by Britt Morrow
“Let me check if Charlie’s free, and I’ll let you know.”
I know that she’s free, I just don’t know if she’ll be feeling up to coming.
Jeremiah salutes and heads out the door while I button the starchy, practically cardboard, button-down that consists of my grocery store uniform. I throw a flannel and jean jacket on over top. It’s been an uncharacteristically cold November and I need to steel myself for the commute to work, shoving my hands as deeply into my pockets as possible. I’ve been avoiding driving to save on gas money, so instead, I shuffle to work in a weird walk-jog combo - fast enough to keep warm, but slow enough that I won’t show up all sweaty.
“Afternoon, Levi.”
The manager, Mr. Pellman, greets me in the same monotone voice every day. The overhead fluorescent lights give his jowls a jaundiced look and create deep shadows around his eyes, reminding me of a comic book villain. An appropriate look considering his sole job seems to be prowling the store in search of any mistakes an employee may be making: labels not turned the right way, failing to rotate old and new produce, bagging hygiene items with food. I’ve made a point to be as diligent as possible though, so he mostly leaves me alone.
“The baby products need restocking,” he states without looking at me.
I nod, heading for the pallet in the back where the diapers and formula are located. Stocking shelves is by far my favorite task. There’s something satisfying about placing products all in neat little rows. I can zone out and listen to the old country radio station that plays over the store speakers, interrupted only occasionally by a customer inquiring about a product’s location.
This is the first time that I’ve restocked the baby aisle, and I’m shocked by the prices.
“They certainly ain’t cheap,” a woman with an infant on her hip and a toddler seated in her cart remarks as if reading my mind.
I really hope that my baby is as cherubic as the one depicted on the diaper box; otherwise, there’s no way that price can be justified. I also hope that Charlie’s planning on breastfeeding; it’s going to be enough of a financial strain just to keep us stocked in diapers. I make a mental note to ask one of the cashiers whether we get any employee discounts.
Once I’m done with the baby aisle, I move on to produce and then canned goods. I’m lost in the reassuring straightforwardness of placing cans with the labels perfectly oriented towards the customer, so I’m startled by the drone of Mr. Pellman’s voice. “ I need you to round up the carts in the parking lot before you leave, Levi.”
I realize with a start that there are only a few minutes left of my shift, which means only a few minutes until I can sprint back to my truck and drive home to Charlie. I’m taking her to her first ultrasound tomorrow. I wanted to be there even though it will mean missing statistics. I’m sure Dawson will be able to explain anything that I miss.
I collect the carts as instructed before heading to the donation bin at the back of the store. Employees have first dibs on the expired or imperfect items. I’ve been slowly amassing a supply of dented cans underneath my bed. Thankfully Jeremiah hasn’t noticed yet; otherwise, he would probably think that I’m going crazy. Today, I manage to collect some creamed corn, black-eyed peas, and green beans. It’s a good haul.
The second the clock at the front of the store hits five o’clock, I’m sprinting back to where my truck is parked in the dorm parking lot. It takes a couple of tries before the truck will start. It’s becoming increasingly unreliable, so I’ve taken to pleading with the vehicle gods that it will hold up at least until I manage to get a place that Charlie and I can move into together.
The drive back is dismal. The heater won’t expel anything other than lukewarm air, and my breath keeps fogging up the interior so that I’m forced to crack the passenger window and let in the frigid night air. I don’t dwell on it though, because I’m on my way to see Charlie.
Charlie deliberately booked the ultrasound appointment for the Wednesday before Thanksgiving at the medical centre near Tennessee Tech so that we could spend a few days together during my break from classes. Jeremiah has graciously agreed to let her stay in our dorm for a few nights. Although, it’s really the least he could do after all the sleepless nights I’ve endured as a result of his philandering.
I park the truck and hurry into the diner, eager to warm up a bit.
“Well, look who it is. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!” Pete exclaims.
He’s standing by the counter in his habitual attire: the same letterman jacket he’s had since high school, the colors so worn that I wouldn’t be able to recognize it if not for the lion logo on the back, and acid-washed jeans. He claps me on the back in the rough way of ex-athletes eager to prove that they’ve maintained their fitness.
“Hey, Pete. How are you?”
“I’ve been better. The team’s been really struggling since you and Colt left.”
Pete doesn’t have a wife or kids. He does have a girlfriend, but they’re rarely seen together; it’s clear that his true love is high school football.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“There’s always next year,” he sighs. “I’m sorry to hear that your season hasn’t been going so well. Apparently, Colt’s having a lot of success, though. Charlie’s been keeping me updated.”
He gives me a suggestive wink at the mention of Charlie.
I scan the restaurant for her, eager for an escape. Colt’s dominance on the football field and my relationship with Charlie are two of the last things that I want to discuss. Thankfully, she steps in to save me, waving from a back booth. “I have dinner for you here if you’re hungry.”
I gratefully accept the burger and fries. In my excitement over seeing Charlie, I hadn’t realized that I was starving.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She doesn’t look much better than the last time I saw her. If anything, she’s lost more weight.
“I’m fine. Still finding it hard to keep much food down, though.”
