Love in Vein

by Britt Morrow

  I’ve spent all week planning, and now I’m ready to go make my case. I borrowed gas money from Jeremiah - he willingly obliged when I told him it was to go see my girl back home. I can tell by the curious way he’s been eyeing me ever since the Sarah incident, that he recognizes the importance of my trip home even though I haven’t revealed the specific circumstances surrounding it.

  I’m driving at least twenty miles over the sixty-mile speed limit, and the truck is shuddering from the effort, but I’m on a mission. Possibly the most important one in my eighteen years of life.

  Charlie must have been watching out the diner window for me because she’s out the door as soon as I pull into the parking lot, tires squealing on the blacktop. I hope that means she’s eager to see me, and not just anxious to get this conversation over with.

  I’m not sure how to greet her, so I let her take the lead, trying to gauge her mood.

  “Hi.” She smiles tentatively, and I let out a sigh of relief. She doesn’t seem as distraught as she was last weekend.

  “It’s good to see you. I wanted to tell you that last weekend. How much I’ve missed you.” It feels good to finally admit it.

  “I guess I didn’t really give you much of a chance. I’m sorry I blindsided you like that.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m glad you told me.”

  “I’m not. It was selfish. I should have just kept it to myself, so you wouldn’t have to share in my guilt.”

  My heart sinks, she clearly hasn’t changed her mind.

  “Why are you doing it if you’ll feel guilty about it?”

  “Because the alternative is feeling guilty about stealing your dreams. And I guess I care more about you than I do about the idea of a baby. That’s all it feels like anyway, just an idea, nothing real yet.”

  I take her hand in mine. Her summer tan has faded quickly, leaving her much paler than usual. The veins in her wrist stand out in stark blue-green contrast to her pallor like lines on a map. I trace one lightly, wondering how it finds its way to her heart and, eventually, to the fetus.

  “My dreams have changed since I left.” I don’t know precisely how they’ve changed; I just know that she’s at the forefront.

  “I’m pretty sure diaper changes, projectile vomit, and sleep deprivation aren’t a part of them, though,” she counters sarcastically.

  “Not specifically. But being with you, and ultimately having a family together, is. I’ve missed you even more than I ever expected. Not having you with me takes the joy out of everything else.”

  She sighs deeply, rubbing at her eyes. They’re sunken and bruised looking, making me wonder just how much sleep she’s lost, tormented by the situation. Other than the first night we spent together at the lookout, when she missed her curfew, I’ve never seen her afraid before. Now, like then, I’m not sure what to attribute it to: the fear of bringing life into a world that has disappointed us both so much, or the fear of living with the decision not to.

  “You live in extremes, Levi. It’s always all or nothing.”

  She’s right, but also wrong. I do live in extremes, but I don’t think there’s an alternative. You win, or you lose. You stay, or you leave. You have a baby, or you don’t.

  “What’s wrong with that? I want it all: you, the baby, school.”

  “How are you going to make that work?” She asks, slowly and deliberately like she’s talking to a young child.

  I’ve anticipated her exasperation and figured out a plan, though.

  “I got a job stocking shelves at the IGA near campus. It pays pretty well, and I work nights so it won’t interfere with classes. By the time the school year’s over, and you’re ready to give birth, I’ll have enough saved up for us - all three of us - to move into a basement suite or something near campus. I can get a second job in the summer, and reduce my course load next year so I can work more. We can figure it out, Charlie.” I have to take a deep breath. I wanted to say it all quickly before she had a chance to interrupt me with more concerns.

  “Is that really what you want? To live in a basement suite with your girlfriend and a newborn? You’re supposed to be beer bonging and fucking cheerleaders.”

  “I want to be with you,” I reply firmly, before adding: “What do you want?”

  She looks out the window as if the answer might be out in the scraggly grass beyond Pete’s parking lot. I wish I’d chosen a better location for this conversation - the lookout, or the creek - somewhere with memories attached. I want her to remember how good we used to be together, the way we used to support and buoy one another. Instead, all we have for scenery is the cracked asphalt parking lot and the abandoned used car dealership across the street: a reminder of unfulfilled dreams and lost hope.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her uncertainty is crushing. I want her so unequivocally that the hardship involved doesn’t even matter. I can feel her starting to resist my grip on her hand, and I realize that I’ve been clutching at her so tightly that, when I finally release it, it’s an angry shade of red. I wonder if that’s how I’m making her feel: captured and angry.

  “I guess I just want a chance to do better, and I’m worried that this might be the only one.”

  I want to elaborate, to tell her that I’m worried that destroying the baby will also destroy us. Shared secrets can unite people, creating a bond of shame and suppression. Eventually, though, this same bond will begin to eat at the relationship, creating an irreparable rend. It will start slowly at first: resentment manifesting itself in passive-aggressive comments. With time, the chasm will widen - a decision like this requires a place to cast the blame. Passive aggression will finally give way to a blatant hostility that overwhelms any remaining affection.

  I can handle losing the baby. Like Charlie, it’s not tangible for me yet. I’ve never been around young children. The closest that I’ve ever come to them is watching my neighbor’s kids toddle around their yard in dirty, sagging diapers, fighting over broken toys and putting random trash in their mouths. I have no concept of what losing a child would mean, what I’d be giving up, or gaining. The last few weeks have proven that I can’t handle losing Charlie, though.

