“Would you like a tour of the kitchen?”
“God no,” I mumble, thinking of their greasy food.
“Hey, aren’t you Sarah St. John from Fresh Tracks?”
“No,” I say.
She laughs uncomfortably, then looks frightened, hurt, and lastly, pissed off. We follow her. She throws down four menus on a table in the middle of the restaurant, right next to a table of five, four of whom happen to be licking their fingers. The father at the table presses his finger onto his plate, then puts it into his mouth. The girl looks on disgustedly and I’m assuming she’s the girlfriend of the boy whose thigh she’s squeezing. He looks at her and smiles with a full mouth. “What?” he asks, but she just shakes her head.
I take a seat and my dad sits next to me and begins to pat my back, something that annoys me at first but then soothes me.
For some reason Kit has placed Cully’s day planner in the middle of the table between the two round candles that are creating an oddly romantic light. She moves it so that it’s straighter. “Sorry,” she says. “I arrange. I’m always feng shuiing . . . ”
My dad clears his throat. He fingers the ridge of his jaw, starting from behind his ear and working his way to his chin. I know he’s about to say something either mildly intelligent or intensely confounding.
“Sometimes,” he says, “I feel my face, making sure it isn’t becoming elongated, like a caricature of a sad man.”
Billy nods as if this isn’t a bizarre thing to say.
“Sometimes,” he continues, “I think Sarah expected me to break years ago—”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“That my wife’s death or my job would either break me or turn me into a fool, yet I’ve managed to strike a balance. Sheila is gone, but I’ve made it, and I’ve been happy, and while I’ve worked hard all my life, I’ve played too, and before the horrific present, have felt pretty well armed against the latter-life crisis.” He looks at Billy, as if for confirmation.
“I don’t get too depressed, I haven’t suddenly taken up yoga or groped or eloped with a waitress—”
“Or bought a yellow Boxster,” Billy says.
“Or decided to write a memoir,” my dad says.
Kit blinks and furrows her brow. She catches me looking at her, but I don’t look away.
“Life is my Rubik’s Cube,” my dad says. “When I can’t do it, I put it down.”
I’m amused by Kit’s efforts to feign comprehension.
“I am not, however, equipped for this,” my dad says, his hands including all things present and all things unseen. “I can’t even understand what this is.”
I put my hand on his thigh. His voice wavered.
“I have been beaten,” he continues. He clears his throat in a way that only men can do without being gawked at. “I’ve been sucker punched by life. My late wife I could do. I was prepared, I had time going in, and I’ve had lots of time going out. But my grandson’s death is something I can’t—”
His voice again. My throat. It’s like I’ve swallowed down a jigger of vodka. There aren’t many things worse than seeing your dad fight back tears and collapse. Billy too; he looks like he’s fighting a sneeze.
“So,” my dad says. “Let’s talk, once again. A little bit faster now. I’m prepared for both a very simple story or a very complicated one, but let’s walk a straight line.”
Kit remains still and quiet, with a wilting and pained expression. The sun is bright in the doorway. It ricochets off the snow that’s glossed the roofs.
I’m about to pardon my father, explain that he likes speeches, always has, always will, but her silence is bothering me. She has had ample time to spit it out, interrupt and save him.
“Is it his?” I ask her.
Of course it’s his.
She nods. My eye twitches and I’m embarrassed and then can’t believe I’m able to feel something as small as embarrassment at a time like this, but for some reason my eye jerking and fluttering is important.
“I thought you said you weren’t dating?” I laugh, hating the sound of my bitter laughter. I look quickly at my father. He puts his hand on my back again, lower this time, a secret gesture like a ventriloquist’s hand. “I thought you said you weren’t his girlfriend?”
Billy looks like I’ve said something naive, and then his eyes light up. “Lux,” he says. “Cully told me he liked a girl named Lux.”
“My last name,” Kit says. She looks heartened though weakened by this. “That’s what he’d call me sometimes.”
My dad moves his hand off me and I feel a coldness on my back and a deep sadness. Lux, I say to myself and keep repeating it, letting it drum in my head.
“So you were or weren’t his girlfriend?” I ask. My dad puts his hands on the table.
“Please, Dad, I need to have some kind of control over this.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You did in your own silent way,” I say.
“How am I supposed to control that? Here—I’m sending you supportive silent thoughts. Here comes one now! But since you’ve given me the floor, may I offer one suggestion?”
“See!” I say. “I could feel you suggesting! Wanting to suggest!”
Kit shifts her gaze between me and my father, back and forth, back and forth. I feel like I’m in one of those movies where the criminals begin to argue and shoot each other, allowing the victim to back away slowly toward the exit.
“I just think you should be quiet,” he says. “That’s all.”
“I know, I know,” I say, and then explain to Kit. “He has always told me to be quiet. After your speech, let the other person ramble on. It puts you in a position of power; it’s a more effective way of gathering information, but I can’t help it just now. My mouth runneth over or whatever.”
“Keep things relevant, darling,” my dad says.
“This is relevant! I’m very confused right now. First I find he’s a drug dealer.”
“Not really,” Kit says.
