Hanging by a Thread

“No shit. But the last thing I want to do is think about it.”

I know what she means. Oh, boy, do I know what she means. Because thinking about it opens the door to making it real. Makes it harder to not start thinking in terms of “baby.”

“And they say it’s easier the earlier you have it done,” she goes on. “I’m not waiting.”

Arguing with her right now would be pointless. But if she won’t go without me, maybe I can put her off for a couple days, buy some time for her to think this through. Yes, it’s all about choices, but my guess is panic’s short-circuiting her synapses right now. And when you’re freaked is not the time to make a decision that’s going to impact the rest of your life. Especially when there’s somebody else involved, I think with a sharp stab of pain.

“Tina, honey…you didn’t always feel this way. About not wanting kids.”

“Yes, I did,” she says flatly. “I just thought—hoped—I’d get over it, you know? For Luke’s sake? But I see all my sisters with their kids…and I can’t do it, Ellie. I’ll fuck the kid up, I know I will, just like my mother fucked us up.”

Her assessment of her mother’s relationship with her three daughters is, unfortunately, not an exaggeration. Renee Bertucci was a real piece of work. I have no idea why she put her girls down all the time, why she seemed to think it a sign of weakness to show them any affection. But I do know Tina didn’t spend so much time at my house, or Luke’s, just because of us, but because our mothers spoiled rotten everyone who set foot across their thresholds.

Which apparently Tina, in her near-hysteria, is forgetting.

I know I have to tread carefully through the minefield of Tina’s fragile psyche. One wrong step and she’s gonna blow. So I point out that she’d had plenty of examples of good mothering, then add, “And maybe you should give yourself some credit for learning from your mother’s mistakes.”

Her eyes flood. “Then I’ll probably make other ones, ones I won’t even know I’m making until it’s too late. And what if what they say is true, that our mothering instinct’s in our genes?”

“But sweetie—your sisters are doing okay, right?”

“They’re older. They got out before Mom got really bad.” She looks down at her shaking hands, then back up at me. “I’m not like you, the way you are with Starr.”

My laugh clearly startles her, even as my stomach does another flip. “You don’t actually think I know what I’m doing? Believe me, I’ve lost plenty of sleep wondering if I’m going to screw her up. But honey…this isn’t all about you. You know that—”

“Yeah, but see, here’s the thing, Luke’s totally okay with not having kids. We already discussed it. He says what we have, just by ourselves, is fine.”

Nobody knows more than I what Luke would say, or do, to protect Tina. But I can’t let this go.

“That’s not what he said to me,” I say gently, and her eyes flash to mine.

“Oh, yeah? And when was that? When we first got married? Before that, when we were just kids? I’m his freakin’ wife, Ellie. I think maybe what he tells me carries a little more weight that something he might have said to you ten years ago.”

“I’m not talking ten years ago. I’m talking last month at his parents’, when J.J. and Julie came in from Jersey with the new baby.”

Confusion knots her brows. “Where was I?”

“I dunno, in the bathroom, maybe? Anyway, Luke came into the kitchen, holding the baby. Said the only thing that could make it better was if the baby was his.”

Her fingers tighten around the glass; she lifts it, remembers the butts floating in there like dead fish, clunks it back down. “I don’t believe you.”

“You can ask Frances. She was there.”

We stare at each other for several seconds, then she awkwardly skootches out of the booth, grabbing her coat and punching her arms through the sleeves. “I always thought I could count on you,” she says, her words trembling. “Just goes to show how much I knew.”

She throws money down on the table, then grabs the bakery box with Luke’s Napoleons and storms out. Without even a hint of a stagger.

I ache with that dull pain that comes from being torn between wishing you could turn back the clock and acceptance that you can’t. I slide out of the booth, slip my coat back on and settle up with Jose. For a second or two, I consider leaving the éclairs—they seem tainted now, somehow—then reason prevails and I return to the booth to retrieve them. I cram on my hat and button up, almost looking forward to the slap of frigid air in my face.

On autopilot, I start back home, huddled against the cold, my own thoughts not much less screwy than Tina’s are right now, I don’t imagine. I’m shattered that there’s no way I can be objective about this, whether I understand—in theory—her dilemma or not. In fact, it stuns me, how much I’m against her having an abortion. Because doing it behind her husband’s back…how is that right? But if she tells him…

I know Luke. There’s no way he’d ever make Tina have that baby if she really didn’t want it. But it would kill him, I know it would, if she didn’t.

Hunger, cold and confusion have joined forces in an attack at the base of my skull. I quicken my pace as if I can outrun this irritable, judgmental, hypocritical person trying to take over my body. All I want right now is my grandfather’s house and my brisket and my kid and, if I hurry, Will and Grace—

A hand snakes out of the darkness and grabs my wrist, spinning me around as I let out a scream loud enough to reach Yonkers.

chapter 4

“Jesus, Ellie!” Luke winces, letting me go. “You trying to deafen me or what?”

“What did you expect, skulking in the shadows like that! I nearly peed my pants—!” My eyes go wide. “Were you following me?”

“No, numbskull, I was following my wife—”

“Who is out there, please?” heralds a delicate, musical voice from several houses away. We glance up to see a tiny silhouette standing on her top step, haloed by a yellowish light. “Ellie Levine? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Patel,” I say, moving closer so she can see me, shielding my eyes from flamingo spotlights. “It’s me. And Luke.”

“Luke? My goodness, you two gave me a fright!”

“Sorry, Mrs. P.,” Luke calls out. “I just startled her, I guess. It’s okay.”

The woman shuffles back inside her front door as Luke grabs my arms and crosses the street, making me hotfoot it beside him. Like all the Scardinares, Luke’s not particularly tall—maybe five-eight—but he’s built like Fort Knox and he’s got a grip like iron. Especially when he’s pissed. Which is my guess, at the moment.

“Where’re we going?”

“Back to your place. I’m freezing my ass off out here. What’s in the box?”

“Tina brought me éclairs. You’re getting Napoleons. Which she expects you to be home for when she gets there,” I point out. The cold has exponentially expanded the Coke in my bladder, my urgent need to pee distracting me from the potentially disastrous track this conversation could take if I’m not careful. Not that I have any intention of blabbing her secret, but Luke has been able to see inside my brain before we were potty trained.

Maybe I shouldn’t think about potties right now.

“So if you knew where we were,” I say, “why didn’t you just come inside?”

He snorts. “Like she’d be real happy to know I followed her, for one thing. And like it would’ve done any good, for another. I figure I’ve got a much better chance worming the truth out of you—hey!”

I may be short, but these thunder thighs come in handy for sudden stops.

“And if that’s what you really think, buster—” I say, peering up at him from underneath the slouched beret, my arms crossed—sorta, this coat is kind of bulky “—you can just haul your butt right back home.”

He gives me one of his sullen, hooded looks, shakes his head and turns back around, continuing down the block. I wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck and trudge after him. When we get to my steps, he stops, his breath puffing in front of his face.

“Can I come in?”

“I told you, I’m not—”

His gaze slams into mine, knocking my breath on its butt.