A Maiden’s Prayer

Lindsay Foran

My hand is on the door handle when my cell vibrates in my jacket pocket. I  exhale deeply, look up towards the large brown building in front of me, and release the grip on the handle. It’s Anthony; he’s worried. But what if it’s not him? I don’t usually sneak off without telling him where I’m going. Maybe he didn’t notice I was gone. I sink back into my seat and pull out the phone. Home shines in comforting green letters across the screen. I’m relieved, but I quickly press the ignore button. Before I have time to put the phone back in my pocket, it’s vibrating again.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” the familiar male voice says on the other end. “How much longer will you be?” Anthony asks.

“Why? What’s wrong?” I hear Melissa crying in the background.

“Her fever has spiked again. I think she may need to go back to the hospital. Do you want to meet me there?” His voice is almost drowned out by Melissa’s cries. I take the phone away from my ear for a moment, my eyes fixed on the building in front of me. It’s too late to change my mind; I’m already here. I know I should say, yes, take her right now, I’ll meet you in 5 minutes, but the words are lost. Nothing comes out.

“So? Are you meeting me there, or what?”

“Yes, sorry, yes. Take her now. I’ll meet you as soon as I can,” I whisper, already regretting my lie.

“When? How long until you show up? Where are you anyway?” I hang up the phone without answering. Normally he’s the one to calm me down; I don’t know how to be him.

I quickly shut off my cell. I picture him loading Melissa into her car seat, packing her overnight bag, and trying to reassure her. I stare at my phone for a moment, thinking it might somehow still ring; he might call and beg me to come, tell me he can’t do this on his own, but we both know he can. In a couple of hours from now when I rush over to him as he sits in the pediatrics waiting room, I know he’ll have already forgotten that I was gone, missing even. We’ll sit side by side in silence, waiting for the doctor. At one time we used to hold hands, talk, engage one another, keeping our minds off Melissa, but that requires too much work now.

We’d met at a pub sometime during the winter semester of my third year. It had been a rumour on campus that the bartender at Tony’s Tavern was attractive, very flirtatious, but yet, no girl had been able to get him to bed. As soon as I’d heard this, I took it as a personal challenge to get his attention. The following Friday night, I strutted into the mostly female populated pub and quickly headed towards the bar to order a drink. The bartender glanced over at me and immediately left his other customers.

“I’ll have a Maiden’s Prayer, please.” He stared at me for a moment, bewildered. I smiled, biting down on my lower lip. It was a drink I’d heard on some TV show and I figured he’d have no idea how to make it. I wanted to see him squirm. He took off into the corner and I watched as he read something on his phone while looking through the bottles of liquor along the side of the bar. Finally, he placed the glass on the counter in front of me.

“You don’t come here often, do you?” he asked, grinning. “Around here, we call this drink Between the Sheets,” he said confidently, trying to hide the fact that I’d stumped him. I laughed, and sipped my drink slowly, ignoring it’s sour and almost repulsive taste. I spent the night pressed up tightly against the rough wood of the bar, ordering drink after drink, just so I could talk to him. When the bar was closing, he leaned in and asked me to stay.

“It’s my bar, I make the rules,” he gleamed as the last customer was ushered out. I had meant to leave, call a cab.

“I have a lot of work to do tomorrow, or I guess, today,” I said as I grabbed my jacket. I took hold of the door handle just as he was lunging for my arm. He swung me around and pulled me towards him. He ran his hand over my bare arms, across my face, brushed his thumb along my lips.

“You can’t leave now,” he whispered as he led me upstairs to his apartment.

But I can’t think of him now. I reach over to the passenger seat and grab my purse. I clutch it tightly to my chest, my eyes still fixed on the large building in front of me. It’s a cool evening for August. The sun is setting slowly, prolonging this already long day. I’ve been sitting in my car for forty minutes. Each time I talk myself into leaving, I think of Anthony, and I don’t know how I can go through with this.

We were up most of the night last night, listening to Melissa cry. “We should bring her in bed with us,” I’d suggested, but he didn’t answer. I thought maybe I should go get her, but I wasn’t sure what he wanted. When Melissa was first born we’d promised she’d never sleep in bed with us. “We need us time,” he’d said. Once I was sure she was asleep I’d reach for him, pull him onto me, bite into his shoulder as he kissed my neck. “How about a Between the Sheets?” I’d ask, laughing. But thinking of those nights is like remembering a movie, or a book I’d read; it isn’t my life anymore. I felt my chest grow tight, the tears chocking in the back of my throat. I rolled away from him and pressed my face into the pillow to muffle my cries. I wanted to make things better, but on nights like these, it seemed an impossible task.

