Twisted

by Emma Chase

  Don’t ever feel alone

  I imagine myself a few years from now, walking home on the city streets from the job I love—one hand holding a briefcase, the other holding the small, sweet hand of my little girl or boy.

  And I picture us at the dining-room table, working on homework and talking about our day. I see story times, and bedtimes, tickle-times, hugs, and butterfly kisses.

  Being a single mother wasn’t something I’d ever planned to be . . . but now? It’s who I want to be.

  I’ll be there every step of the way

  Won’t miss a moment

  I’ll be there every step of the way

  Won’t miss a moment

  You know that saying? The best-laid plans of mice and men . . . ? You might want to remember that right about now.

  Because as soon as the decision takes root in my mind, I feel a dull throbbing. You ladies will know what I’m talking about. That pulling cramp in my lower abdomen. And a thick, warm wetness oozes out from between my legs, seeping into my underwear.

  My heartbeat pounds against my chest, and I head for the restrooms. Hoping I’m wrong.

  But once I’m in the stall, I see that I’m not.

  I stumble back out of the bathroom, into the crowd. My hands shaking with dread, with fear. Because this is wrong.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I grab Delores’s arm and tell her. But the music’s too loud, and she doesn’t hear me. I pull her to the back of the bar, where it’s quieter, and I force the words out.

  “Dee, I’m bleeding.”

  Forrest Gump had it all wrong. Life isn’t like a box of chocolates.

  Doctors are.

  The vivacious but inexperienced physician right out of medical school, or the battle-hardened know-it-all finishing the last minutes of a twenty-hour shift—you never know what you’re gonna get.

  “Spontaneous abortion.”

  My eyes snap away from the gray blob of the ultrasound screen to the steel-blue eyes of the emergency-room doctor. But he’s not looking at me—he’s too busy writing on his clipboard.

  “Wh . . . what did you say?”

  “Spontaneous abortion—miscarriage. It’s common in the first trimester.”

  I make an effort to process his words, but I can’t quite manage it. “Are you . . . are you saying I’m losing my baby?”

  Finally he looks up. “Yes. If you haven’t already lost it. This early in gestation, it can be difficult to tell.”

  As he wipes the cool, clear gel off my abdomen, Delores squeezes my hand. We called my mother on the way to the hospital, but she hasn’t gotten here yet.

  I swallow hard, but I refuse to give up. Stubborn—remember?

  “Is there anything you can do? Hormone therapy or bed rest? I’ll do bed rest for the entire nine months if it’ll help.”

  His tone is clipped and impatient. “There’s nothing I could prescribe that could stop this. And believe me, you wouldn’t want me to. Spontaneous abortion is natural selection, the body’s way of terminating a fetus with some catastrophic deformity that would have prevented it from surviving outside the womb. You’re better off.”

  The room starts to spin as the hits keep on coming. “You need to make a follow-up appointment with your regular gynecologist. When the fetal tissue is expelled, you should scoop it out of the toilet with a strainer. Then put it in a spill-proof container—a jelly jar would work well—so your doctor can analyze the remains and ensure the uterus is empty. If all the uterine matter isn’t . . .”

  I press the back of my hand against my mouth to keep the bile in. And Delores charges to the rescue. “That’s enough. Thank you, Doctor Frankenstein—we’ve got it from here.”

  He’s offended. “I need to give the patient accurate instructions. If tissue is left inside the uterus it could lead to sepsis, and possibly death. She may need a D&C to prevent infection.”

  My voice is weak. “What’s . . . what’s a D&C?”

  It sounds familiar. I’m sure at some point in my life I’ve learned the definition, but I just can’t remember.

  “Vacuum extraction.”

  Images pop into my head with his words, and I gag.

  He continues, “A suction hose is inserted into the cervix—”

  “Jesus Christ, would you stop talking!” Dee Dee shouts. “Can’t you see she’s upset? Were you in the fucking bathroom when they taught bedside manner in medical school?”

