The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  Number Three – well. Here things get complicated again. You see, he is the father of my daughter. I don’t have anything really horrible to say about him, really. The worst one can say is that he was in over his head. Still, getting involved with him was not my best decision ever. We were just wrong for each other.

  I need to psych myself up to talk about this one. Gimme a second, okay?

  Hang on: remind me again why I’m doing this? Laying my soul bare for the whole world to see? Revealing uncomfortable truths about myself, history I’d rather forget? < foet?

  Since I’m not on drugs, I must be temporarily insane.

  Chapter Ten

  In which she gets knocked up again, if you can believe it

  W sauntered (he sauntered, mostly, as opposed to actual walking) into reception one day and introduced himself as the new guy from the satellite office. Cute, I thought, but I was still dating Number One, Number Two sniffing around on the fringes, flirting his li’l’ heart out. Everybody, including me, found W annoying at first. His swagger, ponytail and scratchy goatee got on my nerves. In fact, it was only after he cut this horrid thing off that I began to look at him a little differently. Facial hair has never done it for me, so I really don’t know what I was thinking.

  Being too occupied with Number One, then Number Two, I didn’t give W much thought, especially like that. Besides, he had a girlfriend called Nicky. Now, here’s something that has always bothered me. Why is it that every guy you will ever date has an ex-girlfriend called Nicky? Why, why, why? Is there a Nicky-The-Ex factory somewhere, churning out carbon copies of the same girl, to be distributed generously among the male population of a certain age? What’s up with Nicky? I mean bleergh. The name gives me chills, and not in a good way. Other common Ex-GF names include Natalie, Kerry (fucking Kerrys, they’re everywhere) and, oh yes, Kim.

  And what kind of name is Tracy? Sounds like a single mother’s name to me. Do I know any married Tracys? I don’t think I do. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Bygones.

  W and I ignored each other for a few months, then one day something clicked. Number Two had since left the building – he’d resigned and we were trying half-heartedly to keep in touch. Half-heartedly indeed, as I believe it was around this time that he crawled back to his wife. Grrr. I swear on my life I didn’t know they were not properly separated.

  It was one of those long, hot summer days at the office. The boss was away and the sexual tension was so thick in the air, you could have cut it into chunks and used it to stuff mattresses. Everybody was bonking everybody else, or trying to, apparently. The whole place was one fiddle away from a bankrupting sexual harassment lawsuit. The whole office sat around talking about W’s girlfriend situation: he said he was unhappy and didn’t know what to do. The resident agony aunt gave him some good advice, and he was on the phone to poor Nicky that very afternoon. We need to talk. Yikes. Such a ghastly phrase, yet so versate tet so vile.

  Flirting began in earnest. There were innocent back rubs (ha!), much playing with hair (his now cut short and spunky) and sitting on laps. Shudder to think of it now. The innocent back rubs culminated in a not-so-innocent kiss behind closed doors in the debtors’ clerk’s office. She was out smoking weed on the roof, I think.

  We started dating properly shortly after. Dating a guy who was basically still a kid was a culture shock after being with Number One, who was older than both my parents. In fact, W was a little younger than me, something I’d never tried before. Now I know why. I was a mother with responsibilities, he was a party boy, just barely twenty-one. We had almost nothing in common and struggled to find things to talk about. We solved that problem by not talking much at all. It was difficult to have a conversation with him that was not punctuated by sound effects anyway. Existential discussions about the universe and philosophy were not our forte. Our attention was elsewhere. Ahem. I’ll never forget those dreadful movie posters stuck all over his room – it’s pretty difficult to get your groove on while The Crow is staring at the back of your head. Those eyes followed me everywhere, I’m telling you.

  There are benefits to dating a younger guy, too – different, but no less impressive. Those benefits kept us together just long enough for me to delude myself into thinking we had something real. It worked for a while. The problem came when I began to daydream about something more. I wanted the same things I always had. A “proper” family and a home of my own. To no longer be a burden on my parents. I wanted a man who would love Steven as his own. Someone with whom I could be connected and truly comfortable, somebody who would get it. Back in those days, I still believed such a man existed.

