As She Grows

by Lesley Anne Cowan

  “Is Mitch here?” I whisper.

  Elsie jumps, startled by my voice. “No, he’s not.” “Was he?”

  “Ya, he was. So what?”

  I stand up close behind her, my feet firmly planted on the floor. I will not back down this time. I stare a hole in her back. “Are you fucking crazy? You been seeing him all this time?”

  “Not now, Snow,” she says quietly, extinguishing my fire.

  Surprised, I change my tone. “Is he coming back tonight?”

  “No.”

  “When, then?”

  “Never.”

  “Never coming back?” I say, doubtful.

  “No.” Elsie keeps her back to me and turns on the tap. I see her shoulders drop, loose and deflated. And this makes me even more mad, like she wants me to feel sorry for her. Like she’s thinks she’s some martyr not letting him back into her life. I give her nothing.

  “Whatever,” I say, not believing her. “His underwear is on the floor by the bed. Is he coming back for that?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want me to do with it then? It’s disgusting.”

  “I don’t care.” Her voice is tired and annoyingly passive. She reaches out her good arm and plugs in the kettle. I want to shake her. Stir some fury out of her. I don’t know what to do with this stillness. I storm back into the bedroom and kick the underwear under the bed. I start to pick up other clothes from the floor but the anger rises in me as I see pieces of Mitch scattered around the room. His cheap watch on the bedside table. His worn shoes by the closet. His Playboy lighter on the dresser. I think of Mitch that night I left. And me in that very bed.

  “What the fuck am I doing?” I say aloud to myself, Elsie’s bra dangling in my hand. “What the fuck am I doing?” I say again slowly, as if the words needed time to sink into a very dense brain. I whip the ratty beige bra across the room and dump the pile of clothes back onto the floor.

  “I’m not staying,” I announce to Elsie, who is back on the couch, watching TV.

  “Fine,” Elsie says, uncaring, reaching out for the TV converter and turning the volume up louder.

  “I know why she left,” I say, waiting for a response, but Elsie doesn’t even acknowledge I have spoken. Her eyes remain fixed on the TV. “I know why she got pregnant,” I continue. “To get the fuck away from you. You’re pathetic. You can’t even take care of yourself. You make everything around you . . .” As I speak she presses the volume button on the remote control, louder and louder and louder, till the TV is vibrating. Till I can’t even hear my own voice. I move in closer, stand in front of her, yelling as loud as I can, but she just stares through me, through my belly, as if I don’t even exist. Her face is like stone. I pick up the closest object to me, a stupid clay ashtray, and make like I’m going to throw it at her, just to get some kind of response. But she doesn’t flinch. And I’m so mad, I do it. I throw it at her, just above her head. It hits the wall and smashes soundlessly into pieces, ash settling in Elsie’s hair like black confetti.

  22

  Our Thursday night pregnancy group is tight now, with only the occasional new girl joining. We have our unofficial designated chairs, our preferred break time, and an understanding of who prefers the fudge cookies to the apple slices. Karyn hands out photocopies of pre-hospital checklists and hygiene tips. We learn about veins in our bums that can bulge to the size of grapes and discuss our fears of foot-long needles jabbed into our spines.

  Every few weeks a chair will be empty, and for those of us who don’t already know, Karyn will announce the length of labour, the weight and sex of the new baby, accompanied by a collective gasp and a reflexive closing of legs when she announces anything above eight pounds. We are all convinced we’ll do it the natural way, despite revisiting mother Kris’s comment last week: “I didn’t know the human body could go through that much pain and survive.”

  Tonight we have a special speaker, Cindy, for those hoping to keep their babies. Cindy is a mother of five. She wears a pearl necklace outside of her pink cardigan sweater. Her tits are pointy, right out of the fifties, and she looks like she should be offering us all home-baked apple pie. There are four of us from the house, the others are from the community, still living with their parents. Cindy has chosen to open the floor to discussing the role of mother.