  “Excuse me, miss, I don’t know who you think you are, but I won’t be spoken to—”

  Her finger points at the curtained doorway like the snap of a soldier’s salute. “Get. Out. She’ll make an appointment with her regular doctor. We’re done with you.”

  A slight breeze blows past me, and I’m not sure if it’s the doctor. Because my eyes refuse to focus, and my mind is reeling. Trying so hard to grasp this latest turn of events . . . and failing miserably.

  Delores puts her hand on my arm and my head turns toward her, surprised.

  Like I forgot she was there.

  “Kate? We’re gonna get you dressed now, okay? I’m going to take you home.”

  I nod my head numbly. It feels like I’m not even here—like an out-of-body experience. Or a nightmare. Because there’s no way this can really be happening.

  After everything . . . it’s just not possible that this is how it all ends.

  Delores dresses me, like I’m a child. Then she helps me off the table. And together we make our way to the car.

  Back in my room, Delores sits at the foot of my bed and my mother tucks the covers in around me. Her eyes shine with unfallen tears.

  But not mine. Mine are as dry as the Sahara.

  Barren.

  My mom brushes my hair back and picks lint off the bedsheets. “You want something to eat, honey?”

  Her voice is a little desperate, grasping for some action that will somehow make this better. I shake my head without a word. Because all the chicken soup in the world isn’t going to help me.

  Not this time.

  She kisses my forehead and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. And Delores and I sit. Silently.

  I should feel . . . relieved. I mean, just a short while ago, I thought this was what I wanted, right? Out of my hands.

  Problem solved.

  But the only thing I feel is . . . regret. Remorse. It fills my lungs and chokes me with every breath I take. Because deep down, under all the fear and the shock and uncertainty, I wanted this baby. I loved this perfect little piece of Drew and me. So much.

  I just didn’t realize it in time.

  Too little, too late. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. All clichés—and all so fucking true. Then a thought comes to me, and I throw the covers back and jump out of bed. I open my drawers and dig through them, searching fruitlessly.

  Then I drop to my knees at the closet and drag out the duffel bag I brought from New York. And I rummage through it, like a widow who’s lost her wedding ring.

  “Katie?”

  And then I find it. The tiny T-shirt I bought that night. The one I was going to give to Drew—to announce the big news.

  I stare at it and I feel the tears come. I trace my fingers over the letters: FUTURE YANKEES PITCHER. And in my head I see that little boy again. My sweet little boy.

  Ours.

  The one with his father’s eyes and irresistible smile. The one that will never be. I bring the shirt to my face and inhale. And I swear to God it smells like baby powder.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My shoulders shake and a monsoon pours down from my eyes. My breaths come in gasps, and I clutch the shirt against me—the way a toddler does with his favorite stuffed animal. “Please . . . I didn’t mean it. I was just scared . . . I wasn’t going to . . .”

  I’m not sure who I’m talking to—myself, or my baby, or maybe even God. I just need to say the words, so they’ll be out there and real. So the universe will know that this was never how I wanted things to
be.

  Delores rubs my back, letting me know she’s there. That she’s behind me, like always. I turn to her. And with my head against her chest, I cry my heart out.

  “Oh God, Dee. Please . . .”

  “I know, Kate. I know.”

  There are tears in her voice too. Because that’s how real friends are—they share your pain. Your agony is theirs, even if it’s not in equal measure.

  “It’s okay . . . it’s gonna be okay,” she tries.

  I shake my head. “No. It’s not. It’ll never be okay again.”

  Delores’s arms wrap around me tight, trying so hard to hold me together.

  “Why? I don’t understand. Why did this happen? Drew and I are . . . and now the baby . . . and it was all for nothing. Nothing.”

  I told you I’d be asking why again, remember?

  Delores smooths my hair down. And her voice is calm. “I don’t know why, Katie. I wish I could tell you . . . but . . . I just don’t know.”