“Who cares if the boy slung some Mary Jane here and there,” my dad says.
“I care!” I see our waitress heading toward the table and I quickly say, “And now he’s impregnated a waitress!” I look at Kit and she brazenly shakes her head as though I’ve made a false accusation.
“What can I get for ya?” the waitress asks. “Do you all need more time or . . .”
“Yes, more time,” I say.
“No worries,” she says.
“Actually I’ll take a Bloody Mary,” I say.
“That sounds good,” Billy says. “I’ll have the same.”
“Sure thing,” our waitress says, then pivots soldier-like to the table beside us.
“I’m not a waitress,” Kit says.
“I know,” I say. “I didn’t mean it that way. Even if you were . . . I just blurted it out, okay? Strike it. God, I hate when people say, ‘No worries’!”
“Why don’t we get back to the matter at hand,” my dad says.
“Just what is the matter at hand?” I ask.
“Kit is pregnant with our son’s child,” Billy says.
“Our son? You shouldn’t even be here. This has nothing to do with you.”
Billy gives me a challenging look. “He’s my son,” he says. “Just because you wanted me to have as little to do with him as possible because—”
“Oh, please,” I say. I look to my dad for some support. He crosses his arms and gazes toward a murky side window.
“You act as though I walked out on him,” Billy says.
I shake my head to indicate the futility of this conversation, but really I have no comeback. I know he’s right and don’t know how to defend myself.
“Kit?” my dad asks.
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“It’s Lyle to you. Now, you’re okay. Let’s ease up. Let’s keep it simple. We’re all assuming it’s his,” my dad says. “Thus your . . . lurking around.”
“Yes,” she
says.
Her answer makes me disoriented, and there’s French music playing in the background, loud and mildly avant-garde, which adds to the confusion.
“How do we know?” I ask. I look across the table at her stomach covered with her napkin as if for proof of life.
Kit looks back at me with strength and conviction. “I can give you more details, but I really wouldn’t make something like this up. I’d rather avoid all of this.”
“But how am I supposed to know for sure?” I ask. “Not that you’re pregnant, but that it’s his.”
“Because I’m telling you,” she says. “And it has to be his because”—she lowers her voice—“there was never anyone else.”
“What?” I say. I almost blurt, How lame! but then she says, “Since I’ve lived here.”
My father and Billy look away toward the window.
“How can we trust you?” I ask. I bring my fist down hard on my thigh, a clumsy gesture I hope no one saw. I’m not sure if I’m stricken or hopeful and the conflict is making my chest hurt, my breath shallow.
“You can trust me,” she says. “But I understand if you don’t.”
“So he didn’t know . . . of course.” I hold my neck. Of course he didn’t know.
Our waitress feigns sneaking up to our table. She puts the Bloody Marys down.
“Are ya’ll ready to order or do you still need some more time?”
More time, more time. Tell us the specials. Tell us where you’re from originally. Tell me how to react to all this.
“The pancakes are awesome,” she says. “Or the crab cakes . . . fish and chips.”
We all look at one another, not knowing how to answer, just knowing we’ve made a bad decision. We can’t be here.
“We’ll take the fish and chips,” Billy says. “We can all share.” He shrugs at me, asking me to go along with it.
“No,” I say. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be eating. We have to go.”
“None of you want to order anything, or . . .” The waitress tries to meet one of our gazes.
“No,” I say. I pinch the skin between my eyebrows, thinking about the eggs I made, Kit puking on them and in my sink.
“I guess we won’t be staying after all,” my dad says to the girl.
“Just the check for the bloodies then?” she says through a clenched smile. She takes away our silverware, creating a violent clatter, then turns to the other table, the happy, ravenous one (minus the girlfriend), and says, “I’ll be right back with those shakes.”
Our table is silent, chastened.
“I hate when people say ‘bloodies,’ ” I say. “So gross.”
“Christ, Sarah, you’re real particular with language, you know that?” Billy says.
I know. Cully and I both were. We’d have gut reactions to words.
“Do your parents know?” Kit shakes her head. No. She looks surprisingly good now, rested, the sun hitting the left side of her face, showcasing her smooth, golden complexion. She is so young. I touch the small line on my face that runs from the side of my nose down to my chin.
“Where are you from again?” Billy asks.
“New York. Westchester. A town called Bronxville.”
He nods as if this information is useful.
“Are you . . .” I can’t complete the sentence. “Are you going to keep it?”
She puts her hand on the calendar and moves it, slightly. “I have an appointment tomorrow in Denver,” she says.
“Is this a prenatal appointment or something else?” I ask.
“Something else,” she says.
Billy and I look at each other across the table, then both take a sip of our drinks.
“I’m still a kid,” she says in a way that indeed sounds very childlike.
“Do you have anyone to help you?” Billy asks.
“Help me?” she asks.
“Yes, help you,” he says. “Drive you, care for you after—”
“No,” she says. “But it’s okay.”
It’s like the thought of her doing this alone has just occurred to her. How horrible, I think. I look at her hand on the table and have a brief urge to cover it with my own. She seems so close to me, yet so far away; someone I want near and someone I never want to see again. Why would she tell us this? I’m surprised by my restraint in not asking this out loud.
