All That's Left of Me

by Janis Thomas

  How long has Katie been shut away in her room, a prisoner to her misery? She ran from dinner hours ago, her face drawn, her expression bleak. Why didn’t I, her mother, go to her to offer her comfort? Where was I as she lay on her bed, clutching her covers to her chest, bawling into her pillow to mask the sound?

  I was fucking my husband. I was paying bills. I was avoiding this moment.

  I tiptoe across the bathroom tiles and shut the door to Josh’s room, then turn on the light. The mirror reflects a woman I hardly recognize, but I defend myself by ignoring my reflection.

  I open the medicine cabinet and see only the expected contents. Toothpaste, floss, face cleanser, acne cream, moisturizer. What else did I expect?

  Something.

  I turn in a circle, avoiding contact with the me in the mirror but scanning the rest of the bathroom. I don’t understand what I’m doing, but I’m compelled to do it, and because I must go with my gut on this and everything else, I continue.

  My gaze comes to rest upon the toilet then shifts to the waste can beside it.

  I know what I’m going to find.

  Buried beneath wads of tissues and used paper cups and the crumpled packaging of Kate’s new adult soft toothbrush is a long, narrow, white plastic stick.

  A pregnancy test. With a plus sign in the window.

  My daughter is pregnant. By him.

  SEVENTEEN

  I knock softly on her door. She doesn’t answer. I don’t expect her to. But I am the mother, so I can walk into any room in my house without permission.

  “Katie?”

  Her bedroom is dark, but I know she is awake. I move to the bed where she lies. The mewling has stopped, no doubt because of my presence.

  I sit on the edge of her bed and reach for the bedside lamp, clicking it on with two fingers.

  She left the test for me to find. She could have put it in the recycle bin and the sanitation truck would have come Monday and hauled it away and I wouldn’t have been the wiser. She could have scheduled an abortion without my knowledge, sneaking off to the women’s clinic under the guise of meeting friends at the mall, and I would have accepted her story without question.

  She wanted me to know.

  Kate is facedown, her arms tucked under her pillow. I stroke her hair, greasy, unwashed, but it belongs to my baby girl, my firstborn. Her hair could be riddled with lice and I would still weave my fingers through it.

  “Honey?”

  “Go away.” There is no force behind her words.

  “I can’t,” I tell her. “Do you know why?”

  A slight shake of her head is her only response.

  “Because I love you, that’s why.” She stiffens but says nothing. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, Katie. Sometimes I feel like I’m in such bad shape that I can’t possibly be a good mom to you. It’s like, I want to be. But I just don’t know how.”

  Slowly, glacier paced, she rolls over onto her back. She doesn’t meet my eyes, but the fact that I can now see her face is a step in the right direction, and I’ll take anything at this point.

  “You’re a good mom.” Whispered doubtfully, but she thinks she needs to say it.

  “No. My mom was a good mom. I’m mediocre at best. But I do love you.”

  A tear erupts from the corner of her eye. I follow its path down her cheek to her ear before I block it with the tip of my index finger.

  “I found the test, Katie.”

  She moans with agony and rolls away from me again, curling into a fetal position on her side.

  “Is it his?”

  “You hate him,” she says.

  “Yes, I do,” I admit. “But maybe not for the reasons you think.”

  “I love him,” she says.

  That is why I hate him.

  “Does he know about the . . . does he know about it?”

  Her greasy head bobs up and down against her pillow. I’ll have to wash the pillowcase tomorrow, and the rest of the sheets, for that matter. Her scent is pungent, fear coupled with pregnancy hormones, a noxious combination.

  “What does he want to do?”

  Another moan followed by an epic sigh. “He wants me to kill it. He doesn’t even think it’s his. But it is. I haven’t been with anyone else. He doesn’t believe me.”

  I bite my lip to keep from screaming. “And what do you want to do, Katie?”

  She turns her head to face me, her eyes glistening with tears. “I don’t know, Mom.”

  How ironic that our first shared confidence in years revolves around an embryo sired by a complete bastard.

  I fold my hands in my lap. Another new habit. I close my eyes and see my daughter as a toddler, running around my mother’s living room, her mop of red hair flying in every direction, her smile guileless and carefree.