  W told me he wanted those things too. He said he could give me what I needed – could, and wanted to. I believed him, despite all evidence to the contrary. I’m really good at talking myself into things I know are crazy, stubbornly determined to make it right, no matter what. What a terrible habit. I was barking up the wrong tree entirely – it couldn’t have been more wrong.

  He tried hard to get along with Steven, but it was a strain for both of them. That worried me, but I told myself they just needed time. He found it very difficult to relate to a young child – he couldn’t get down to Steven’s level at all, although you’d think it would have been easier for him from his youthful vantage point.

  He just didn’t understand. I’ll never forget the day I bought Steven’s school uniform for Grade One. I was so excited – any parent will tell you it’s a big day. We arrived home and made Steven model his uniform and school bag up and down the lounge in front of the whole family. We were having a great time – until I looked over at W and saw how bored he was. He could barely conceal his irritation. He simply didn’t get the big deal and had much better things to do. Like playing pool, or swanking about in his black trench coat or something. My heart sank when I saw his face, and yet I kept at it. God, I was so wrong to put myself and my childethand my in that situation. I could kick myself for the wasted months, for the time and effort and tears I put into it trying to make it work, when it was plain from the beginning that it never would.

  After a few months, we were spending every weekend at W’s house, which felt like my own. Steven had his own bedroom there. I did grocery shopping every weekend, cooked and cleaned, and otherwise played house. Tension arose when I realised that W and his unemployed housemate were scoffing down all Steven’s cereal and healthy veggies during the week. I’d spend half my salary on making sure that Steven ate well, and they just used it all. They never bought any food – before I came along, I think they lived on rice and cheap red wine. The house was a mess – I spent most Saturdays cleaning, with no effort being made to help me.

  For months, I bristled with resentment, believing they should have been contributing as well, but now I realise I was stupid. They never asked me to cook and clean and look after them. I took it upon myself. I cleaned because I didn’t want to live in filth, I shopped because I didn’t want Steven to starve while he was there, and I cooked because I wanted to eat. And yes, I admit it – I loved it. I relished the role of Proper Mommy. I thought they would appreciate all I was doing. It turns out that they didn’t give a shit whether I turned up or not. Maybe that’s a bit harsh – they weren’t bad guys, just typical twenty-two-year-old party animals who wouldn’t know who Mr Min was if they found him eating their dinner. Who can blame them for that? I can’t blame W for any of it, I suppose. I just chose poorly, wanting him to be something he wasn’t.

  He did everything I told him to do. I most definitely wore the pants in the relationship, so to speak. I felt safe that way. As long as he was under my control, I could make things work the way I needed them to. Yeah, I don’t need Dr Phil to tell me that’s a damn stupid idea. I walked around for months fantasising about the home and family we’d have. I budgeted and saved and planned our life together. The problem was, I was alone in doing so. W was just going along with whatever I said, telling me what I wanted to hear. I was doing all the work – all the decisions
were mine and so, too, the responsibility. If you come right down to it, my nagging was the only thing that kept our relationship together. He was just along for the ride.

  But wait! There’s more! And it makes me feel like such a bloody fool.

  We decided to get married. Where was my mind? There was no proposal as such. No bended knee or romantic expressions of tender, undying love. (Damn it! When am I gonna get some of that! WAAAAAH!!)

  No, what I got (lucky me) was, “Hey you wanna get married?” And right back to the Playstation. Do you know the worst of it? I said yes! Silly twit.

  I truly have no-one to blame but myself.

