Me, Him, Them, and It

by Caela Carter

  “I don’t want to go walk on the beach,” I say finally. “I want to go somewhere else after lunch.”

  “Where?” she says.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Her eyebrows jump above the glasses. And not a good one, I add in my head.

  “Oh, okay!” Mom says enthusiastically. “But I’ll have to be home by dinnertime to get some work done.” Typical.

  Later, we’re cruising back down Atlantic with the air-conditioning pumping so hard it makes goose bumps sprout along my limbs. I wonder if the baby can tell when I get cold. I pull my knees to my chin, curling up to keep it from getting goose bumps on its blobby body.

  “Still the right way, Evelyn?” my mom keeps asking. The other words are gone. She thinks we’re going somewhere fun and exciting. I don’t care if I ruin her day; she’s been half of the reason my past year was ruined. Well, less than half.

  I direct Mom onto the highway and across the bridge toward downtown. She’s silent now, back to her stony self, as if she knows it’s not anything fun anymore.

  When I give her the exit she says, “Are you in trouble?”

  I squeak, “Yes.”

  “Are we going to your school?”

  I squeak, “No.” Minutes later we pull into the Planned Parenthood parking lot. Mom puts on her attorney face like a mask and follows me into the dark waiting room, flip-flops clapping on the creaky wooden floors.

  Mary’s door is open, so I march us right in there and plop on the dusty couch. My mother stands in the doorway, her lawyer face steeling her expression, looking strange on top of a body clad in beachwear.

  “Evelyn,” both the adults say in my direction.

  I look at Mary. “Tell her,” I say before I have time to wonder what they were each thinking when they uttered my name. “I can’t.”

  If Mary is going to insist that I tell that woman, then let her be the one to bounce the words off her icy mask.

  “Perhaps you’d like to sit down, Mrs. Jones,” Mary stammers. I stare out the window.

  When my mom sits without first correcting Mary to call her “Ms. Clark,” I know she has figured it out.

  “Evelyn is a very bright and talented young woman,” Mary recites.

  Mom puts her hand on my far shoulder and yanks it too hard so I face her. “You’re pregnant?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t even nod. I can’t. I’m shaking. And besides, she already knows. I wait for the questions to fill the room: What will we tell everyone? What are you going to do with it? How pregnant are you? What will I tell my friends? Who is the father? Where will you live? What about your grades? What will we tell everyone?

  But all she says is “You didn’t tell me.” Her eyes are dry and steady, but the words are a sob.

  I stare at her for a minute, still waiting for the rest of the questions, the ones that have an answer. But she just holds my gaze. Then she starts repeating it over and over again. “Why didn’t you tell me, Evelyn? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  That’s all she says. For a second, she lets the attorney mask melt and just becomes my old mom. Mom from before Dad came back. Mom from before Dad left. Mom from before, before, before. That Mom when I was just a toddler and she thought she’d have four. She says it four times: “Why didn’t you tell me?” Each time is like a staple fastening some kind of guilt to my heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I almost double over in pain. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Of all the things I should feel guilty for—having sex, having sex in her house while she was there, having unprotected sex, having sex with a boy who’s not even my boyfriend, smoking pot, drinking, quitting cross-country, getting countless detentions, planning to run far away to college and never visit this stupid city again—why do I feel guilty for this? Keeping my life to myself?

  Why would I tell you? You’re a lawyer, not my mother.

  I just shrug. Silence is in my genes.

  I watch it happen. The mask descends onto her features and hardens. She stands. In an optical illusion her bathing-suit-and-coverup outfit morphs into a suit, her windblown hair winds itself into a sensible bun, her flip-flops grow to cover her toes and assume a small, reasonable heel. She extends her hand toward Mary, who is sitting behind her beat-up desk so quietly you would think she belongs in our house.

  “Well, thank you for convincing my daughter to talk to me. Rest assured that her father and I will take care of things from here.”

  My father? Oh, hell no. He gets no say in what happens here.

  Mary squeaks, “I’m sure you know, Mrs. Jo—”

  “Ms. Clark.” The Lawyer is back.

  Mary’s cheeks burn fuchsia. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Clark. I’m sure you know that Evelyn needs to get to a doctor ASAP and establish a birth plan and—”

  My mom cuts her off again. “Thank you for your help, Mary. My husband and I are perfectly capable of dealing with this from here.” She barely turns her head. “Evelyn?” she calls. She might as well say “heel.” I follow a pace behind her to the car, ignoring the cheerful sound of our flip-flops. The sun is gone, hiding behind layers of gray in the sky. Heat lightning zigzags over our heads. If I could float into the clouds, would the lightning suck me up? And would it feel just like that dream?

