Expecting to Die

She felt something inside her shift, but she could do nothing about it. Yes,
she’d been pregnant, had even given Tyler the news less than two weeks earlier,
but now everything had changed. She’d been spotting and cramping and . . . a
deep sadness yawned within her. She hadn’t planned on getting pregnant. No!
Never! But it had happened. And though she hadn’t thought she’d wanted a baby
—Oh, God she was much too young to raise a child—she was disappointed, her
silly, romantic fantasies about a life with Tyler—destroyed. Now, they both
could go onto college and . . . and Tyler could marry Jo-Beth, the girl to whom
he was engaged. No, make that the bitch to whom he was engaged.
At that thought, Monica winced.
She’d been a fool. A silly, lovesick fool.
Carrying on, she rounded a final corner and spied a clearing, or what once had
been a clearing but was now filled with weeds and brush that caught in the
moonlight.
Then she saw it.
The dilapidated structure—once a chapel and now . . . now a trysting spot, the
place where she’d met Tyler.
Trysting spot? Seriously? Are you that deluded? You mean fucking place, don’t
you? Because that’s what it is, a nearly decrepit building that’s rotting away, a
hideout where you could fuck Tyler behind his fiancé’s back. You came to this
place to screw his brains out and possibly or even probably you knew you might
get pregnant, even secretly hoped that it would be so. Right? In the back of your
mind, you knew this might happen. Trysting spot? Oh my God. Get a grip,
Monica. Quit romanticizing it. What’s wrong with you? Call it what it is, for
crying out loud!
Would he be inside?

---

Waiting?
Thump!
She jumped at the sound. What was that? Was someone out here? Something?
A wild beast? What? Deer? Elk? Cougar? Maybe just a skunk or . . . Heart
thudding, she strained to hear, listened closely but heard nothing over the rush of
the wind and the ever-constant pounding of the surf. She stared into the woods,
the dark circle of twisted trunks and spreading branches that ringed the space in
front of the chapel. For that’s what it had been years before, half a century ago,
before the newer structure had been built closer to the other buildings of the
campground.
Holding her breath, searching the darkness, she saw no one. Nothing.
Whatever it had been was either gone, skulking off into the woods or silently
watching and waiting. It’s nothing. Just your imagination. Now, get on with it.
Her skin was still prickling, goose bumps rising as she skirted the open area,
then swallowing hard, her nerves stretched to the breaking point, she sprinted
across a stretch of silvery dry dune grass to the sagging porch. Her shoes scraped
against the sandy boards and as she tried one of the double doors, it fell open,
luring her into the even darker interior.
“Tyler?” she whispered.
No response.
She pulled the door shut behind her.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the cracked, tall window of
stained glass. The curved top of the panes were tucked high, under the rafters but
the window itself stretched nearly to the floor. A few of the panes were missing,
but for the most part, the window was intact and now there was enough to
moonlight slanting through the colored panes of a weeping Mary. It was too dark
to see the Madonna’s features tonight, but Monica knew them from memory,
from the lazy afternoons or early twilight hours when she’d met Tyler here.
“Ty?” she called again, moving through the broken pews and glancing at the
altar, still intact, though listing a little. “Are you here?” What a stupid question.
Obviously he was here if he could answer.
Nothing, but the whistle of the wind.
Did he stand her up?
Or was he playing with her? Hiding in the shadows?
“If this is a game, it isn’t funny,” she said and felt as if she wasn’t alone.
Turning slightly, she thought she caught a glimpse of a shadow, a darkness
skittering across the window. Oh. Jesus.
Her heart nearly stopped. “Ty?” she whispered again and licked her lips. She
made her way up the aisle between the pews, just like she would if she were a

---

blushing bride on the way to the altar, to pledge her life, her love to her groom.
In her mind’s eye the man waiting near the preacher would be Tyler. Of course.
But now, in this dark, dilapidated chapel, her fantasy was crushed, as dead as the
life she’d once been carrying. Her throat grew thick with tears, but she shrugged
off the case of the blues over what might-have-been. “I’m not kidding,” she said,
stepping nearer the altar. “If you’re here, we need to talk. I have to tell you that
—”
The toe of her running shoe hit something and she nearly stumbled, catching
herself by grabbing the back of a rotting bench. “What the—?” The rest of the
aisle had been clear but . . . She peered down in the darkness, but was unable to
see. “Ty?”
Nothing.
She pulled out her flashlight again and risked a quick bit of illumination.
Shining the beam at her feet, she saw that she’d nearly tripped over a foot. A
bare foot. A man’s foot.
She let out a gasp. “Oh, God!”
Heart hammering, she ran the beam of the light up a tanned calf and thigh,
past the man’s limp dick and upward across a hairy chest and neck to Ty’s face,
his blue eyes fixed as if staring at the rotting ceiling over the Madonna.
“Noooo!” she squealed, dropping the flashlight, her stomach lurching. “No, no
. . . oh, God, no!” Hyperventilating, her gaze fastened to the still form, she
backed up, her rubbery legs threatening to buckle.
Get a hold of yourself. He may not be dead. You have to check! Don’t be a
coward.
But he was gone, she knew it, her fears confirmed by the dark red stain
spreading beneath him. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
Shaking, she forced herself forward, inching toward his beautiful body. “Ty,”
she whispered. “Ty . . .” She felt to the uneven floorboards and eased between
the pews, feeling his flesh, cool to her touch, no response. This wasn’t
happening! This couldn’t be happening! Not to Ty. It had to be a dream! It had
to! She ran her fingers, along his chest. “Oh, God, Ty, please, please . . .”
Forcing her head to his chin, her ear to his nose, listening for any sign of breath,
she squeezed her eyes shut, her scraped knee wet with his still-warm blood.
Was there just the hint of a rasp, just a bit of air flowing? Please, God . . .
please!
“Ty,” she said next to his lips, but there was no response. Nothing. And the air
she’d thought she’d heard escaping from his lungs ceased to exist. “Come on.
Come on.” The blood was flowing slowly, so surely his heart was still pumping!
Or running because of gravity on the listing floor. “Ty, it’s me, Monica!” She

---

placed her fingers at his neck, searching for any sign of pulse, but he lay
unmoving, not even the whisper of a beat beneath her fingertips. “I’m so, so
sorry,” she murmured and tears welled in her eyes.
He was gone . . . never knowing that he wasn’t going to be a father.
She had to go, to get help, maybe an ambulance, though she knew deep in her
heart it was too late.
How had this happened? Why? Should she roll him over? Try to staunch the
blood or . . .
Scraaaape!
She looked up at the sound.
She wasn’t alone?
Her heart flew to her throat.
Fear spurted through her blood.
Friend or foe?
“Monica,” a voice growled from the shadows.
Her skin crawled in horror.
“I knew you’d come.”