  We stay like that for a while. And eventually, the tears die down. I make my way back to the bed and Delores sits beside me. I look at the little shirt again and shake my head. “It hurts so much. I never knew anything could feel this bad.”

  “Is there anything you want me to do, Kate?”

  My eyes leak quietly. And my voice is frail. “I want Drew. I want him here.”

  If the world was like it’s supposed to be, he’d be here. And he’d be just as devastated as I am. He’d try to hide it, but I’d know. He would climb into this bed with me, and he’d hold me and I would feel safe, and loved . . . and forgiven.

  And he’d tell me that this just wasn’t the right time. But that if I want a baby, he’ll give me a dozen. Drew is really big with the overkill.

  And then he’d kiss me. And it would be gentle and sweet. And then he’d say something silly like, “Just think of all the fun we’ll have making them.” And I’d smile. And it would hurt a tiny bit less.

  Just because he was with me.

  Delores nods and reaches for the phone. But my hand covers hers—stopping her. Her eyes look at me with understanding, like she already knows what I’m thinking. And she probably does.

  “He’ll come, Kate. You know he’ll come.”

  I shake my head. “You weren’t there, Delores. He was . . . vicious. I’ve never seen him so angry. It was like . . . like he thought I was picking the baby over him. Like I’d betrayed him.”

  I close my eyes against the memory. “He’ll be happy. He’ll be glad the baby’s gone . . . and then I’ll hate him.”

  And even after everything that’s happened—I’m just not ready to hate Drew Evans.

  Delores sighs. And her hand moves away from the phone. “I think you’re wrong. I’ll be first in line to point out what an idiot Drew can be, but . . . I can’t imagine him ever being happy about something that’s hurt you. Not like this.”

  I don’t answer her, because the door to my bedroom opens. And Billy walks in. He looks tired, his face is somber, and I know my mother’s told him.

  “You okay?”

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah. I figured as much.” He sits down in the beanbag chair and rubs his eyes. “This is just . . . totally FUBAR. And when really fucked-up things happen? All you can do is get fucked up right along with it.”

  That’s when I notice the bag he brought with him. It’s supermarket brown, and bulging.

  He picks it up and dumps some of the contents out. There’s a few bags of weed, a carton of Marlboro reds, and two bottles of tequila. I stare at the honey-colored liquid. And I think of Mexican music, and warm skin, and midnight whispers with Drew.

  I love you, Kate.

  I look away. “I can’t drink tequila.”

  Like Mary Poppins with her bottomless bag, Billy reaches back in and takes out a bottle of Grey Goose.

  And I nod slowly. “Vodka works.”

  Chapter 14

  Have you ever licked the floor of the men’s room at Yankee Stadium? Neither have I. But now I know just what it tastes like.

  Yep—we’re hung over. It’s hell. Forget the drones; if the army could unleash this feeling? There’d be world peace for all.

  I’m in the office of my mother’s gynecologist. Billy and Delores came along for moral support. See us there? Lined up in the chairs, like three delinquents waiting outside the principal’s office. Delores is wearing sunglasses even though we’re inside, reading a pamphlet about the new female Viagra. Billy’s asleep, mouth open, head tilted up and resting against the wall behind us. My mother’s here too, flipping through a magazine without reading any of the words.

  And I just sit, trying too hard not to look at those pictures of newborn babies covering the walls.

  Billy lets out a snot-sucking snore, and Delores jabs him in the ribs with her elbow. He wakes up sputtering, “Monkey ball banana blitz!”

  We all look at him questioningly.

  And he realizes where he is. “Sorry. Nightmare.” Then he lays his head back against the wall again, eyes closed. “I feel like gassy stool.” Delores and I nod in unison. And Billy solemnly swears, “I’m never drinking again. I’m going legit.”

  His cousin scoffs, “Heard that before.”

  “I mean it this time. No more alcohol for me. From here on out, it’s weed only.”