  “What kind of mother do you think you’ll be?” Cindy goes around the room, asking for volunteers. They all say the same thing. They say they are not going to give their kid the childhood they were given. They say they will be different mothers, that they are going to spend all their money on their kids and give them so much love. I sit and roll my eyes at Rachel who punched out Crystal just last night for not giving back her Discman and Carmen who got so high she had to sneak in through the fire exit at one in the morning. I imagine the truth. I imagine them in their bachelor apartments, TV blaring, a whining toddler being just a little too needy, a broken dish, an unexpected tongue lashing out harsh words, an instinctive slapping of soft skin.

  “Don’t you think your mothers thought this?” I blurt out, my mind trailing like a leash behind my bolting words. “Do you think they planned to treat you like shit?”

  Everyone looks stunned. “You’re saying that you repeat what you learn at home?” Cindy asks, continuing her already annoying habit of paraphrasing every comment.

  My mind quickly regains control and attempts to explain. “I’m saying it’s impossible not to. It’s like trying to stop breathing. You just can’t do it, no matter how bad you try.” The room is silent, all eyes glaring at me. And for a split second I feel bad for ruining this little feel-good party. I consider taking back what I said, or maybe adding an encouraging “of course, there are exceptions,” but Jackie speaks up before I have a chance.

  “Don’t you think we fucking know that?” she says, staring me straight in the eye, not an angry stare but a watery one. She is huge, probably about to give birth any second now. I look back at her, unsure what to say, so I look away.

  “A watched pot never boils,” Aunt Sharon says over the phone when I complain about how slowly my last two months are passing. It’s amazing how much I used to be able to squish into my life before I lived here. Now, even one planned event, like a doctor’s appointment or meeting with Eric, manages to consume my entire day. I eat, sleep, pee, and lie on my side, staring off into space.

  The other girls in the house seem to have more energy than me. They make crafts such as quilted photo albums and bibs with already chosen names stitched on them. In school, they write poetry and personal creeds of motherhood. I attend the fitness classes and participate in the optional weekend trips to the movies and the Ontario Science Centre, but only because I have to. If one were to overlook the bulging bellies for a second, a visitor might mistake this for camp.

  Besides Jasmyn calling every once in a while, I have no interest in the outside world. I think about Carla occasionally, think about tracking down her number and calling her. Just to hear her voice again. But then, when I actually go to pick up the phone, I change my mind.

  The more I live in this house, the more I fear living outside of it. In here, adults smile at you and it seems like no big deal that your belly protrudes farther than your tits, even though you’ve only had your period twenty times in your entire life. In here, the young mothers on posters are all white and clear-skinned; and returning residents are goggled over, while pink and toast-brown infants hang casually off their hips like basketballs. And I can’t figure out if Staff’s endless kindness is genuine or if they are intentionally stocking us up, filling us to the brim, before a long drought.

  We change shape inside these walls. In the weeks before our labour, sharp angles erode until we become soft round silhouettes. Jagged bangs are pulled back to expose the gentle bend of a forehead. Harsh lipliner that once made our mouths look like knives is replaced by pink-tinted lip gloss. The curve of our bellies makes angular bone forgotten. We wear soft pastels, pale pinks and blues. Suddenly we c
are about feelings and values because we now have a purpose, a reason for being. We same girls who just last year were fucking guys up against brick walls and ripping nose rings out of girls who didn’t watch our backs.

  The moment I walk into Eric’s office I can sense something is up. Things are too clean. Papers aren’t scattered on his desk and the rubber galoshes that have been lying forever by the coat rack are gone.

  “So, what did you have to eat today?” he asks, and I let out a big sigh of boredom. He is speaking to me differently now that my growing stomach has wedged itself between us. We talk less and less about Mitch and Elsie and more about whether I’m getting enough food and sleep. Or we talk about my fears of having this baby and how I plan to deal with the emotions of being a mother. It’s all so dull and overwhelming all at once. I ignore his questions and continue scanning the room, trying to place just exactly what is different. Then I notice Freddy isn’t on the table where he usually is.

  “Where’s Freddy?” I ask.