  But I don’t tell her any of this. She’s under enough strain without the added burden of knowing how truly dependent I am on her.

  Instead, I say, “We’ve both worked hard to defy our circumstances and be better than what we came from. Having a baby would be a tangible representation of that - a combination of the best of the two of us.”

  “If we’re lucky. There are so many other variables to take into account, though: birth defects, diseases, mental illness…”

  This latest objection, while unsettling to think about, also reassures me. She’s already thinking like a mother: worrying about the offspring she’s claiming not to want.

  “If those were reasons not to have children, no one would have them. I have a good feeling about ours though, we’ve fought hard for something good.”

  She finally looks at me, and I can see some hopefulness there - a spark in her otherwise harrowed expression. I can tell that she’s lost weight, her cheekbones are even sharper than usual. She’s stunning despite the pallor and deprivation of both food and sleep, though; it’s a miracle that I was ever able to leave her.

  “I’ve been thinking about names,” she admits.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask cautiously, afraid to rejoice too soon.

  “I like Nash.”

  “I like Nash too.”

  I would like anything she suggested; I’m enormously relieved that she’s actually given thought to names. I do genuinely like Nash though, it conjures up an image of a strapping, good-natured kid. At least for me. I wonder if she’s thinking of a city she might never get the chance to escape to now.

  “What if it’s a girl?” I ask.

  “It isn’t. I can tell.”

  “How?”

  “Mother’s intuition, I guess.”

  I experience a sligh
t thrill at her reference to herself as a mother: the mother of my child. She’s confident enough in me, and in us, that she’s actually considering making this essentially permanent commitment.

  “Do you want a milkshake?” she suggests.

  Jeremiah would tell me that consuming that many calories requires a special occasion.

  “I don’t know. Do we have something to celebrate?”

  “Yes,” she still sounds unsure, so she repeats it a second time as if to convince herself. “Yes.”

  She grabs milkshakes for the both of us: mine chocolate, hers vanilla. I drive us out to the lookout. It’s too cold for a dip in the creek, and I don’t want to be reminded of our breakup. I want to keep the mood light and celebratory; we probably won’t have many days like this left before life becomes a constant struggle. I’m accustomed to that though; I’ve never known anything other than hardship. I battled my whole way through childhood, trying to keep myself fed, clothed, and out of harm’s way. Parenthood shouldn’t be much of a change, I just need to shift the focus of my concern.

  Charlie sips her milkshake quietly on the tailgate for a few minutes before setting it down. Like the first time we came out here, she clambers deftly over the boulders, heading for the cliff. She’s still in her Pete’s uniform: cheap polyester dress tailored in a short 1950’s style that shows off her slender legs, and Converse. She’s heedless of the dirt and brambles that catch on it. I try to keep up with her but, even pregnant, she’s quicker than I am. I wonder briefly if she should be doing this with a child growing inside of her, but I know better than to voice my concern. She’s only been committed to the idea of motherhood for thirty minutes, I’m sure it hasn’t sunk in yet. She’s still Charlie.

  She climbs to the top and stands, toes poised over the edge of the cliff and hands outstretched like she’s about to perform some kind of dance routine. For one heart-stopping moment, I think she’s about to leap. But then she drops into a seated position, still far too close to the edge for my comfort. I take a seat beside her, trying to look straight ahead over the rolling foothills instead of down at the rocky outcropping below.

  She doesn’t say anything, evidently still turning anxieties over in her mind. I draw her close to me in an attempt at reassurance. This position - her leaning into me, head on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her protectively - takes me back to a memory from my childhood.

  I was over at Cody’s place for a sleepover: a frequent occurrence before he and Colt got dirt bikes and left me in their dust. We were watching a movie, one of my favorite activities given that Cody’s family had a television big enough to take up an entire wall of my trailer. This wasn’t particularly remarkable in our town; most households had a TV worth more than the combined value of all of the other contents of their trailer. Unlike most households though, Cody also had cozy sofas devoid of any suspicious stains, and every relatively healthy snack you could dream of. I used to go over there and gorge myself on yogurt-covered raisins and air-popped popcorn while watching superhero movies. The best part though, was when Cody’s parents would join us in the living room, sitting on the love seat just like Charlie and I are now.

  I remember sitting there and pretending that I was a member of their family - part of this tranquil, affectionate clan who would laugh in sync at all of the corny jokes. I even envied the way Cody would argue with his younger sister whenever she wanted to watch a Disney movie, eventually giving in because he secretly loved Disney and overtly loved her.

  I can see Charlie and I forming that kind of unit. I’ve seen her nurturing side: helping me prepare for my official visit at Tennessee Tech, bringing me food without bringing any attention to my home situation. The way she smooths my hair back from my face, or kisses me on the forehead when we’re entwined together tells me everything that I need to know about her mothering abilities. I have the utmost faith in both of us, and in our ability to make it through this.