  Yeah. That makes sense.

  Since we’re waiting anyway, let’s take a moment to reflect on one of the most sacred womanly rites of passage: the gynecological exam. It’s completely bizarre.

  See, our whole young lives, we girls are told to stay pure. Keep our legs crossed, our knees locked. And then we turn eighteen. And we have to go to an office and meet a doctor who, based on statistics, will be a middle-aged man. And then we have to strip bare—completely naked. And let him feel us up. And finger us. A total frigging stranger.

  Oh—and then there’s the best part: the conversation. Yep, he talks to you during the exam. How’s school? Sure is rainy out today, isn’t it? Is your mother doing well? All in the effort to distract you from that fact that he’s wrist deep in your vagina.

  Can you say awkward?

  And don’t any of you men out there try and cry me a river about the horrors of your prostate exam. Doesn’t compare. One little finger up the ass can actually be rather pleasant. At least you don’t have to put your legs up in a contraption that originated as a medieval torture device. Women definitely got the raw end of the deal on this one.

  A nurse in blue scrubs calls my name. My mother and I stand up and walk into the first exam room on the left.

  I take my clothes off and put on the pink plastic robe, opening in the front, of course.

  The better to see you with, Little Red Riding Hood.

  I sit on the table, the paper liner crunching beneath me. My mother stands to the side, rubbing my arm supportively. And in walks the doctor.

  Take a look. White beard. Chubby cheeks. Round glasses. Give him a red hat, and he could totally ride that last float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  I have to go to third base with Santa Claus? Are you kidding me?

  Christmas will never be the same.

  “Hello, Katherine. I’m Dr. Witherspoon. Your mother’s regular physician, Joan Bordello, is on vacation—”

  Of course she is.

  “—and I’m filling in for her.” He looks down at the file in his hand. “Judging by the date of your last menstrual cycle, you’re almost six weeks into your first trimester?”

  I nod.

  “And you’ve had some bleeding and cramping?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you describe the blood for me, please? The color? Were there any clots?”

  My voice is raspy. “It started out brownish-pink. Like the first day of my period. On the way to the hospital there was a gush . . . of bright-red blood . . . and then . . . it turned brown again. I didn’t . . . I don’t think there were any clots.”

  He nods his head, and his
eyes are kind. “I’ve read the emergency room physician’s report, but I’d like to take a look myself. Is that all right, Katherine?”

  I force a smile. “Okay. And you can call me Kate—everyone does.”

  “All right, Kate. When you’re ready, slide down to the edge of the table and put your feet in the stirrups, please.”

  While I follow his directions, he wheels a cart over with a monitor and keyboard. And then he picks up a long plastic white wand that looks . . . well . . . like a dildo.

  For an elephant.

  I lift my head from the table. “Uh . . . what’s that?”

  “This is an internal ultrasound. Looks a little scary, I know . . .”

  No shit, Santa.

  “. . . but it won’t hurt.”

  And then he takes out a foil packet, tears it open, and rolls an extra-large condom onto the elephant dildo.

  Not kidding. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

  “Just try and relax, Kate.”

  Sure. No problem. I’ll just pretend I’m at the spa. Having my ovaries massaged.

  He inserts the rod carefully. And I flinch. The room is silent as he moves the instrument to and fro. He wasn’t lying; it’s not painful. Just . . . disconcerting.

  “Are you still experiencing any cramping?”

  I stare at the beige-tiled ceiling, purposely avoiding the little screen.

  “No. Not since last night.” I’m pretty sure the alcohol and pot disabled every pain nerve in my body.

  I hear the tapping of buttons on the keyboard, and the rod is removed. “You can sit up now, Kate.” I do. “Do you see that flickering, right there?”

  My gaze settles on the screen, where he’s pointing. “Yes.”

  “That is your baby’s heartbeat.”

  The breath rushes from my lungs. And I’m horrified. “You mean . . . it’s still . . . alive?”