“We’ll take you,” my dad says.
As soon as he says this I know we will. I need to protest, but I can’t. I don’t see what the alternative could be. The alternative would be letting her go. Letting her leave us. We’d all feel guilty, as if walking by someone who was begging for help. We’d be left forever wondering.
“You don’t need to do that,” she says. “I’m fine, and . . . it would be hard . . . for you and me.”
“We’ll take you,” my dad says. “We’re going to Colorado Springs for the night. I would love if you came with us. We’ll get you your own room, of course. Then take you to your appointment tomorrow.”
“To her abortion appointment,” I say, seeing the other side of things and being okay with the guilt of passing someone by, avoiding eye contact. “Dad, realize what you’re offering here.”
“I can’t imagine you doing this alone,” he says to me. “Driving yourself, for God’s sake. That’s terrible. That’s just terrible.” There is something in his voice—something horribly fragile and full of sorrow.
I think of her alone in a waiting room. Nurses with scrubs that have My Little Ponies on them. Thin magazines that illustrate the stages of pregnancy with the silhouette of a woman, a fetus like a shrimp inside her womb, the words below saying things like, “Soon her neck will be complete. She’ll have fingerprints and will start to urinate.” Peanut, cherry, plum, orange, grapefruit: the growth of the fetus in the nine-month span. It’s such a short time in the scheme of things.
I remember being on my back, looking at those posters of the evolution, the tadpole fetus in the slim belly, then the belly jutting and harboring a third-trimester male, floating in an amniotic sea. I remember the loneliness, the vulnerability of lying there, waiting. I remember finding it absurd that nurses and doctors knocked, that they come in, then leave to let you undress in private, when soon everything will be exposed.
“Is that okay?” my dad says to Kit.
“You don’t have to,” she says. “But yes. It’s okay.”
Kit’s look toward him emanates gratefulness. Sometimes it’s good to be reprimanded, grounded. You give up responsibility. Let the adults take over. She wipes her mouth with her napkin even though she hasn’t eaten anything.
“You should eat something,” I say. I must be concerned for the baby, I realize. The baby needs to eat, and I wonder if part of me feels entitled to her body, as though it’s housing something of mine. Shouldn’t she ask for my approval?
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say.
“Yes, you can,” my dad says.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask Kit. There. I said it.
“No,” she says. “But yes.”
I take a sip of my drink. I once had the same dilemma—before Cully. I was sixteen. No, I’m not sure, but yes, I am. That’s exactly what I felt.
I make brief eye contact with my dad, then say to Kit, “I need to know though, what was your purpose?”
“What do you mean?” she says.
“I know we’ve been over this before, but especially with the new revelations, why didn’t you just knock on our door and tell us? What were your intentions?”
She takes a moment.
“It’s just something—once I knew he was rooted to someone—it was something I felt you should have.”
I catch my breath before realizing she’s talking about the calendar and the backpack, not the baby.
“I guess I was curious too,” she says, “to see who you were. To see who he belonged to.”
“Why did you tell us you’re pregnant?” Billy asks. The question makes me hold my breath.<
br />
“I don’t know,” she says. “I mean, I was never going to tell you. I didn’t plan on it, then I . . . I threw up, and then I told you guys. It came out. I felt comfortable with all of you . . . I . . . I don’t know why.”
Her shoulders sink, and I believe her. I believe the feeling of knowing what you’re going to do but not knowing exactly why. The reasons come to you eventually—these things you already know; they arrive. I consider the alternative—her not telling us, leaving us with his calendar, then circling back outside and out of our lives. I am inexplicably grateful.
“We passed the test,” Billy says, lightly. At first I take it lightly too, but a few moments later it’s something I question. Passed what test?
Was she checking us out, seeing if we’d work in her life, interviewing us for a very permanent position? Sometimes our reasons take a long time to get to us. Maybe she doesn’t realize that she’s looking for someone to change her mind.
Chapter 13
On Main Street tourists walk in a directionless way, taking scenic inventory. Parents of young children are less at ease, at the ready to reel them in and overcorrect. I hear a mom say, “Your tongue belongs in your body,” and remember the desperation I’d feel, sometimes the fury, when Cully misbehaved.
We must look like a family walking together down the street, past the crepe stand, which makes the air smell like buttery ice cream cones.
“Here’s this,” Kit says, handing me Cully’s calendar.
“I don’t need that,” I say. “Not here.” I glance around as though we’re doing something illegal.
Billy does something that surprises me: he hooks his arm around mine so that I feel like his square dancing partner. I’m grateful since I’m feeling really sick now: weak, nauseous, and weepy. Crying could be such a good way out of this, but I keep plodding on, leaning into him.
When we reach the car I say, “Get in,” to Kit as if she needed that direction. My dad gestures to the front seat. The men take the back. Kit and I both get in and put our sunshades down and this identical move embarrasses both of us.
I look out onto the bright road, the liveliness of the street, the shops full of sweaters with the images of snowflakes falling on prancing creatures. I pull out of my parking spot right when a boy with a snowboard tucked under his arm runs in front of the car.
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