Free The One That I Want by Allison Winn Scotch Page B

this house is perfectly adequate for a family of three, and even if it weren’t, it’s not like we could afford something bigger anyway
.
    I stare at the front door and hope that I will soon see myself waddle down the steps, toting a cup of hot tea, maybe chocolate chip cookies for their hard labor, signs that I am happy to leave this place—this house? this town—that I won’t resent Tyler for the disruption to my perfectly planned life. But there is no movement at the entryway, nothing but torpedoing water spilling from the gutters onto the porch
.
    Tyler and Austin ease themselves on the edge of the U-Haul, despite the rain, and both emit long, exhausted sighs. Tyler is just a few feet away from me, and I so want to call out to him, ask him for some answers
. What the hell,
I think, and give it a go
. “Ty-ler!”
But when I do, when I do call for him, of course, he doesn’t turn toward me, can’t hear me, can’t see me. I shout his name three times and then quit, defeated. And then I try one last time, screaming
, “Tyler,”
throwing the weight of my body behind it, and he flinches, yes, I see him flinch, and I wonder if I’m on to something
.
But then they stand and head inside, and I am once again left alone with only this open truck bed and the rain, pit-patting its way around my bubble
.
    Suddenly, the door flies open, and Darcy races out. She is wearing old leggings and flip-flops that must leave her toes instantly frigid, and though she needs a jacket in this dreary, freezing rain, she’s wearing only a sweatshirt. She flips her hoodie over her now dark purple hair and wipes her smeared mascara, making more of a mess down her cheeks than before. There is a stain down the front of her, wet and blotted, and it reminds me of a Rorschach test. She rushes past me, so close that she nearly brushes right against me, and I smell the unmistakable scent of vodka. I try to reach out to her, to grab her forearm and cling tight, but of course, I am helpless, and soon, she has fled down the driveway, down the road, gone
.
    I turn back and stare at the contents of the truck, of
my life,
so tidy, so easily mobile, and as the drops accelerate from a passing steel cloud, thundering down in sheets upon sheets, I wonder if it is possible that I might actually drown
.

seven
    “J esus, Tilly, wake up!” Someone is rubbing pepper beneath my nose, and a burning sensation sparks up through my nostrils.
    “Ow! Stop, stop!” I wave my hands in front of my face and push myself into a sitting position. The back of my head is pulsing, and I run my hands over my scalp; a monstrous welt is growing like an infected zit. My eyes are paperweights, but I force them open to find Susanna and Darcy crouched beside me.
    “What are you doing here?” I say; my voice is sandpaper.
    “We have to get you to the hospital,” Susie says.
    My eyes scurry around me.
What is going on? What the hell is happening?
Slowly, my memory clicks on.
Why is Tyler packing up our house?
I swallow hard, my lunch, a drive-through hamburger, reappearing in my throat.
Oh, no. This can’t be good
. The memory of the first time this happened crests through me: my visions of my father and how I somehow saw the future that hadn’t yet un-spooled itself.
No, no, this is probably nothing. Yes, no, it’s nothing. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Two blackouts, two visions
. I fight back my gag reflex for the second time.
    Darcy rubs the nape of my neck, a feeble attempt to soothe me.
    Then I consider something more alarming: the vision itself.Tyler. The boxes. Why would I dream that we’re moving?
We’re moving? We can’t be moving! No, no, NO. This must be a fluke, must be some weird sort of hormonal reaction perhaps related to being pregnant. Yes! Yes, that’s it! I am pregnant, and as a result, my brain is spinning off the deep end
.
    “I think I might be pregnant,” I say. “I’m thinking that my hormones have gone haywire, and I bet it’s just that I’m