Page 10 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
I shovel the last of the donut into my mouth while crawling over the center console.Fucking cops. Fucking men. Fucking Zola’s weak-ass fucking bladder.
Once I’ve settled into the driver’s seat, I turn to wave at the officer walking back to his cruiser and lock eyes withMr.Save the Day Samaritan.
“I bet you’re loving this,” I yell through the now open window.
“I don’t even know whatthisis,” he shouts back before disappearing inside, behind the obnoxiously sunshiny beach display I suddenly want to destroy.
When Zola opens the passenger door a few minutes later, I’m parked as far from the entrance and any yellow curbs as humanly possible, replaying the nightmare that just unfolded on a loop. Only in my version, there’s violence.
She sees me fully reclined in the driver’s seat with an arm slung over my eyes, but she can’t possibly know the emotional minefield she’s entering.
“Hey,” she says casually, buckling her seat belt. “I couldn’t find you. Why’d you move?”
Don’t hit a pregnant woman, don’t hit a pregnant woman, don’t hit a pregnant woman.
“Is there wine at the house or should I stop on the way?”
3
Zola and I are huddledover the coffee table, unpacking our snack haul, when Mom emerges from herWhy don’t you love me?cave of despondency. She’s in the same tattered breakup uniform I’ve seen too many times: a raggedy sweatshirt she stole from an old college boyfriend and a satin bonnet that barely covers her two-week-old wash ’n’ go.
The smile on her face when she sees us is more physiological mechanics than actual emotion, but I don’t take it personally.Realsmiles come at stage two (or even three:back in the saddle).
“I didn’t realize you were back already,” she says to us both, but her arms are outstretched to Zola. Misery does love company, after all. “I got your text. I’m so sorry, baby.”
I leave space for Zola to talk about losing her job, but she forces a tight smile and reaches for a bag of chips to busy her hands instead. And when Mom says, “I can’t believe Eliza did you like that, after all this time,” Zola’s eyes dart to mine over her can of sparkling water, silently screaming for help with sisterly telepathy, well-honed over a lifetime.
She doesn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Maybe not at all, with Mom.
“We needed to stock up on rations,” I interject.
Mom pulls me into a hug of my own and I bristle at the frailness of her body, the weakness of her embrace, and how she rests her weight on me when I hadn’t offered to prop her up.
I know she wants me to ask about all the wayswhatshisnamewronged her over the manyweeksof their deep (and not at all exaggerated) love affair, but it’s all I can do not to peel the sweatshirt off Mom’s limp frame and search for the once-vibrant woman who used to wear this skin.
Mom releases me before collapsing onto the couch beside Zola, reaching out for Zo’s belly to greet the baby and offer what minimal support she can muster. Zola’s rigid frame visibly untenses. She lifts the unclaimed half of her blanket in invitation. Mom accepts it gladly.
“We’re about to watch something,” I announce from my seat in the worn recliner that used to be Dad’s go-to spot.
“That actually sounds perfect,” Mom says, tucking Zo’s blanket up to her chin.
Hoping to capitalize on the tenuous peace we’ve achieved, I turn the TV on, clearing my throat with the gusto of a smoker with a pack-a-day habit. A wordless proclamation that we have officially switched gears. For the runtime of whatever’s about to be on the screen, nobody’s allowed to bring up anything miserable. Those are the rules. I just decided.
“So, are we feeling a movie? Or should we go straight-up murder show marathon?” I’m obviously only asking to be polite. Blunt force trauma is always the clear winner.
“Ugh, no true crime,” Zola whines. “Last time you were home, I had nightmares for a month. You’re such a—”
“Choose your words wisely,” I say, slicing the air with the remote. “I’m not above reporting our shared account to Netflix. Pretty sure the penalty for that now is jail.”
Zola pretends to throw the tiniest handful of popcorn inmy direction before bringing it to her mouth. “Can we please just watch something that doesn’t end in me sleeping with the lights on?”
This isn’t my first time deflecting a suggestedDatelinedetox—or intensive psychoanalysis to identify why I seek out humanity’s most gruesome acts as a form of entertainment. The truth is, I just take comfort inknowing.Knowing with absolute certainty which stories willnothave a happy ending, and working backward to uncover all the reasons why.
“Boo,” I chant through a mouthful of frozen cookie dough. “You’re lame.”
“Don’t make me pull the baby card. Do you really want your nephew thinking the world is all lies, betrayal, and revenge before he’s even born?”
“Better he knows now,” I tell her.