A loud clatter in the parking lot draws me back to my surroundings. I look up and see a group of women, all in stilettos, crossing the parking lot. They walk in sync, and as they laugh their purses swing effortlessly by their sides. Some of them walk awkwardly, their knees bent like gazelles preparing to sprint. I stare down at my own high heels and wonder if I look like them. The shoes feel uncomfortable and confining on my feet. It’s been a couple of years since I’d worn them. The last time was probably at Melissa’s baptism. That was before the diagnosis, before the sleepless nights, the fighting. The sun has set, the parking lot emptying. On the road, a car accelerates quickly across the dark highway, leaving a cloud of smoke behind it like a long, frail finger reaching for something that’s already gone.

“There is one option left, but without drug coverage it’ll be expensive,” the doctor had told us over the phone three days ago. I listened on the line in silence. When Melissa was first diagnosed I immediately left my job to be at home with her. As months went by, Anthony eventually sold his bar for some extra money. We hadn’t realized that these actions meant that we would be left without personal drug coverage.

“We’ll figure it out,” Anthony said, as though reassuring the doctor. I knew this was impossible, knew that there was no money left. We spent the rest of the day roaming our home never wanting to bump into the other, fearing what might happen if our skin were to touch. That night we lay in bed for hours without talking until he finally rolled over and placed a hand on my back.

“We’ll make this work, we always do,” he whispered. I wondered if he’d been crying. His voice sounded distant, unfamiliar. “Whatever money we need, we’ll get.” He rubbed my back slowly for a few moments before rolling over. His touch felt foreign and not comforting.

“A Maiden’s Prayer would be really nice right about now,” I whispered with a slight giggle, unsure why those words were leaving my mouth. Silence. At one time, the mention of that drink would cause him to pounce on me like a hungry animal. “Don’t you mean, Between the Sheets,” he’d always say. But this time, nothing. A few minutes later I heard his deep snores. How he could sleep? I lay in bed trying to figure things out. We’d had charity events, borrowed from family, took donations, sold our belongings, moved to a smaller house, but it was never enough. I didn’t understand how he thought that it would be an easy problem to solve. If he had things figured out, why wasn’t he sharing them with me?

I reach for my cell again as though expecting the phone to reveal the answers to me. How can he possibly think that we’ll have the money in time? There is no more time, no more money. I grab onto the steering wheel and let my head drop onto the soft rubber. I hold my breath for a few moments, trying to suffocate the tears. I glance up and catch my own reflection in the rear-view mirror. This woman looks tired, dishevelled. The make-up she wears seems forced and fake. I want to reach out and touch her, comfort her, but I don’t know how. She seems too far-gone. In an attempt to escape this woman’s stares, I yank open the car door and step out into the dark parking lot. I listen, as though coming from miles away, to the clatter of my shoes as I march briskly towards the building’s entrance. I step into the lobby and am greeted by silence. I expected to find swarms of people coming and going, but the place is almost empty. I scan the room quickly. Off to the side there’s a large man with greying hair sitting at a table, his back to me. I grasp tightly onto the straps of my purse, inhale deeply, and walk over to him. I take a quick second to scan my reflection, this time in the large windows. From a distance, I watch as the image steps closer to the man. I want to run, leave the mirrored woman here with him, thinking maybe she can do the job for me; I believe for a moment that this is possible.

“Marc?” I ask as the large man turns quickly to face me, as though startled. “You’re late,” he grunts, still sitting in the chair. I nod silently as his eyes wander over my body, seeming to appreciate the tight folds of my black dress. I follow him to the elevator, neither of us speaking. As the doors close I catch sight of the car in the parking lot. I thinks that perhaps I still have time to run out, but as he reaches for my arm, I know it’s too late.

“I thought you weren’t going to show,” he says, letting his hands roam over my body. He touches me in a familiar way, yet I feel nothing. It is as though my skin is no longer attached to my body. As I watch the elevator lights jump from one floor to another, I wonder how this could have happened. I close my eyes for a moment and picture Anthony, the look of desperation on his face, and I know this is our only option. I hold my breath and wait.