  “Oops”—Eric’s hand whips up to his mouth—“I forgot to tell you. I found him floating dead this afternoon. Poor thing.”

  “Ooh, poor Freddy,” I pout. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, making fun of the situation.

  “I think I overfed him,” he says, thinking I’m being serious. I can tell Eric is really sad about it. About a stupid fish.

  We spend the next half-hour talking about his childhood dog and about how there truly is a difference between cat and dog people. At first I like it, just chatting, but then I begin to get suspicious of this easy talk, it seems too effortless. I figure Eric must have something heavy up his sleeve, something he’s afraid to drop.

  “Listen, I need to talk to you,” he finally says when our time is almost up. “I want you to hear this directly from me, so I’m going to tell you before they announce it officially.” I wait for Eric’s words but I already know what he’s going to say. I already know that he’ll say he’s leaving. I know that tone. I’ve heard it many times before. “I’m going into private practice,” he says, “and I just can’t pass it up. It’ll be family counselling, better financially and closer to home. I’ve thought a lot about it and it just seems to be the best thing for me now.”

  “When do you go?”

  “Well, officially, three weeks. Barry’s taking over my clients.” I take a deep breath and feel my eyes start to well up. “But I did ask for special permission to keep seeing you till after the baby is born. They said that was fine, if you’d like. I know I’d really like to.”

  I sit there staring at the edge of the table, jab my pen into the wooden rim. The stupid tears start coming down my cheeks and Eric passes me a Kleenex. I am so sick of crying.

  “I’m sorry, Snow.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, grabbing tissue and wiping my face. “I’m not that upset, really, it’s just these frigging hormones. I cry at commercials now. Can you believe that?”

  He laughs and relaxes in his chair. “I’d like to stay in touch with you after the baby. Maybe meet for lunch once a month? How does that sound?”

  “Cool,” I say, forcing a smile. We’re both quiet for a few minutes. Eric shuffles some papers as I pull my pathetic self together. It was stupid of me to have trusted him. I’m an idiot for letting him force his words into my small cracks, slowly prying me open. I should have known that there was just a paycheque moving his mouth. That the caring was coming through him, not from him. And really, he wasn’t helping me much anymore, anyway.

  He talks about his new job and what he’ll be doing and how he’ll miss working specifically with young people like me. It’s as if he’s trying to convince himself that he made the right decision. I pretend I’m interested, pretend I care about where he’ll be in a month, but I don’t. I don’t care if I ever see him again.

  “I have to piss,” I say, interrupting him in mid-sentence. I jump up without waiting for a response. As I approach the bathroom down the hall I quicken my pace until, finally, I’m running. I feel like I’m going to burst. It’s that total urgency you get when you’re standing in front of a toilet and it’s as if all of a sudden you can’t get your fly down fast enough. Only now, it’s not piss I’m holding back, it’s tears.

  As I yank open the door to the single washroom, my face collapses and I start bawling. I move to the corner and slide down to the cold concrete floor, crying so hard I’m soundless. My jaw starts to sting and my head starts to pound and I’m pulling at my hair. And then I get angry, slap my fist against the wall, again and again, pretending it’s Eric’s face. Only it doesn’t help because the pain is all bony and flat. I scan the room for something sharp. Something that is capable of precision. I take out the backing of my earring and rip my skin. And this time I don’t care if the drops of blood stain the floor.

  There is a knock at the door and, startled, I am out of my trance.

  “Just a minute!” I yell, and pull my heavy body up. I inspect my face in the mirror. It’s blotchy and swollen, my eyes are bloodshot, and the snot is running from my nose. I quickly splash cold water on my face, but it makes no difference.

  When I flip up the toilet lid to pee, I almost scream. Freddy’s stiff and arched body floats in the slow circular current of the toilet bowl. It’s a horrific sight. His eyes are bulging from the sockets. His once bright-orange body is now pale yellow. I knew the water pressure was bad in this building, especially with all the crap kids stuff into it. I even saw a sandwich in a plastic Baggie wedged down the toilet once. Still, I take Freddy’s resurfaced body as an omen.