She only has a small container of fries and a drink that appears to be ginger ale in front of her.
“Are you trying to eat at least?”
“Of course.” The defensive way that she says it suggests otherwise. My goal here isn’t to make her feel any worse though, so I change the subject.
“Does your Dad know where you’re going?”
“I told him I was spending a few days with Colt, checking out the university.”
“What if he asks Colt about it?”
“I told Colt to lie for me.”
“Does he know about the baby?”
“My dad? No.”
“Colt.”
“I had to tell someone.”
“Before you told me?”
“I didn’t have an opportunity to tell you until after the game.”
She managed to find an opportunity to tell Colt, though. I wonder what it says about our relationship that she entrusted Colt with such a precious piece of information before she mentioned it to me. I wonder if she ever would have mentioned it if the opportunity at the football game hadn’t presented itself.
“What did he say?”
“He told me he’d help me deal with it. Take me somewhere.”
I’m starting to doubt whether she would have told me. I have no doubt that Colt urged her to rid herself of any trace of me. The part I’m unsure about is just how close she was to doing it.
“When are you going to tell your Dad?”
She shrugs, pretending to be fascinated by the boys in the booth beside ours. They’re probably six or seven, both in too-short jeans, and jackets that are probably cutting off the circulation in their wrists. They’re fighting for control of a nerf gun, all pointy elbows and scrawny fists. The woman who they appear to belong to is ignoring them, studying the menu like she’s going to be tested on it later.
“Hey, guys, who do you think can draw the best car?” Charlie asks, handing them each a paper placemat to color and a handful of crayons.
> Maybe the fascination wasn’t an act. I should give her more credit; her mothering instincts are even stronger than I thought. The nerf gun lays on the table, abandoned, while they focus on the task at hand, tongues poking out in concentration. I’m not so easily distracted, though.
“You’re going to tell him, right?”
In the absence of any other distractions, she’s forced to look at me. “I wasn’t planning on it. I think I can hide it until I’m at least six months, and I was hoping we could move in together by then.”
“So, you’re just not going to tell him that he has a grandchild?”
“No, I don’t want him near my baby.”
I’m not sure if I’m offended by the fact that she’s referring to the child as solely hers, or if it really is considering she’s the one making all of the sacrifices right now. Usually, I wouldn’t press her; she’s always been reluctant to talk about her family. But since we’re about to become family now, I feel like I should.
“Why not?”
“You know what he’s like.”
I don’t know what he’s like other than overbearing and abusive towards Colt, but I guess that’s all I really need to know.
She stands abruptly. “We should probably go, we have a long drive back.”
I’m not finished my burger, but her red-rimmed eyes suggest that it’s not a good time to protest. Once in the truck, she turns toward the window, her long hair obscuring her face. She turns the radio up, but the speakers are shit, and the music isn’t loud enough to drown out her sniffles. I’m not sure if the crying is due to hormones, the stress she’s under, or the fact that I interrogated her about her dad. I am sure, however, that this isn’t the right time to inquire.
“I’m looking forward to introducing you to Jeremiah,” I say tentatively, searching for something to divert her attention.
She composes herself, drawing the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt across her eyes before responding, “I’m looking forward to meeting him. And seeing your new life.”
This is why we’re meant to be together. She knows how to stifle the ugliness and move forward. Like me, she’s learned that dwelling on things only serves to mire you deeper in them. We grew up in a town that loved to feel sorry for itself and deal with it through pills, whiskey, or violence, but we’ve both managed to avoid that kind of weakness.
Jeremiah isn’t in the dorm when we finally arrive and, as much as I’m anticipating their meeting, I’m relieved that it can wait until tomorrow. There’s no doubt that Charlie’s a trooper, but I can tell that she’s tired and upset.
She unlaces her boots before laying down on my bed, still wearing the oversized sweatshirt and pants she must have changed into after her shift at Pete’s. She only brought a small, weathered gym bag that probably won’t hold much other than a change of clothes for tomorrow.
“I can lend you a t-shirt and boxers to sleep in if you want?”
“That’s fine. I’m comfortable in these.”
I wasn’t planning on actually hooking up in my tiny twin bed only inches away from Jeremiah’s. I was hoping to feel her close to me though, preferably skin-to-skin. She crawls under the covers and curls into herself, adopting an almost-fetal position facing the wall. I feel the need to protect and reassure her, but I’m not sure what from. I don’t know if she feels like it’s us against the world anymore, or if it’s her against the weight of my expectations.
Chapter 19
I awake to Jeremiah’s resounding snoring. The expression sawing logs doesn’t do it justice; I’m pretty sure even that could be done more quietly. I can tell by the shallowness of Charlie’s breathing that she isn’t sleeping either, even though her eyes are still shut. She rolled over in the night so that she’s now facing my chest. I pull her in close, and she reciprocates by curling a leg around my ass. I hope that means all is forgiven after I upset her by bringing up her dad and Colt last night.
We lay entwined like that for a while, trying to ignore the cacophony being produced on the other side of the room, until Charlie suddenly bolts upright. “I’m going to be sick,” she announces, deftly maneuvering over me and rushing for the communal washroom.
