now she’s gone.
The nurse leaves, and Gabe scoots closer. He takes my hand and, with his lips pressed in a tight line, he says, “I’m so sorry, Marley.”
“Thank you.”
I don’t want to talk to him, but it seems pragmatic not to send him away yet. He might want to know about the blood test.
“How’d you end up with me?” I murmur, feeling weak.
“In the ambulance? I…uh— I told Kat we’re dating. I was quiet.”
“You lied.”
“I know,” he says softly. “I’m sorry, Marley. What I said, I didn’t even mean it.”
“I don’t want to hear about that right now.” I wipe my face and shut my eyes and turn away from him.
I think of mom’s warning about gossip, and my heart aches like it’s being ripped in half. My mom is gone—my mom who sucked, who made me feel like shit more often than not, who worked as a secretary when I was a kid and who complained about her “lot in life” eleven times a day, my mom, the most negative person I’ve met, who smelled like smoke when she would tuck me in at night. My mom died on the floor…my mom. My mom. My mother is gone. It seems impossible. An error. My mom can’t be gone. She can’t be.