Page 62… in a fiction series
Miranda felt the knife graze her skin, her warm blood seaping through a T-shirt already stained with red paint. There was a loud crack as the blade crashed through her rib cage and into her heart.
She asked again in a louder tone, “What are you talking about? We both know that’s not possible! How in the world did you make a baby? And how could you do it without me?”
“Medical science has come a long way since you and I went to the doctor to find out if we could have a child. You remember that, right? I know you were pretty upset.”
“Do I remember? Harry, it was my thirtieth birthday! I found out we would never have a family! I was so depressed I started drinking every night! Do I remember? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Did you get married the day after you were on my boat? The day you asked me to come home?”
“We had been seeing each other… ”
“And she got pregnant.”
“Something like that.”
Miranda felt another prick against her skin, a trickle, a surge, more blood. The blade found its way in, deeper this time, the sensation painless compared to her suffering. Coughing, choking, it was getting hard to speak.
“Harry, how could you do this to me!? That’s my baby! A girl named ‘Mandy’ is having my baby!”
Miranda thought about Mandy, eight months along, a scary apparition with a big belly, fangs, and big dirty feet. She sounded gross.
It was just like that Barry Manilow song, “Mandy.” Everyone in her class at school hated that song. “Oh, Mandy…. well you came and you gave without taking… but I sent you away, awe Mandy.” Some people even said that song was about a horse! Can you believe it– a friggin’ HORSE!? Harry should send her away, just like in the song. Miranda knew him all too well… he would never be happy with a pregnant girl named Mandy.
Miranda had completely snapped.
“Miranda… hun… I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Miranda felt faint. She was seeing stars. Like an old person who takes blood pressure pills and stands up too fast. She imagined Harry’s new wife sitting in her old office, scribbling on her Vera Bradley desk blotter, a big ugly trench coat on the polished hook behind the door. That girl has, no doubt, screwed up every account Miranda worked so hard for. And as far as her walk-in closet back at the house… the thought of it made her sick. She heard somebody calling her name.
“Miranda! Miranda! Listen. We can talk about this another time. Sometime when you’re feeling better.” He worried about what she was going to do next. He’d seen her this way before, didn’t know how she could handle a full-blown manic epidose all alone.
“Are you taking your medication? You said you were going to cut back on your drinking. You doing okay with that?” If she went out to a bar and something bad happened, he would never forgive himself. Miranda didn’t mention that she had nine months of sobriety. What did it matter now anyway…
Miranda said, “I have to go.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Don’t ever call me. And don’t call me hun.”
To be continued…
*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.