Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“I’m pregnant,” she admitted quietly. “I saw a doctor yesterday morning. I’m not sure how much of this is morning sickness, and how much of it is stress. Anyway, the kids don’t know yet about the baby. Jeff didn’t know, either. I never got a chance to tell him. . ” She started to cry again. She couldn’t help it. All her defenses were down, and she felt so horrible.

Before leaving, Chet reminded her that Jeff’s death was still under investigation. But Molly knew he’d probably chalked up everything she’d said as the paranoid ramblings of a sickly, hormonal, pregnant woman — just made a widow.

She felt so frustrated and useless. Poor Chris had to drive by himself to the coroner’s office and identify his father’s remains. And Erin couldn’t take much comfort in a stepmother who was bedridden, groggy, and throwing up every few hours. For both of them, more than anything, she wanted to climb out of bed and be strong again. Rachel and Trish were there on and off, but Molly couldn’t help feeling she’d let down Chris and Erin just when they’d needed her the most.

She wanted so much to call her mother. She missed her. And it would have helped to know if this severe morning sickness was something hereditary. Rachel was just about as far along in her pregnancy, and she admitted to feeling nauseous a lot of the time. But it didn’t seem to slow her down.

That Monday morning, the day before Jeff’s funeral, Molly told herself she had to get up no matter how awful she felt. The ginger capsules didn’t seem to do any good — in fact, they only made her sicker and groggier. So Molly decided not to take any. At 6:45, before anyone else woke up, she crawled out of bed, opened the window, and took several, deep fortifying breaths of the cold November air. Leaning on the banister, she managed to get downstairs to the kitchen, where she found a Sprite in the refrigerator and some deli ham. She made herself a cold ham and Swiss sandwich and gobbled it up at the breakfast table.

Outside, it was still dark. Inside, the house was quiet. For a few minutes, she managed to convince herself it was one of those mornings when Jeff was on a business trip, and the kids weren’t awake yet — and she had a few quiet moments before the morning rush to school.

To her amazement, she kept the food down. She was still a bit frail and once again relied on the banister for her slow ascent back up the stairs. She had every intention of making her bed, but she crawled under the covers again for a moment — and fell asleep.

The next thing she knew, her nightstand digital clock read 11:23 A.M., and she could hear the TV on in the family room. Molly forced herself to get up. A shower was too much of a commitment — even with her hair limp and greasy. She washed her face, put on a sweater and jeans, and then made her bed.

Down the hall, she checked Erin’s room to see if the bed was made. It wasn’t, and clothes were strewn on the floor. She’d do a load of wash. It wasn’t much, but she was taking baby steps. She gathered up Erin’s clothes, then paused and sat down in Angela’s rocker with Erin’s dirty clothes in her lap. Molly noticed yellow paint on the long sleeve of Erin’s pink pullover. There was a yellow smudge on her jeans, too.

Molly could see the shade of yellow wasn’t from Erin’s limited watercolor collection. It was artists’ oil paint, probably Naples Light Yellow. A six-ounce tube cost eighty-two dollars, plus tax.

She could see a few yellow stains on Erin’s door, too. Molly shook her head. “Damn it,” she murmured. Erin knew she wasn’t allowed up in the studio by herself, and using Molly’s paints was strictly verboten.

Molly got to her feet, and Erin’s dirty clothes fell from her lap to the floor. She stepped over them on her way to the hall. She noticed a pale yellow paint smudge by the knob of the attic door. Molly opened the door and told herself she couldn’t be mad at Erin, not now. For all she knew, maybe Erin had painted her a Get Well picture. She’d done that for her before, when she’d had the flu last January. But Erin had used her own paints then.

Molly climbed the stairs to her art studio and felt a bit dizzy by the time she reached the top. Catching her breath, she glanced around. Just past the easel and the back of her latest project — the cola ad — she spotted the tube of Naples Light Yellow. It was on the stool that usually held her water glass, soda, or coffee while she worked. The cap was off, and some of the paint had oozed out of the tube. She saw a thin paintbrush on the floor.

“Oh, Erin, for God’s sake,” she said under her breath. She moved toward the easel to clean up after her. That was when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Molly swiveled around and stared at her painting of the twenty partygoers through the ages drinking cola — and the yellow X slashed across it.

“Oh, no!” she cried, a hand over her mouth. She automatically turned away — toward the bookcase. Then she realized her painting wasn’t the only thing that had been destroyed up here. On one shelf, blotches of yellow paint haphazardly ran across several of the elephant figurines. A few of the glass and china ones had been smashed with a putty knife that lay on the floor among the broken shards.

“No, no, no,” Molly sobbed. “God, how could she?” Some of those elephants had belonged to Charlie.

She staggered down the two flights of stairs to the family room, where Erin was in her pajamas, sprawled on the sofa, snacking on a Fruit Roll-Up and watching a cartoon on TV. “My God, Erin, why?” she asked, out of breath and half crying. “Why in the world would you do that?”

“Do what?” Erin sat up. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You ruined my painting!” Molly cried. “You know how hard I’ve worked on that. I’ve spent hours and hours on it—”

“I did not!” Erin screamed. “I didn’t do anything to your dumb old painting!”

“And you destroyed a whole shelf full of my elephants! Are you going to deny that, too? Why would you do something so hurtful? Are you mad at me? Is that it? You know you’re not allowed up in my studio, and yet you went up there and—”

“I didn’t go up there! I didn’t do anything!” Tears in her eyes, Erin glared up at her.

Molly felt a wave of nausea, and she took a deep breath. She plopped down in the cushioned chair beside her. “Okay, I–I understand you’re very upset,” she said in a shaky voice. “And I realize you might be angry at me because I’ve been so sick lately — or maybe you somehow blame me for what happened to your dad. Whatever it is, we can talk about it. But first, you need to own up to what you did. Now, don’t lie to me, Erin. You went up to my studio. You broke some elephants, then you took a tube of yellow paint and you painted a big X—”

“I did not!” Erin shrieked, jumping up from the sofa. She threw down her Fruit Roll-Up. “You’re the liar! I didn’t do anything to your stupid painting! I hate you, I hate you!” Crying, she ran out of the room and charged up the stairs.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Molly turned and saw Chris had come up from the basement. She heard Erin’s bedroom door upstairs slam shut. She rubbed her eyes. “Your sister decided to touch up the painting I’ve been working on for the last two weeks,” she said. “I guess she has some unresolved anger toward me — though I guess she figured out a way to resolve it. Go on up and take a look. My painting’s ruined. She also destroyed about a dozen of my elephants. Some of those I’ve had since I was her age.” Molly found a Kleenex in the pocket of her jeans, and she blew her nose. “I’m sorry I’ve been so ill the last two days. I can’t help that. I know how you and Erin must feel. This is a time when you’ve really needed me to step up to the plate. And I’ve let you down. I understand if you’re angry and confused. . ”