I hesitate, unsure of whether I should follow her into the women’s washroom, particularly since it also contains the showers. Most of the dorm’s occupants have already left to spend Thanksgiving with their families though, and the few who haven’t are using the long weekend as an excuse to party harder than usual and certainly won’t be awake at this hour. As expected, the room is silent aside from the creaking pipes and the sound of Charlie’s retching, so I follow her inside, careful to avert my eyes from the showers in case there does happen to be an early-morning occupant.
Charlie looks frail and almost child-like hunched over the toilet. She’s retching violently as if her stomach is desperate to rid itself of its contents, even though there’s clearly nothing to bring up. I smooth her dark waves back from her forehead and gently rub her back in an attempt to provide some comfort.
She recoils slightly under my touch.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she manages in between heaves. “This is an almost daily occurrence now.”
I can tell that she’s embarrassed by her present state: curled around the toilet, hair mussed, mascara smudged.
“I can get you some ginger ale? Saltines, maybe?”
She nods weakly, eager for me to leave her alone.
When I return, crackers and soda in hand, she looks marginally better. She’s pulled her hair back and is in the process of splashing some water on her face. The color has somewhat returned to her cheeks, and she smiles when I cautiously poke my head through the doorway.
“Don’t worry, I’m alone in here. Thank god. I can’t tell you how many well-meaning busy-bodies have interrupted me mid-heave in the bathroom at Pete’s.” She grimaces. “Sorry, it’s gross.”
“Don’t be. I’m sorry that you have to endure it.”
She doesn’t respond. I hope that doesn’t mean she’s also sorry to be in this predicament.
“Do you want to get some breakfast before your appointment?”
She humors me by accompanying me to the cafeteria. She only nibbles on Saltines though and moves soggy eggs around her plate while I down sausages, hash browns, fruit salad, and two servings of grits. It’s the first cafeteria meal that I’ve had in a while without Jeremiah and his biceps guilting me into making healthy meal choices. It isn’t until I’m on my second helping of grits that he shows up, pretending to do a comedic double-take when he spots Charlie.
“Wow, she’s actually real!” He exclaims, holding out a hand for her to shake. “I was starting to think that you were just a fictional dream girl based on the way he raves about you.”
I haven’t actually said much about Charlie to Jeremiah; I feel like our relationship is something precious that I need to safeguard. Jeremiah has the charm turned up to an all-time high, though. I don’t blame him; there’s something compelling about Charlie - you can’t help but try to gain her attention.
“You must be Jeremiah. I’m Charlie. It’s nice to meet you,” she replies, taking his hand.
As always, I’m impressed by her poise. You’d never know that she was hurling into a public toilet less than thirty minutes ago.
“Are you going to be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner tonight?” Jeremiah asks. “My Ma wanted me to invite you both. She makes a sweet potato casserole that’s to die for.”
He even throws in a wink for good measure.
“I’m definitely not one to say no to a good sweet potato casserole,” Charlie responds.
“She’ll be thrilled. I’m planning on leaving around lunchtime if you want to drive over there with me. My family lives in Lebanon, about forty minutes from here.”
“Yeah, we can meet you back at the room around noon,” I eagerly accept. I’m still trying to save on gas money wherever possible.
“What are you guys up to for the morning?” Jeremiah asks.
Charlie looks at me uncertainly.
“I think we’re just going to hang out around campus,” I answer evasively.
I’m eventually going to tell him about the baby, but it still doesn’t seem real yet. If there was any doubt whatsoever that Charlie is, in fact, pregnant, it was definitively dispelled by her bout of morning sickness earlier. I don’t think I’ll fully come to terms with the fact that we’re about to become parents, though, until I can actually see the baby.
“Don’t let me hold you guys up.” Jeremiah gestures to my now-empty plate, utterly oblivious to the current of secrecy that just passed between Charlie and me.
“We’ll see you in a few hours,” I reply, clearing mine and Charlie’s plates.
I turn to her once we’re out of Jeremiah’s earshot. “We don’t have to go for Thanksgiving dinner if you’re not feeling up to it.”
“He seems nice.”
“He is. His whole family is great. But I can make up an excuse.”
“Have you ever had a real Thanksgiving dinner?”
Shortly after Brandi and Amber had their falling-out over the ashtray incident, Amber brought over a hotdog and green bean casserole and jello salad for Thanksgiving. I’m not sure if it was intended as an olive branch, or to soothe her guilt over leaving me with Brandi, but either way, I ate that casserole until the pain in my stomach was intolerable. I told Brandi that it was the best thing I’d ever eaten. I wasn’t old enough to be spiteful, it truly was. This inflamed Brandi to the point where she took the remainder of the casserole down the street and dumped it on top of Amber’s car.
She forgot the jello salad though, so I stashed it in my room and ate nothing but jello salad for the next three days. That was the last time Amber brought any food by the house. She stuck to slipping me cash whenever she could after that.
“No,” I respond. "Have you?”
“Colt and my dad made squirrel pie once. It was awful, but I pretended to enjoy it because I didn’t want to spoil Colt’s excitement at finally having shot something.”
I can’t imagine anything that would bring Colt more joy.