Speak for Me Read online

  Speak for Me

  DEBORAH ROGERS

  1

  I’m going to be sick. I stare into the wide-open mouth of the toilet bowl and wait. Nothing happens. I don’t have time for this. I’ve got work to do.

  I sit back and try to gauge whether or not it’s safe to return to my desk. It’s difficult to tell. A few weeks back, I decided I was okay and then ended up vomiting in the breakout area by the lift. In a potted plant. A yucca, I think.

  My co-workers used to come and check on me. There would be this soft rap on the bathroom door—Sally from reception or Mike the young prosecutor who sat in the desk next to mine or John Liber my boss. Hey, kiddo, how you doing in there? Everything okay? I’d call back I’m good, thank you, John, even though I wasn’t. And they’d leave me alone again. Until I’d emerge sometime later, pink-faced and clammy and smelling of breath mints.

  It’s sweet, really. The way everyone cares.

  I never knew pregnancy could be this bad. Six weeks until the baby comes and I’m still gripped by these sudden, overwhelming bouts of nausea. Originally, my obstetrician, Dr. Sandy Liu, said it was likely the nausea would go away in the first trimester. But it never did. In later check-ups, Sandy said that sometimes these things happen and no one knows why. That some women have easy pregnancies and others have hard ones. She said the baby was growing normally and that was all that mattered. Essentially, Sandy was telling me to suck it up and deal with it. So I did. For these past seven-plus months, I’ve learned to live with the nausea just as you might learn to live with an ingrown toenail that flares up in an occasional and inconvenient way.

  And now there’s this thing with my blood pressure. Awhile back I got dizzy and Ethan panicked and insisted I get checked out and now I have to wear this stupid heart rate monitor. I feel like a prisoner with this clunky black thing on my wrist—on home detention for the crime of being pregnant. It’s like a Fitbit on steroids and looks more appropriate for a mega-endurance athlete than an expectant mother. The thing is super sensitive, too. I only have to cough and the monitor emits a frantic, piercing beep, which never fails to startle me. Pretty counterproductive as far as I’m concerned. But I wear it because it makes Ethan feel better.

  Me being pregnant has definitely brought out his paternal side, that’s for sure. He hovers around me like I’m made of glass. Oh, I know he tries his best to restrain himself, but I feel his eyes on me all the time, trying to anticipate my every need, readying himself to open a door or hand me a cushion when mostly I just wish he would leave me alone.

  On the other hand, I have to admit there are undeniable benefits to having a personal butler—like getting a warm bath drawn for me every night, hour-long foot massages, and midnight convenience store runs for Little Debbie snack cakes and double cheese Doritos. But what I really want is to get back to normal. To have my body be my own again. And I honestly think I might scream if one more person offers me their seat.

  I haven’t told anybody, but I’ve wondered if the upset stomach and blood pressure issues are anxiety-related rather than baby-related. If my mind is up to its old tricks again. That dreadful obsessive-compulsive disorder which drove me to repeatedly check my windows and locks had all but vanished when Rex Hawkins was finally captured. But that didn’t mean anxiety couldn’t rear its ugly head in other ways, did it? Is it possible that I have some sort of internal fear I’m not processing consciously? Is my body trying to tell me that something is still broken inside my head?

  Last Thursday I went to see Lorna about it. Nobody knows this. Not even Ethan. I felt compelled to go because every night for an entire week, I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking about Lorna’s pretty gray-blue Persian rug. It had been well over a year since our last session. That had been a fun one because we’d celebrated the fact that I had not checked my windows and doors for six months by having an afternoon tea of gluten-free raspberry and white chocolate muffins courtesy of the bakery downstairs from her office. I remember eating and joking and casting looks around her office, feeling like I’d somehow graduated, that I would never return to this place, with its low-hanging, teal-trimmed curtains, comfy sofa with the stylish mauve cashmere throw, and canisters of Japanese lime loose-leaf tea sitting on the sideboard.

