Sylvia didn’t seem bothered by Debbie’s prolonged silence and continued talking. She talked while she undressed, and was still talking even after she’d climbed in the shower.
“I’m so glad my morning sickness is finally gone!” she called out. “I thought it was going to last the full nine months. My gums are still bleeding, though,” she continued. “Did you know pregnancy could do that? I didn’t. My hair has gotten fuller, my boobs are bigger, and my skin has never looked better. But I’m as fat as Tiny, and my feet are swollen, and my gums are bleedin’, and Joey won’t…touch me…”
At that last announcement, Sylvia trailed off, growing quiet. Debbie glanced longingly toward the exit, wondering if Sylvia would care if she left—or even notice.
“He used to be all over me. Couldn’t keep his hands off me. I was a virgin before Joey, only ever let RobbieBianchifeel me up, you know?”
Debbie did not know. She had nothing to offer this woman, no words of wisdom. She was no relationship expert, having never had one. And neither had she ever been pregnant—thank God—or been close to anyone who had been. Her mother had certainly never discussed things like that with her.
“Debbie? Could you hand me my dress?” Sylvia emerged from the shower stall with a towel pressed to her front, far too small to provide her with much coverage. Debbie had no idea what Sylvia had looked like before she’d gotten pregnant, but she could imagine her as a slim, petite woman. Her limbs were still tiny, at least in comparison with her midsection. But her belly appeared even more monstrous now that she was naked, the large swell of it dwarfing her hips and breasts.
Debbie hurried to help her, unable to avert her eyes as Sylvia dropped her towel. Jagged, painful-looking red lines covered her belly where her skin had stretched. Debbie outright stared, cringing at the thought of ever being pregnant. Between Sylvia’s talk of bleeding gums and swollen ankles and seeing firsthand what pregnancy did to your body, Debbie thanked her lucky stars she’d been fortunate enough to have avoided that fate.
“I was thinkin’ about inducing early,” Sylvia said. “I read that celebrities do it all the time. Everybody says Yoko Ono had a Caesarean just so Sean could be born on John’s birthday. I don’t know about all that though, and there’s somethin’ to be said about a natural birth, right? I bet Marie will have a natural birth. She seems the type, right?”
Chapter 19
“I hate you,” Preacher muttered over his shoulder. “You know that, right?”
Picking up his pace, Preacher hurried through the campground, Joe on his heels. They’d already combed through the west side of the park searching for Sylvia, and now they were searching the east.
They’d both been rudely awakened by Ginny, who’d been frantic with worry when she’d woken and found that her very pregnant and very emotional daughter-in-law had gone missing.
It was early, the park was still quiet, the sky streaked with the colorful beginnings of sunrise, and all Preacher wanted to do was go back to Joe’s foul-smelling tent and sleep for another hour.
He’d had difficulty falling asleep last night, having spent most of it listening to the devil seated on his left shoulder tell the angel on his right to go fuck itself.
At one point he’d spent almost an hour trying to convince himself that Debbie’s age didn’t matter because of her situation—there was no one in her life to care what she did or didn’t do. If there was no one to care, then what did it matter? Then he’d felt like shit for thinking it and had spent another hour wide awake, telling himself what an asshole he was.
“This ain’t my fault!” Joe protested. “I tried tellin’ Mom that Sylvie just ain’t been sleepin’ good lately and she’s probably off walkin’ around somewhere.”
“You shouldn’t have brought her. What kind of man brings a pregnant woman camping?”
“You try tellin’ Sylvie no! I told her no way in fuckin’ hell was she comin’, and you should have seen her, all pissed off and haulin’ her fat ass up into Dad’s van and givin’ me that look!”
Preacher glanced sideways at his brother. “What look?”
“You know, the look. That fuckin’ look a chick gives you, tellin’ you that you ain’t got a choice in the matter. It’s do or die, man, do or fuckin’ die. That’s the look. I get that look every fuckin’ day. I married that fuckin’ look. That fuckin’ look is gonna kill me.”
Preacher glanced up at the sky and made a face. “Idiot. That ain’t the look she was givin’ you. She was givin’ you the look that said she knew what the fuck you were going to be doin’ up here if shedidn’tcome.”
Joe fell silent, and Preacher rolled his eyes. It was no secret to anyone who knew Joe that he wasn’t a one-woman kind of guy. He hadn’t been faithful to Sylvia when they’d been dating, and anyone with half a brain would know that marriage hadn’t changed him. If anything, Preacher guessed Joe’s new situation had only increased his brother’s appetite for women—he was probably screwing every piece of ass he could get his hands on.
“I told you not to marry her,” Preacher muttered, shaking his head. “Remember? This is your own damn fault.”
Joe had come to visit him in prison to tell him Sylvia was pregnant, and Preacher had told him point blank not to marry her if he didn’t love her—and that he’d regret it if he did.
But Joe had succumbed to The Judge’s and Ginny’s demand that he do right by Sylvia, and if Joe felt trapped now, it was his own damn fault and none of Preacher’s concern. WhatwasPreacher’s problem was Ginny forcing him to share a tent with his idiot brother.
Gripping his arm, Joe wrenched Preacher to a stop, forcing him to turn around and face him.
“Mom made me,” he seethed, his eyes wide and glinting with anger. “She said no grandbaby of hers was gonna be a bastard!”
“Mom made me,” Preacher mimicked. He shook his arm free from Joe’s grip and shoved his brother in the chest, sending him stumbling backward. “Man, you know you sound like a little girl, right?”
“You weren’t there!” Joe shouted, a vein in his forehead throbbing angrily.
Preacher knew Joe was seconds away from hauling off and slugging him. A recreational boxer with fists of steel, Joe wasn’t someone you wanted to piss off. But the way Preacher saw it, a concussion and couple of black eyes were preferable to wandering around the park at the ass-crack of dawn bickering like a pair of old women. Balling his hands into fists, Preacher readied to duck and swing.