  There is another knock at the door, heavier this time. I flush the toilet twice but Freddy keeps reappearing back out from the hole in the bottom of the bowl. So I reach in, scoop his slimy body out, wrap him in toilet paper, and throw him in the garbage.

  After Eric’s appointment I call Karyn. I lie and tell her that I want to stop off at the library to do some schoolwork. She is so impressed that I’m actually showing interest in something and she tells me to not worry about being home in time for dinner.

  It takes me forty minutes to reach Mark’s old apartment building. I figure he won’t be there, but I just want to feel close to him again. For a little while. Some guy with long greasy hair, wearing Adidas track pants, answers the door. His eyes are bloodshot and his teeth are crooked. I don’t recognize him, but he looks like the kind of guy Mark would know. I figure he’s Josh’s new roommate.

  “Is Mark here?”

  The guy speaks slowly, with a surfer drawl, “No, man.” He scratches his head. “Saw him a few weeks ago. Crashed here one night but then the dude took off.” Then he looks all interested and leans forward to ask, “Do you know him?”

  “Ya.”

  “Know him pretty good?” “Ya, really well.”

  “Like, you’re an old girlfriend or something?”

  “Ya,” I say, excited. “I’m Snow.” I wait for his recognition, thinking he must have a message to pass on, or that Mark mentioned he was looking for me.

  “Cool,” he says, opening the door. The sweet waft of marijuana drifts up my nose like the smell of home cooking. “Ya wanna chill?”

  “Sure,” I say, walking into the living room, wanting more to just see the place than actually talk to the guy.

  We sit on the couch, the same couch that was in the apartment when Mark was here. Actually, everything is the same. The stolen street signs, the flashing construction light in the corner, the cases of empties stacked up to the ceiling in the kitchen. The guy kicks his feet up on the coffee table and turns on the TV. I watch him as he lights a spliff. He’s probably about twenty. He’s okay looking, under all the hair. No zits or anything. But I couldn’t care less about him. I just want to be in the apartment. I want to pretend that Mark is going to come through the door any second. He passes me the joint and I take only two tokes, because of the baby.

  “I’m pregnant,” I explain, pointing to my belly.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, as if he’s just no
ticed. “That’s okay.” He takes a few more deep drags and then butts it out. Then he reaches out to brush the hair away from my face and chills run down my spine to my crotch. He leans in and kisses me, and I kiss him back because even though I’m not into him, I like him needing me. The way I am. All ugly and fat. It feels good to just be wanted.

  “Let’s go to your room,” I whisper, once I am able to get his tongue out of my mouth for just a second.

  We can’t have sex the normal way because of my stomach, which is just fine with me because I don’t want to see his face. At first I keep my eyes open, trying to transport myself back in time. And for a while, I’m there, with Mark and the Sunshine Girls and Spliff’s black dog hair embedded in the rug. But then the guy starts ramming harder and jarring me forward, and I can’t ignore him any longer, so I close my eyes, imagining Mark’s face, and hold on tight to the corner of the mattress.

  Standing in the doorway of the apartment, only minutes later, the guy gives me a dry little peck on the cheek goodbye. “Listen,” he says. “Mark took twenty bucks from me before he left.”

  I immediately back up into the corridor, understanding the deal. “So, what the fuck does that have to do with me?”

  “Well, you’re his ex, right?”

  “Fuck you!” I yell, storming down the hall.

  I pace the bus stop just outside Mark’s old apartment. It was dumb to come here, to wish Mark even cared. Especially since I know the ways he is. I know that if he could handle it, he’d be with me. I know that he’s worried about hurting me and the baby, that he thinks he’d be bad for us. I know because late at night, after he drank a lot, he used to lay his head on my chest, and I’d stroke his hair like he was this little boy. And he’d talk about how much he hated his father and that if he ever saw him again, he’d fuckin’ kill him. And I know that when he said, “I’ll never do this to my own kid,” he meant it. And even though he hasn’t contacted me, I know he’s upset about not being with me and the baby. In his own way. In a way that makes him punch out a guy who bumps into him at a bar.