  When we get home, Lawyer Mom slaps her flip-flops down the hall and slams shut her office door. The Stranger waits until he hears the latch before coming to find me in the kitchen. I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, watching Discovery Channel lions chase each other on mute and downing a Sprite. We don’t have any ginger ale. I doubt Mom will add it to the grocery list now.

  “Did my girls have a nice day?” he asks.

  No. It was awful. Your slut of a daughter is pregnant, your shrew of a wife only cares that she wasn’t the first to know, and neither of us are your girls because you’re nothing more than a scared little boy.

  I shrug, but I startle when I look up at him. Sometimes it’s surprising to see his face and remember how much I used to love every time he came into a room—how he would cook dinner several times a week and it was so delicious, how he would dance with me in the kitchen and the hallways, how we would play that card game War for hours every night and the loser would have to do the dishes, and then we’d just end up doing them together anyway. I miss him sometimes, which is stupid because he’s right here in front of me, in this kitchen. But he left—he left me. After Aunt Linda was already gone, I got home one day and he was gone too.

  “Chased home early by the lightning?” He pulls a Sprite out of the fridge and sits at the kitchen table, several feet to my left; he knows I might slug him if he sits next to me.

  “Something like that,” I mutter.

  He’s going to hate me.

  So what? I already hate him.

  He’s going to hate me.

  The Stranger swishes soda in his mouth for a few moments. I can see the wheels in his brain grasping for any kind of conversation topic. If he can’t talk to me now, forget it after he finds out.

  “I’m going over to Lizzie’s for dinner,” I say.

  Relief flushes over his face.

  “I think I’ll stay there tonight too. Bring some homework.” I didn’t realize this was my plan but now that the words are out of my mouth it sounds like a great idea—avoid World War Three, spend some final time with Lizzie before I’m locked in Total Isolation for the rest of my life.

  “Have a good time.” He pauses awkwardly. This is the part where he should say “Evelyn.” But he has never called me by my name. He used to always call me “Pumpkin” or “Pumpkin face” or sometimes “Pumpking, king of the pumpkins,” but right after he came back—the last time I really yelled—I exploded all over him and told him to never call me “Pumpkin” or any version of that stupid name again.

  Sometimes I think that I’m too hard on him because I know that not everything was his fault. But when he left, it sucked. It really sucked. And when something sucks that badly, it’s easier if you can point a finger.

&n
bsp; I jump up from the stool. “Bye, Dad,” I yell, running toward the stairs to my room. I have to get out of here immediately before Mom tries some kind of pointless grounding on me. I throw some clothes in a duffel bag, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and sprint toward the kitchen door.

  “You’re going now?” Dad asks. “Don’t you want to shower the beach off or anything?”

  I brush past him, calling “nope,” and dive into my Jeep. I have no idea if Lizzie has a date or plans with her family or anything, but at this point I’ll spend the night in her driveway if I have to.

  Her mother puts down her glass of wine and greets me with a hug and a kiss on the forehead. She smells like vanilla all the time. She tells me Lizzie is in her room painting. She tells me I can spend the night. If my father had just stayed away like Lizzie’s, would my mother be this warm?

  “You’re here!” Lizzie squeals when I open her door. “Great! It’s time to try on outfits.” She abandons her easel and jumps over the dirty clothes and dishes and books and knickknacks covering the floor to get to her monster of a closet. “Okay. I was thinking about this white halter”—she tosses it onto the floor behind her feet—“but if this lightning leads to rain, you’ll be able to see, like, everything. I mean, I don’t mind a little slutty but I don’t want to be an exhibitionist or whatever. You know?” She leans out of the closet to look at me.

  I’m standing in her doorway, deep in the mess, mouth hanging open. I forgot there was another party tonight, if I ever even knew there was another party tonight. I wrack my brain. I can’t remember. I don’t know whose it is or why or where.

  “You forgot?” She looks hurt. “Please, E, tell me what’s going on.”

