Page 4 of Knot in Trouble
“What are you having? Burgers and fries as well?” Lina asks me, ready to take my order in her small white notebook.
I thought I could handle fries. I should have known better. Ever since I walked into this diner with its yummy yet overpowering sweet-and-savory smells, the contents of my stomach have been in constant motion. Like I’m on a boat and the ginger ale I nursed for an hour is sloshing around in my belly.
“Just water.” Swallowing bile rising in my throat, I scoot to the edge of our red booth, the leather squeaking loudly under my jeans. “I, um, will be right back. Ben, the restroom.”
Lina gives me a sympathetic smile and steps aside. I take Ben’s hand and lead him at a fast trot to the restroom on the left side of the diner.
The ladies' bathroom is empty. Thank God. We’re in that in-between period between lunch and dinner, which guaranteed Ben and me a nice table overlooking the pretty streets with pastel-colored mom and pop shops in the heart of downtown Rios.
As the door slams shut behind us, I tug Ben toward one of the five bathroom stalls.
He pouts and pulls on his arm, his expression mulish. “It’s too small,” he complains.
I’m way beyond the point where I have the time or the energy to fight Ben on this. My face feels green. My need to spew cannot be ignored any longer.
“Wait here. Don’t go anywhere,” I warn him between swallows to keep down the meager contents of my stomach: two crackers, a bottle of ginger ale, and one bite of a green apple that I regretted immediately.
Ben nods. “Okay, Mommy.”
Once he’s promised, I relax. Ben likes to wander. If I can wring a promise out of him, he almost always stays put.
I rush into the bathroom stall, fling up the seat, and fall to my knees, wanting to keep the door fully open but not wanting to worry Ben if he sees me throwing up. I leave the door unlocked and partially open, trying to listen for Ben in case he needs me as I heave into the toilet bowl.
I haven’t felt right since we left Simon’s family in upstate New York, then spent a few days in Manhattan before starting our cross-country road trip.
“Mommy!” Ben calls from right outside my door.
Dragging a hand over my mouth, I call out, “Nearly done, baby.”
My stomach says otherwise.
Minutes later, I’m blindly reaching for a tissue when my fingers collide with something. My eyes snap open, and I meet Lina’s concerned brown gaze.
She’s standing just inside my stall, offering me a small glass of water and a wad of tissues with a sympathetic smile. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I take both gratefully. Water to rinse my foul-tasting mouth does wonders. The tissue is much needed to wipe the tears from my eyes. Then I flush the toilet, lean my back against the stall wall, and set the unfinished water on the floor beside me. Tipping my head back, I swallow, relieved that, for now at least, I no longer need to vomit. “God, I really needed that.”
“How far along are you?” Lina asks.
I’m not stupid. Grief blinded me to a lot before. Then it was wishful thinking. Now I’d be downright ignorant if I pretended not to know what this sudden bout of sickness meant.
“How’d you know?” I ask instead of admitting to a truth I hadn’t been willing to face since it first dawned on me that I felt just like this once before, over five years ago.
“I recognize that same exact shade of green from my bathroom mirror when I was pregnant.”
I take another sip of water. When my stomach doesn’t protest, I risk a slightly bigger gulp, needing the fluids. I’m not brave enough to move away from this toilet bowl yet, even though it means sitting on a public restroom floor for a little longer. “A little over a month, I think. I had really bad morning sickness with Ben. It didn’t stop until well into my second trimester.”
She makes a face. “Yikes. You have my sympathy. Mine was a month of nausea, and I never stopped feeling sorry for myself.” She leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “And the dad?” Her eyes dip to the claiming bite on my throat.
The faint bite is years old. A permanent brand marks me as taken, but I’m not taken anymore. This bite is just a mark on my skin, and the ties binding me to my alpha are broken.
“He died,” I whisper, my eyes burning. “It’s just Ben and me now.”
Simon's car wasn’t involved in the accident, which is why it took the first responders so long to notice the dark green Volvo parked a few feet away. The door was open, and inside, a cell phone was ringing. It was Simon’s car, and I was the idiot calling, freaking out about losing our table for two to another couple while he was dying.
I will never forgive myself for that.
No one blames me for being annoyed at Simon for being late to our anniversary dinner. And even though I know deep down that I have no reason to feel guilty, I still am. Guilt isn’t always rational, and back then, when I was planning a funeral and hugging my son who was sobbing for his daddy, I was too broken to be logical. Too lost to be calm.