  But the 3 a.m. Persian rug disruptions were like a prod in the chest. An awakening of sorts. I’d heard somewhere that if you wake up thinking of something at 3 a.m., pay attention because that’s God trying to send you a message. So I went to see Lorna. If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. Her face was its usual study of calm, non-judgmental self-possession.

  “How have you been?” she said, folding her hands into her lap.

  I told her I might be experiencing symptoms of anxiety. I told her I’d been waking up thinking of her gray-blue Persian rug. I told her I could be getting messages from God.

  “I see.”

  “I’m joking about the God thing,” I said.

  Perhaps you’re internalizing things, she said. Internalizing what? I countered. I couldn’t be happier about becoming a mother. Sure, it was a bit of a shock at first—Ethan and I had only been married for three months when I found out I was pregnant—but once I got used to the idea, I was overjoyed. Well, overjoyed might be pushing it. Excited and scared, because who knew what kind of mother I would make? Did I really have what it takes to bring up a child? But I wasn’t alone, was I? I had Ethan.

  “What else is going on in your life?” asked Lorna.

  She gave me a look and we both knew who she was talking about. Rex Hawkins.

  I glanced away. “It’s got nothing to do with him. I’m a different person now.”

  “We all process anxiety in different ways, Amelia. Are you taking time for yourself, taking things easy, preparing for the birth?”

  She fired questions at me and I felt defensive. Like I was being a bad mother already.

  “It’s difficult,” I said. “With work.”

  “Work?”

  “The plea deal interview is soon.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  The plea deal. The one where Rex Hawkins required that I, his one and only surviving victim, be there to record his confession.

  “How do you feel about seeing him again?” she asked.

  The image of me and Rex Hawkins sitting in a tiny room flashed before my eyes and my blood pressure monitor bleeped.

  “What I feel is the need to close this thing before the baby comes. To make sure she grows up in a world where men like Rex Hawkins are behind bars for the rest of their lives. To make sure that the victims’ families finally get some peace of mind about what happened to their sisters and daughters. To make sure someone speaks for them.”

  “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

  I shifted my eyes away from hers. “I can’t back out now. Besides, he won’t talk to anyone else. There’s no plea deal without me there. He insisted.”

  Lorna nodded. “You feel responsible.”

  “I’ve been given the responsibility whether I like it or not.”

  “You could say no, put you and your baby first.”

  I paused, feeling slightly hurt. “You’re judging me.”

  “Is that how it feels?”

  I reached for my cane and hoisted myself to my feet.

  “You don’t understand, Lorna.”

  “No?”

  My cane wobbled under my grip as I turned to look at her.

  “Coming here was a mistake.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “I can deal with things myself.”

  “Okay.”

  I looked at her, exasperated. “Stop saying that.”

  I turned for the door and glimpsed myself in the large picture book window. It looked like I had a giant eight-pound
beach ball in my stomach. I placed a hand on it, felt the slight tremor beneath my palm.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said.

  Lorna paused and looked at me with her calm brown eyes. “Amelia, I think you’ll make a wonderful mother.”

  Now as I rise from my knees to flush the toilet, I think of what I said back there in Lorna’s office. We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. Before I managed to escape out the door, Lorna had urged me to see her weekly until things had “settled down.” But I’m not that person anymore. I have gone through the eye of the needle. I can stand on my own two feet (albeit with the assistance of a cane). I can look that son-of-a-bitch in the eye and get him to tell me the truth about what he did to those other women. Those other women who, just like me, trusted a handsome stranger and made the biggest mistake of their lives.

  I grab my cane from where it’s resting in the corner of the cubicle. Now the time has arrived. Tomorrow I will be seated across from Rex Hawkins, two years to the day since I shot him in my apartment. I used to wish I had killed him. That dark, vengeful part of me wanted him to rot in the ground. That dark part of me also wanted it to be my bullet that put him there.