  My parents could not believe I’d actuall"><’d acy want to marry the poor guy. They had a hard time adjusting to the fact that W and his long-winded boarding school stories were going to be around forever. So did I, come to think of it. Again, wrong person, wrong reasons, wrong everything. And I knew it was wrong. I knew it right from the start. But by now I’d got myself in so deep I couldn’t bear the thought of admitting I’d screwed up again. So I pressed on.

  Even in the midst of my half-hearted, feeble wedding planning, I wasn’t happy. I honestly thought that this was the best I could do. I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to be that way. I thought it was normal to feel claustrophobic and misunderstood and not heard. I believed that for a long time. How sad is that?

  Nobody believed it would last. Not even my gigantic, family heirloom engagement ring could convince them otherwise. Everybody knew. They were probably taking bets.

  And then – horrors! Those damn little pink lines on the home pregnancy test. Again. Goddamn. I don’t know how I do it. My body seems to crave babies – my uterus cooks them up with glee. I was on the pill, so heaven knows how it happened. Remind me not to try that again, please.

  So, now there was a baby on the way – even more reason to make it work, no matter what.

  I don’t know why I stayed. I have no clue why he stayed. Looking back, I know he didn’t really want the things I wanted. What he was thinking is anyone’s guess, actually. And to add insult to injury, I couldn’t get him excited about the baby at all. Not like I was. I gave him tons of pregnancy and baby magazines to read, but I doubt he ever picked one up.

  Whenever I looked at that untouched pile of Your Pregnancy magazines next to the bed, my heart ached. They seemed to symbolise every wrong decision I’d ever made.

  “Now you’re bringing another child into the world to suffer the consequences of your ridiculous choices!” they seemed to shout every time I passed. It hurt so badly.

  For all his obliviousness, W agreed to be with me at the birth. The poor sap didn’t know what he was getting himself into. I tried to prepare him for it, speaking about it all the time, but he never asked any questions (at least, no intelligent ones that didn’t involve sound effects); he just listened until I shut up, and then didn’t think about it again until the next time I brought it up.

  I was desperately unhappy, and the cracks were quickly starting to show. He’d make some crude, infantile joke about giving birth, completely missing the point, and I’d just stare at him, thinking, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  What did he really want? I still don’t know.onton’t Maybe, like me, he was also a master of self-delusion and denial. We could have started a club, with badges and everything. We’d have members all over the world. Much like “Bobs International”, a worldwide organisation of men called Bob. I swear it’s true. I saw it on TV once, years ago, and have never forgotten it. Why not Petes International? Or Dicks Incorporated? Plenty of potential members for that club. I know a few.

  We were both young and stupid. To think I could will something so fundamentally wrong into being right. Then again, it’s not necessarily an age thing. I’ve seen many a forty-year-old divorcee squeezing herself into jeans two sizes too small on a Saturday night, desperately hoping it would help her nab Mr Right. Or Mr Good-Enough-For-Tonight, at least. Like them, my judgment on matters romantic has always sucked, big time.

  W has changed a lot over the years, and I’m proud of the dad he has become. But back then I could have strangled him to death for being such a giant doofus. He meant well, but just couldn’t give me the support I needed. I couldn’t rely on him. I was on my own, basically. Again.

  Everything fell apart a couple of months before Maria was born. After weeks of crying, ultimatums, discussions about money and the lack thereof, I’d finally had enough. We broke up. I gave back his enormous diamond ring, and got on with the business of bringing yet another child into my parents’ home.

  It killed me to do that. The idea of going crawling back to Mom and Dad (pregnant again, for fuck’s sake!) made me absolutely sick. But I had no choice. That’s probably why I stayed with him for as long as I did.

  My guilt about doing that to my parents still weighs heavily on my mind. I don’t know how to let go of it. Maybe I won’t ever be free of it. God, Is there anything I don’t feel guilty about? Some days it seems like everything is my fault – from my children’s dubious father figures to global fucking warming. Probably not a healthy outlook. Somebody, tell me how to change that, please. Hopefully someone who doesn’t charge by the hour?