  I feel her shiver slightly in the thin material of her uniform and suggest that we return to the truck. My motives aren’t purely altruistic and centered on keeping her warm, though. There’s something ineffably sensual about thinking about Charlie as a mother. I want to take advantage of the unparalleled closeness that’s developed between us with this decision.

  Once in the truck though, Charlie resists my advances, drawing her knees into her chest. “I can’t, Levi. Not right now.”

  I can understand her reluctance. It is weird to think about being intimate while she’s pregnant. Even though she certainly doesn’t look it. I’m no expert on the subject, but I’m pretty sure the baby isn’t any bigger than one of those yogurt-covered raisins that I used to devour at Cody’s. And, even if it is, I don’t think sex is dangerous for the baby. But I’m not going to push it. I’ve put her through more than enough over the last few weeks, and I’m elated just to have her back in my arms. I’m happy to lean back in the bed of my truck and drape my sheepskin-lined denim jacket over her goose-pimpled arms. Her contented sigh when she relaxes into me, and the heady scent of her shampoo, is more than enough for me.

  Chapter 18

  “My Ma wants to know if you’re coming for Thanksgiving,” Jeremiah announces, flopping down on his bed.

  Gabrielle had invited me to join in their Thanksgiving celebrations when I saw her after our homecoming game. She seemed sincere, but I’m not sure if she extended the invitation just because she felt sorry for me. We’d gotten a good ass-whupping from North Carolina Central and everyone’s spirits were exceptionally low.

  The roast turkey and sweet potato casserole with pecan crumble that she’d promised are causing me to salivate just thinking about them. It’s important to me that I spend the day with Charlie, though; it will be the first holiday since we made the decision to form a family, and there’s nothing that I’m more thankful for.

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “You mean you want to spend it with your girlfriend. She’s invited too. I told Ma that you’re coupled up now, and she was thrilled at the prospect of having another mouth to appreciate her cooking.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Definitely. I’ll be happy for the added distraction. I’m trying to avoid explaining my midterm marks.”

  Even though Jeremiah’s been joining me and Dawson’s study sessions with increasing frequency, he’s still barely managing to scrape by. Probably because he spends more time scanning the library for potential hookups than actually looking at a textbook. With our football season drawing to a close in a few weeks though, he’s committed to bringing up his grades. He doesn’t have much of a choice considering Coach Carson will kick his ass if he doesn’t meet the GPA requirements.

  “You want to go for a run?” He asks.

  I’m pretty sure this is just another of his many ploys to avoid studying. Or maybe a way to distract himself from the disappointing results of the North Carolina game and the fact that football season is almost over. I haven’t been sharing in his despondency. I’m looking forward to the end of the season and having some extra time to work - I need to stock a lot more shelves if I want to afford a decent place for Charlie and me once she gives birth.

  Jeremiah, on the other hand, has been disconsolate, throwing himself into gruelling workouts in an attempt to compensate for the defeat. On the plus side, his heightened workout routine has left him depleted and inattentive, so I haven’t yet had to reveal Charlie’s pregnancy. Dawson caught me browsing parenting books in the library the other day, but I told him that it was just out of interest. He nodded slowly in a way that told me he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t inquire any further.

  I’m not sure why I’m keeping it from either of them. Whether it’s because I’m ashamed to have actualized every small town redneck stereotype that I fought so hard to avoid. Or whether it’s because I’m relishing in the excitement of starting a life with Charlie, and I don’t want to have that enthusiasm dampened by any potential detractors. Either way, it comes down to the same
thing: they won’t understand. To Jeremiah, babies are evidence of a poor decision made with a girl whose name you probably can’t remember. To Dawson, they’re evidence of untamed biological impulse, a whim he would never be illogical enough to give into. Neither of them has even met Charlie yet; they can’t possibly understand what a privilege it is to share something this important with her.

  “Sorry, bud, I can’t. I’m picking up an extra shift at work,” I reply.

  One of the cashiers’ babysitter stopped showing up, so I’m working the till tonight. I’ve also bagged groceries, killed a rat that got into the storage room, and cleaned dried vomit off of the bathroom floor. I’ll take on any task as long as the paychecks keep coming.

  He rolls his eyes. “You have a scholarship. What are you doing all this extra work for? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of doing something stupid like buying your girl a ring.”

  I have thought about it, but I certainly won’t admit it to him. I dismissed the idea almost immediately anyway. I’m too pragmatic to waste money on a diamond right now, and Charlie knows how committed I am. Or at least she will once I tell her about the vomit.

  I’ve been driving out to visit her as often as possible, only to spend the night before turning around to make it back in time for class or work. I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night since we decided to have the baby. I can’t complain, though. Charlie’s been sleeping even less, plagued by nausea and nightmares about deformed babies. I’m choosing to attribute these terrors to her anxiety over the pregnancy and not the same motherly intuition that has her convinced that our child is a boy.

  “No. I’m just trying to improve my financial situation, so I don’t have to mooch off of you anymore.”

  Jeremiah just shakes his head, trading his beloved Air Jordans for a pair of running shoes. I don’t think I should be taking financial advice from someone who would spend that much money on a single pair of shoes.

  “So, I should tell Ma that you’re coming for Thanksgiving then?”