  But he had lived and I realize now that it is better that way because this thing is bigger than just me and my desire for revenge. Others are relying on me to see that justice is done for their loved ones. I brush down my hair with my hand and reach for the bathroom door. Getting justice for the victims is exactly what I intend to do.

  2

  I spend the next two hours absorbed in the Rex Hawkins case files. Checking and rechecking the facts. I want to be prepared for tomorrow. It’s my one and only shot to make sure he admits everything he’s done. If he tries to be evasive or misleading or inconsistent, I want to be able to hold him to account, to point out his errors and lies and omissions. The only way I can do that is if I know the case inside and out. Every sad and disturbing detail. Every name and every face. Every rape and every murder. I need to know what he’s done even better than he does. The families are relying on me. The victims, too.

  I’m just about to review the location maps again when I notice a missed call from Ethan. I look at my watch and my heart drops. I was supposed to meet him at a property viewing twenty minutes ago.

  I find myself hesitating. I should really go. And I should really go now. But there’s still so much work to be done here. I lift the phone and punch in his number. My heart thumps as I wait for him to answer. I hang up. I can’t let him down. Not again. That would be twice in a row. He deserves better than that so I gather up my things, shove my files and laptop into my satchel, shrug into my coat, and head out the door.

  He’s waiting on the steps of the brown brick triplex in Queens. He’s in profile looking up at the steel blue sky shrouded in low-lying clouds. I feel a sudden surge of love. Such a handsome and giving man. Broad-shouldered with dark hair skimming his jacket collar and a faint scar above his top lip, he reminds me of an old-fashioned film star. A modern-day Jimmy Stewart or Burt Lancaster. Well-mannered and honorable. A man who could draw you in with his kind, warm eyes.

  He smiles when he sees me and my cane clapping up the street toward him. When I reach him, he takes me in his arms.

  “Hello, lovely.”

  “God, Ethan, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time.”

  He’s kind enough not to mention that this isn’t the first time. He doesn’t need to. I’m well aware of how much I find myself apologizing these days.

  “You’re here now,” he says.

  My heart monitor bleeps. Ethan frowns but I head him off at the pass.

  “I was rushing from the subway.”

  I see him fighting not to say something.

  “I’m fine. Really, I am.” I smile and clasp his arm in an effort to reassure him I’m not about to go into labor or drop dead in the street.

  Just then the real estate agent drives up in his metallic blue Tesla. In three deft movements, he angles the vehicle into an extremely tight parking space wedged between a dirty white pickup and a vintage Porsche Carrera. He emerges impeccably dressed in a dark charcoal three-piece suit and brown-blond hair coiffed to perfection. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

  “Thanks for the heads-up about running late,” he says, extending a nicely moisturized hand first to me then to Ethan. “I’m Peter.”

  He gestures for us to follow him up the steps to the glossy black painted door and explains that he’s normally a commercial agent but is doing this viewing as a favor for a friend. New York is all about doing favors for friends. Peter opens the door with a key code and we follow him inside until we come to the first apartment on the lowest floor of the triplex.

  “You guys know this listing needs work, right?” says Peter, before opening the door.

  I shoot Ethan a look. He never said anything to me about work.

  “Let’s just check it out,” whispers Ethan.

  Peter unlocks the door, moving aside so Ethan and I can enter first, and we step into what is a relatively large foyer and kitchen. The area is well-lit with the last rays of sun streaming through the huge bay window, but the space has little else going for it. Floorboards are missing and there’s a massive hole in the wall. Not to mention the fact that some vandal has spray-painted the word “Blight” on the far wall above the radiator.

  “I see someone has started the renovations already,” jokes Peter.

  We wander into a living room with extraordinarily high ceilings then take the stairs up to the main bedroom, which is sunny and small. Again more absent floorboards, although this time the cause looks more like wood-rot than vandalism. There’s also a water stain in the right-hand corner of the ceiling.