  ***

  Voluntary retrenchment is a beautiful thing. When I was seven months pregnant, I left my job with the New Boss Man and had six weeks at home before Maria was born. Oh, what a wonderful time! I loved being home with Steven, taking him to school and spending time with him in the afternoons. Just being around and present when he needed me was an amazing privilege. I’d dearly love to have that again.

  It was immensely liberating to know that I didn’t have to go back to that soul-destroying, sick office again. Colleaguesnse. Colle still phoned me several times a week, though: “Where are the waybills? “How do I send a fax?” “What happened to that yellow Post-It note I left on my desk six months ago?” “Why is my head so far up my arse?”

  Maybe they just missed me. I’d left them a detailed manual with instructions on everything from how to replace printer cartridges to how the CEO took his coffee. I doubt they even looked at it. Ha! I loved the fact that I never had to see any of them again.

  I waddled around the house for six weeks, growing steadily more enormous. I was much bigger than I’d been with Steven. I just seemed to spread out everywhere. Possibly also had something to do with the fact that I had more money than I did when pregnant with Steven – money for crucial stuff like McDonald’s and Nik Naks. Mmmm. Yum. It was the height of summer and I was damn hot. Towards the end I, couldn’t do much except sleep and sweat and eat ice by the tray-load. Finally, just as I thought I would burst if my skin stretched any further, I went into pathetic, weak, laughable labour one Monday afternoon.

  Concerned that this labour would progress unnoticed and as rapidly as the first and I’d end up giving birth in the car, I took myself off to the hospital way too early. I mean really early. Embarrassingly early.

  The nurses laughed at me when I arrived, suitcase in hand, with almost no contractions. They told me to go home and come back later that night, when the labour was more advanced and I had something real to show them.

  I refused. Not a damn was I going to leave that hospital without a baby. So I stayed, much to their annoyance. I was having contractions, but they were slight and manageable. Uneventful hours dragged on, and I began to realise that this time would be different.

  Matters eventually did progress. I’d arrived at the hospital at 6pm, and by 11pm, I was finally in pain. Not a minute too soon. I was just about to admit that it must have been a false alarm. The pain of the contractions was much worse than it had been with Steven, and again I was having no pain relief. This time, however, I would gladly have gotten high on that happy gas if someone had offered it. Around 2am I called the nurse.

  “Please, isn’t there some gas or something I can have?” I must have sounded pretty desperate. She nearly laughed in my face.

  “No, my girl. We’ve
got nothing here. Come on, it’s not so bad. Everybody else is doing fine.”

  Government hospitals. Hmph. Everybody else was doing fine because they had no choice. I don’t think the labour ward had so much as a Disprin to offer.

  Beds were in short supply, so I was labouring in the maternity ward itself, in lan itselffull view of three other women who had just given birth. I walked up and down the passage for hours, bending double as each contraction gripped me.

  I’m afraid to say, W was being no help at all. I’d prepared him for this. I’d told him how it worked, given him all the information he could have needed. But he still had no clue what was going on. He was completely panicked and seemed on the verge of tears all the time. When you’re in the clutches of a side-splitting contraction, it’s no time to be making other people feel better. He was pissing me off, big time.

  His most glaring fuck-up was when he went home to get pillows for me. He came back with pillows, all right, but also with his housemate and his housemate’s brother in tow. He’d brought them to say hi, he said. Say hi? Say hi? I’m supposed to entertain these people now? Make small talk about the weather, while I wait for my waters to break and I’m in so much pain, I can barely breathe? What the fuck?!

  I saw my visitors at the other end of the passage, looking sheepish and hesitant. They knew they had no business there. I reckon W brought them to keep him company. Jesus, I was angry.

  He still didn’t get the fact that this day was not about him. Entirely unable to think past his own discomfort, he was letting me down. Again. I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap his silly face. I wanted to shake him and yell, “It’s only one night, for fuck’s sake! Just get over yourself and help me. Please!”