  I open my eyes and see my daughter now, her heart torn, her expectations of a life well lived already demolished.

  “We’ll figure this out, honey. I promise.”

  “But how?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure yet. But we’ll figure it out.” I stand and lean over her, kiss her forehead, something I haven’t done—something she hasn’t allowed me to do—for so long. “Try to get some sleep. It will all be okay.”

  As I walk to the door, I hear her fractured voice call to me.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  When was the last time I heard these words from her lips? And in which incarnation of my life? It doesn’t matter.

  “I love you, too, Katie.”

  I close the door and go to the master bedroom. Colin has already turned the monitor on. Josh’s breathing comingles with my husband’s snoring, creating a somnambulist symphony. I remove my lounge pants and underwear and cotton top and toss them into the hamper beside the dresser. I pull a pair of fresh undies and my nightie out of the dresser, put them on, and move to the bathroom.

  Like an automaton, I go through my nighttime ablutions with no thought, no consciousness, no awareness of what I’m doing. My thoughts are cleaved to the complex group of cells multiplying within my daughter’s abdomen.

  What will we do about this? I promised Katie we’d figure it out, but I have no idea how. The word abortion echoes through my mind. I was raised in the Catholic church, but my faith has long since lapsed. I no longer believe that abortion is a deadly sin, that my daughter will burn in hell should she choose to end the pregnancy. But how will such an experience scar her? Should we consider adoption? I do the math. If she’s somewhere around eight weeks now, the baby would be born at the end of spring. We would have to pull her out of school by February; she wouldn’t graduate with her peers. Her life, which has already veered off course, would be irrevocably derailed.

  When I finish with my night cream, I shut off the bathroom light and walk to the bed. I sit on the edge, feeling the crunchy comforter beneath my thighs, and stare into the darkness.

  Charlemagne. The tree. Richard. Is it true? Is it real? Is it possible?

  Without hesitation, I impart a wish to the universe.

  I wish Katie never met that boy.

  Saturday, July 9

  Hungover. That’s how I feel when I wake the next morning. How much wine did I drink last night? I felt completely sober when I went to bed, when I did my going-to-bed tasks and donned my nightie and sat on the comforter and . . . and . . .

  Made a wish . . .

  I spring out of bed. So this is the new me. Not lingering beneath the covers, praying for a reprieve from the daunting, overwhelming, miserable life I lead. But jumping up, jumping in, if only to discern whether my wish has been granted.

  Colin is already up. I smell espresso. I hear the TV in the kitchen. The monitor in the bedroom is off.

  What day is today? I glance at the bedside clock. Saturday. No work. But also no Raina and, I assume, no Lena, so the burden of Josh’s care is left to me. Colin always claimed Saturdays as writing days, having been cleaved to his professorship Monday through Friday. I wonder if, in this new life w
here he has weekdays to write to his heart’s content, he takes Saturdays off to help with our son.

  I cross to the closet and feel a slight ache between my legs, likely the result of my time in Colin’s office last night. I should shower and brush my teeth and pee, but I’m too anxious to do any of those things right now. I need to see. I need to know. I toss my nightie onto the bed and grab a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the closet.

  I can tell by the blinding fissure of light pushing through the notch in the curtains that today is going to be a hot one. I slip on a pair of sandals and hurry down the hall, past Josh’s room to Katie’s closed door. I knock softly, then wait. I realize I’m holding my breath and force myself to let it out on a silent sigh. No answer from within. I turn the knob and open the door far enough to see that the bed is made and the window is ajar and my daughter is not there.

  She’s with him.

  My wish didn’t come true.

  I stand for a moment, absently gazing at the made bed. If last night’s wish was ignored by whatever forces have been at play these last few days, perhaps my prior wishes have been revoked. Perhaps the ache between my legs is from Richard’s attack and that vile man has reentered my life. A hard pit of dread catches in my throat.

  But no. There is no barking from next door, meaning Charlemagne hasn’t returned. I push the door all the way open and cross to the window, then lean down and peer down at the front lawn. The tree is still gone. I move to Katie’s dresser, above which hangs a mirror. My face remains unmarked.