  Next to the bedroom there’s another small room, just big enough for a single bed and maybe a chest of drawers. What appears to be mold is growing up one side of the wall near the tiny window. I glance at Ethan, who looks entirely captivated by the house. It’s oozing from his pores, how badly he wants a home. So badly, that even this dilapidated money-pit will do.

  Peter looks down at the specs sheet. “Great area. Easy access to transportation, subways and crosstown buses to any location in the City. Guarantors allowed, pets allowed, and sublets allowed. All with board approval. Laundry is in the building. The listing comes with its own basement. Which is a total bonus. Although, I understand there’s currently a tenant living down there. He’s got a lease. I’m not sure what the term is.”

  I raise an eyebrow at Ethan. He’s a cop and I’m a prosecutor and I know we are both thinking the same things. Serial killer. Drug dealer. Insane child rapist.

  Peter looks up from his sheet. “So that’s about it. I’ll leave you folks alone for a minute to discuss.”

  He withdraws to the other side of the room and checks his phone and pretends not to listen.

  “So what do you think?” whispers Ethan, looking at me hopefully.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Well, sure, it needs work. But I’m not afraid of that.”

  “Ethan, you can’t be serious. We agreed that any house we buy has got to be fit for occupation with no major work required. We can’t do renovations with a newborn.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Umm. Rotting floors. Mold. Lunatic tenant.”

  Ethan looks at me and exhales. “Yeah. You’re probably right. It’s not a good fit.” He looks around, longingly. “Still, the potential…”

  I rub his arm. “We’ll get there.”

  *

  Later, as we are waiting to be served at Bartholomew’s, a cheap eats place that has quickly become a favorite while we’ve been saving for a place of our own, Ethan catches me checking the time on my watch.

  “Want to get back to work, huh?” he says.

  I feel a slight pull. I really need to review the files again but I don’t have the heart to say so after his disappointment with the house.

  “It can wait.”

  The waitre
ss arrives and takes our order. A plate of chili with an extra side of guacamole for Ethan. Quesadilla, no cheese for me. I’m staying away from dairy and shellfish and most other foods these days because of the baby. There’s a gigantic list of no-go items taped to my refrigerator. I was shocked when Dr. Liu first gave it to me.

  “Even bean sprouts?” I had said. “What’s wrong with those?”

  “Salmonella,” Sandy replied.

  “And caffeine? You’re kidding me?”

  “A high caffeine intake during pregnancy has been shown to restrict fetal growth and increase the risk of low birth weight.”

  “But I can’t function without coffee.”

  Sandy had smiled. “Just limit it to one a day.”

  So somehow my four-cup-a-day habit became one cup a day. My salads went without sprouts, and my quesadillas went without cheese. To make up for it, I plan on having a massive caffeine, sprout, and cheese party once the baby is born.

  I stare at the bowl of tortilla chips and salsa in the center of the table.

  “I should be okay with those, shouldn’t I?” I say to Ethan. “No listeria hiding in there.”

  Ethan frowns at the salsa. “I don’t know. Depends on what’s in it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Come on, Ethan. It’s just tomato.”

  I take a chip and dip it in the salsa, put it in my mouth, and crunch. It’s good. Spicy.

  “So, tomorrow,” he says.

  I exhale. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

  I reach for my glass of water, feel the coolness against my fingertips. He doesn’t want me to go.

  “I have to do it, Ethan, you know that,” I say gently. “He insisted it be me.”

  The truth is, I want to go.

  He nods and looks away. “You feel prepared?”

  I take a sip of water. My lips are a little numb from the salsa. There must have been chili in it.

  “One last review of the material tonight and I will be.” I lower my eyes and my voice. “The confession is likely to take the full week. There’s a lot to cover.”

  He nods but doesn’t say anything.

  “I’ll only be a few hours away,” I say.