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Authors: Jordan E. Rosenfeld
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at her own behavior.
“Oh Gracie, I am so sorry!”
She puts her hand out but I wave her away and help myself up to standing, painfully.
“I behaved like a total cu—” she begins.
I wave at her to stop, then grip my purse more tightly to me. “Let’s just get home. I’m exhausted.”
“ Of course.” She nods vigorously. She seems to have sobered up, or maybe I was imagining she was drunk—I don’t want to dwell on it. The idea that she could have said those things to me while sober is worse.
Marly drives us home after agreeing to my lay person ’s sobriety test—walking a straight line and reciting the alphabet backwards. I almost forget everything that happened as we hit The Strip now, the gin in my veins making me feel as though I’m floating. The first thing that registers is light, neon and…moving. It pulses, shimmers, glows from the mammoth buildings like the world’s biggest candy jar full of colored light, announcing shows and services, girls and adventure.
“ It’s like a bizarre dream full of symbols that add up to a meaning I should be able to understand,” I say, almost to myself.
“ Mmm-hmm,” Marly sounds deep in thought herself.
Most of our ride back to the apartment is silent. We both wince getting out of the car, though for different reasons—the parking garage smells like urine and garbage, assaulting my nose after the strangely perfumed scent of the casino.
“All kinds of shit shifts in your body when you’re preg—”
A man is suddenly standing behind Marly, taller than her. I scream and he darts forward, grabs me sharply. Pain disproportionate to his grasp assaults me, as though someone is jabbing me with a sharp stick. “Don’t fuck with me!” he says in a high, strained voice, and pushes me. Suddenly I am face-down on the hard cement of the parking garage. Terror flares an urgent pressure to my bladder. Marly’s scream sounds more angry than afraid, but it is soon muffled, as though behind a hand. I hope she bites him!
Marly shrieks, “The baby’s yours, okay? It’s yours!”
I hear fists or feet making contact with flesh, a guttural cry that is his and then his echoing retreat, footsteps slapping concrete. In the tepid amber light of the garage Marly looks down at me in a daze of blood and tears. The tears look painful as they squeeze out the ravines between her swollen eye, down the slope of her misshapen, probably broken nose, and flow into the turgid river of blood that forms a gelatinous line down her neck. Fingertip-sized red marks bloom on her arms. Her hands protectively cradle her belly.
“We should go to the ER,” I say, sounding shrill and breathy.
“ No!” The word sounds painful; the top of her lip is split. I remember the pain and effort of trying to talk through my own burned lips.
“ At the very least, the police should photograph you. This is…this is a crime, Marly. You can’t let him treat you like this and get away with it!”
Marly only sobs harder at this. “No hospital. No police.”
“ Then let’s get upstairs.” I can always call emergency if I have to, I reason.
She nods. “I just feel so stupid.”
I am never more thankful for the elevator in the garage.
“Are there security cameras?” I ask, craning around for some.
Marly shakes her head. “Been broken for ages. Cheap fucking place.”
I get myself up to standing without her help, still bruised from my fall at the casino. She wobbles as she walks, one shoe on, the other dangling from her finger, its heel broken. We ride up to our floor in the silence, neither of us looking into the mirrored walls. She doesn ’t ask me for help, but I guide her nonetheless into bed, and fetch absurdly inadequate supplies: wash cloths (all unfortunately white), ice, Neosporin, and a bowl of lukewarm water. Wiping blood off her face and neck, the water in the bowl turns a disturbing crimson. She winces each time the cloth nears her nose.
Without much thought, almost in a
“Oh Gracie, I am so sorry!”
She puts her hand out but I wave her away and help myself up to standing, painfully.
“I behaved like a total cu—” she begins.
I wave at her to stop, then grip my purse more tightly to me. “Let’s just get home. I’m exhausted.”
“ Of course.” She nods vigorously. She seems to have sobered up, or maybe I was imagining she was drunk—I don’t want to dwell on it. The idea that she could have said those things to me while sober is worse.
Marly drives us home after agreeing to my lay person ’s sobriety test—walking a straight line and reciting the alphabet backwards. I almost forget everything that happened as we hit The Strip now, the gin in my veins making me feel as though I’m floating. The first thing that registers is light, neon and…moving. It pulses, shimmers, glows from the mammoth buildings like the world’s biggest candy jar full of colored light, announcing shows and services, girls and adventure.
“ It’s like a bizarre dream full of symbols that add up to a meaning I should be able to understand,” I say, almost to myself.
“ Mmm-hmm,” Marly sounds deep in thought herself.
Most of our ride back to the apartment is silent. We both wince getting out of the car, though for different reasons—the parking garage smells like urine and garbage, assaulting my nose after the strangely perfumed scent of the casino.
“All kinds of shit shifts in your body when you’re preg—”
A man is suddenly standing behind Marly, taller than her. I scream and he darts forward, grabs me sharply. Pain disproportionate to his grasp assaults me, as though someone is jabbing me with a sharp stick. “Don’t fuck with me!” he says in a high, strained voice, and pushes me. Suddenly I am face-down on the hard cement of the parking garage. Terror flares an urgent pressure to my bladder. Marly’s scream sounds more angry than afraid, but it is soon muffled, as though behind a hand. I hope she bites him!
Marly shrieks, “The baby’s yours, okay? It’s yours!”
I hear fists or feet making contact with flesh, a guttural cry that is his and then his echoing retreat, footsteps slapping concrete. In the tepid amber light of the garage Marly looks down at me in a daze of blood and tears. The tears look painful as they squeeze out the ravines between her swollen eye, down the slope of her misshapen, probably broken nose, and flow into the turgid river of blood that forms a gelatinous line down her neck. Fingertip-sized red marks bloom on her arms. Her hands protectively cradle her belly.
“We should go to the ER,” I say, sounding shrill and breathy.
“ No!” The word sounds painful; the top of her lip is split. I remember the pain and effort of trying to talk through my own burned lips.
“ At the very least, the police should photograph you. This is…this is a crime, Marly. You can’t let him treat you like this and get away with it!”
Marly only sobs harder at this. “No hospital. No police.”
“ Then let’s get upstairs.” I can always call emergency if I have to, I reason.
She nods. “I just feel so stupid.”
I am never more thankful for the elevator in the garage.
“Are there security cameras?” I ask, craning around for some.
Marly shakes her head. “Been broken for ages. Cheap fucking place.”
I get myself up to standing without her help, still bruised from my fall at the casino. She wobbles as she walks, one shoe on, the other dangling from her finger, its heel broken. We ride up to our floor in the silence, neither of us looking into the mirrored walls. She doesn ’t ask me for help, but I guide her nonetheless into bed, and fetch absurdly inadequate supplies: wash cloths (all unfortunately white), ice, Neosporin, and a bowl of lukewarm water. Wiping blood off her face and neck, the water in the bowl turns a disturbing crimson. She winces each time the cloth nears her nose.
Without much thought, almost in a
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