  Charlemagne. The tree. Richard. Three wishes, like the fairy tale, only without the genie and the bottle.

  Of course, a simpler explanation is that there were no wishes. There was no Charlemagne, no tree, no Richard Green. My mind has already adopted the last five years without my boss, and I can barely call upon his image—his features are blurred, obscured, as if he wears a stocking over his head. The assault in the bathroom seems more like a scene from a movie I once saw. My mind has already erased the many bouts I had with the pavers caused by the tree roots. I know I have fallen, but I can’t remember any specific occurrence. And Charlemagne . . . the feel of his fur beneath my fingers, his sandpaper tongue against my cheek, both memories gone, recalled now as fantasy not reality. I can no longer remember the exact cadence of his bark.

  The room around me spins, and I grasp Katie’s dresser to steady myself. If the wishes weren’t wishes, if reality is constant, if all that has happened has always been . . .

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter—ha—then silently scream at myself to get a grip, get ahold of yourself, hang on, hang tight, hang tough. Stand up. Take a breath. Go downstairs and kiss your son good morning.

  I do what I must. I stand up, take a breath, and go downstairs to kiss my son.

  I make my way to the first floor, continuing to coach myself, knowing that if I don’t get a grip and take charge of my emotions, my thoughts—my life—some greater, possibly malevolent force is going to take charge of me. By the time I reach the kitchen, I’m almost convinced that I’m all right. But when I enter, I stop dead. This time, the room doesn’t spin. This time the room careens beneath my feet.

  Katie sits at the table, but not the Katie from yesterday, Katie from BH. Before him. Her hair is clean and full of body, the lustrous red curls restored. Her complexion is no longer sallow but rosy and glowing, her eyes not swollen and puffy but bright and shining. She sits beside Josh, feeding him his oatmeal, sneaking in enthusiastic bites of toast for herself. She looks up at me and smiles, the radiant, genuine smile of a happy teenager.

  “Hi, Mom,” she says.

  “Maah!” Josh exclaims, twisting to see me.

  I’m afraid to move, afraid I’ll crash to the floor if I take even one step in any direction. Katie’s eyes narrow. “Are you okay, Mom? You look a little pale.”

  I feel more than pale. I feel transparent. I quickly regroup—what choice do I have?—and take charge of my wobbly legs. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” I lie. “Good morning.”

  “T’j’aye-es.” TGIS.

  I walk to Josh, relieved that my steps are steady, and kiss his forehead. “Yes, thank goodness it’s Saturday.”

  I can’t peel my gaze from my daughter. The not-right feeling has been replaced by utter joy at the sight of her. I want to throw my arms around her, but I know I can’t, shouldn’t, won’t. Such a display would give me away.

  “What, Mom?” she asks. “Jeez. Why are you looking at me like that?” Her expression morphs from puzzlement to panic in a split second. “Do I have a zit?” Cataclysmic fear of a skin eruption. Oh, to be a teenager with such trite concerns.

  “Y’ ah a zeh,” Josh says. You are a zit. Followed by his laughter that sounds like the bray of a donkey.

  “No, you don’t have a zit, Katie. I’m just surprised to see you here.”

  She scrunches up her face. “Where else would I be? Monkey man can’t feed himself, you know.”

  Josh attempts a monkey voice. “Ooh ooh ahh ahh.” Katie laughs.

  “I don’t know. I thought after our conversation last night you might not be feeling up to breakfast.”

  “Last night?” She gives Josh a funny look. “Um, Mom, last night I was with Simone, remember? I didn’t get home till after you guys were asleep.”

  Simone. Katie’s best friend since grammar school, whom she cast aside when she met him.

  I wish Katie never met that boy.

  “Maee y’ dree’ i, Maah.” Maybe you dreamed it, Mom. Then to Katie: “Sh’ bi’ haaey a ah’ a’ stay dree’ laelee.” She’s been having a lot of strange dreams lately.

  Oh, Josh, if you only knew the half of it.

  “I forgot something,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  Straining to keep my footsteps even, don’t rush, I walk out of the kitchen and head for the stairs. As soon as I’m certain my children cannot see me, I quicken my pace. I scramble up the stairs, two at a time. My foot catches before I reach the second-floor landing, and I fall, my chest and chin connecting with the carpeted riser. I right myself and continue up, one thought, one question propelling me forward.

  I scurry down the hall and into the bathroom. Both bedroom doors are ajar. I move to the toilet and look down into the trash bin next to the porcelain bowl. Tissues. More tissues. I reach into the waste can and riffle through the contents, my fingers expecting to connect with plastic—a long, thin, hard harbinger of doom. They encounter nothing. I grab the waste can and overturn it onto the tile floor, then sift through the trash. There is no pregnancy test.

  Three minutes later, I am back in the kitchen.

  “Loo’, Maah. Fuh a’ Fe maee witah i’ suher.” Look, Mom. Phineas and Ferb are making winter in summer.

  I glance at the TV, but the image is blurred. Who the fuck cares about Phineas and Ferb?

  With forced composure, I walk to the fridge and pull out a Greek yogurt. I’m not hungry, but I’m hoping the yogurt will soothe my queasy stomach. The creamy tart/sweet yogurt tastes foul, not because it’s out of date but because it’s comingling with the taste of bile in my mouth. I swallow quickly.

  “So, what’s on the agenda today?” I ask. My question draws another peculiar look from Katie.

  “We’re taking Josh for a haircut, Mom.” Said as if I should know.

  But I don’t know, and I would never have made this plan, not after last time. I shake my head. “No.”

  She rolls her eyes and gives Josh a quick sideways glance. “Yes, we are. We discussed this last week.” She speaks to me as though she is the mother and I am the inattentive child. “I set it up with Mimi. He has an eleven o’clock.”

  “Mimi’s?”

  “Mom, you didn’t want to take him back to Jack’s, so we’re trying something different this time, right, Josh?”

  He nods. “Riy.”

  Obviously, this is a decision, a plan, we made together last week. The memory hasn’t been formed yet, so I have to bunt.

  “I sti
ll don’t think it’s a good idea,” I tell them.

  Kate rises from her seat and approaches me. She leans close and whispers below the sound of the cartoon on the television.

  “I know what happened at the barbershop, Mom. But Josh wants to have his hair cut in a normal place like a normal person.”

  But he’s not a normal person, I want to shout. I press my lips together to keep myself from voicing the horrible words. Because Josh is normal in so many ways. Just not in enough ways to be excluded from other people’s scorn and callousness. And I am a terrible mother for thinking these things about my beloved son, weighing his normalcy against his disability and finding him wanting.

  “Mimi’s is going to be good,” she continues. “Lola, you know her, she’s the stylist we’re going to. She has a special-needs daughter. She gets it. She brings her daughter in all the time and the customers are, like, used to that kind of thing. They won’t make fun. I promise. I’m going to be there.” She grins at me. “And I’ll beat the crap out of anyone who even looks at Josh funny.”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady,” I tell her, but I’m grinning, too. God, I’ve missed this girl.

  “Wuh a’ y’ ta wispee a’ow?”

  “Yes, what are you two whispering about?” Colin asks as he strides into the room and heads for his espresso machine.

  “We were trying to decide what kind of haircut Josh should get today. I’m thinking buzz cut, but Mom is leaning toward a mohawk.”

  This draws another bray of laughter from my son.

  “Let’s keep it simple, shall we?” Colin suggests. He walks past me without stopping to kiss me. I feel the leftover chill from our argument last night as he wordlessly fills his demitasse, emptying the small carafe. He glances at me.

  “Did you want some?”

  “No, thank you.” I take another spoonful of yogurt and feel Colin’s eyes on me. I turn toward him and meet his gaze. I have been married to this man long enough to decipher his expression. He is waiting for me to apologize. And his expectation that I will fold, that I will take the blame for last night’s contretemps and offer him my polite and contrite apology, irritates me. I am not to blame for our fight any more than I am to blame for the appalling state of our finances. In this new life, I am the breadwinner and he is a sycophant, keeping me satiated with his cock while freeloading off my gains.