  If I tell her everything, it will be okay. She’ll stay here with me and protect me from my parents. She’ll understand why I don’t want to go to another loud party full of drunk jocks and giggling girls. She’ll know I can’t drink anyway. We’ll drive to the Redbox and rent a horror movie and pop popcorn and curl up on her couch and maybe her mother will make us some herbal iced tea because herbs are good for you so they would probably be good for the bean-baby and we’ll scream until it’s time to go to sleep and then I’ll curl up on the mattress on her floor and tell her in a whisper-song everything that I am afraid of, even the stuff that doesn’t have anything to do with the baby, and she’ll come down off her bed to hug me and tell me that I can just live with her and her mother and her brother and sister and that they’ll take care of everything and her mother will raise the baby after it’s born and it will all be okay. I just have to tell her.

  “No way I forgot. I just had to come raid your closet.”

  She smiles. That feels good.

  “I’ll drive,” I add as she throws me a hot-pink tube top. Hot pink does not work with my hair, but Lizzie never listens when I say that. “But can I stay here tonight? I’m expecting World War Three.”

  Lizzie sighs. “I want to be mad at you right now for once again not telling me whatever is going on with you, but I’m too excited for Bethany’s. I’ll get mad at you tomorrow.” She pulls off her tank top. “I won’t even ask why you’re in a bikini.”

  With a deep breath and some serious effort, I pull my comfy gray T-shirt over my head. Of course I didn’t bring my strapless—I’m still in my swimsuit—but luckily my boobs are small enough that I can just go without. For now, anyway. I yank the tube top down to meet my jeans. It’s long enough, but it fits like a hot-dog casing. I imagine the little bean of a baby scrunching into the very side of my uterus, squishing smaller and smaller and smaller until it just …

  “That looks great!” Lizzie attacks my face with a huge blush brush. She has decided to risk the white halter.

  “So why the World War Three?” she asks.

  “I don’t know what they’re fighting about now. It’s just more stormy than usual there, so I am pretty sure it will explode again. Do you have a ginger ale?”

  “Don’t change the subject. Something’s going on with you. What is it, Ev?” She abandons the blush brush and sits on the side of her bed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, Ev.” She’s almost whining now.

  “I swear.” I cough. “It’s nothing.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me everything now.”

  “I do.” Except this. “I swear.” I swallow.

  Lizzie stands and pushes the brush harder into my face. “Well, if you’re going to keep your mouth shut, I won’t tell you what I found out about my potential dad today.”

  When we leave I am clad in hot pink and covered in sparkles, an unwed mother masquerading as a Disney Princess.

  I carry around a warm Solo cup of beer while watching my friends get drunk and avoiding Todd. He walks in the kitchen, I pull Lizzie and Bethany into the backyard. He approaches from the side of the house and he’s calling Lizzie’s name, so I pull Bethany and Sean to the other side. Lizzie joins us again, but a minute later, Todd starts up the driveway, so I pull her and Sean into the garage. They start making out. I abandon my full cup of beer and wander into the kitchen by myself to find a sneaky way to raid the refrigerator for a snack and a ginger ale. My stomach is confused—half nauseated, half hungry. I trace the line between the halves with the nail on my pointer finger and I walk smack into Todd. Both missions abandoned in one fell swoop.

  “Where’s your drink?” There’s beer on his breath and his shirt smells like weed. He’s standing too close to me, like he wants something. We haven’t talked since Sean’s party—the Breakup of the Relationship That Never Was.

  “I’m not drinking.” I look him in the eye. “Were you smoking weed?”

  He laughs. “No. I got this shirt out of the back of Sean’s car because Bethany ripped a hole right in the chest of the one I was wearing.”

  This is not the image I want interrupting the shrinking baby movie that has been playing in my head.

  “I’m sober, actually,” he says. “Big practice on Monday.”

  Whatever, dumbass, it’s only Saturday night. I keep looking over his shoulder like someone who I’m dying to talk to is about to show up. But the only things over there are drunk teenagers gulping and groping and running to find a place to puke.

  “So,” he says to my silence. “When do you need me to do that thing?”

  Now I look at him. “What thing?”

  “You know, the favor?” I stare blankly. “Pick you up from the … appointment. I have some … for you, too.” He starts digging his hand into his back pocket.

  “Oh!” I say too loudly. “I don’t need you to do that anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But does this mean … do … you’re going to … shouldn’t I be worried?”

  I don’t know. Maybe my mom will make me sue him for child support. But I don’t care. “No.”

  “Are you … are you okay?” Suddenly the jerk is gone and it’s Todd in front of me—Todd who packed three sandwiches when I said I was hungry, Todd who told jokes to cover up the yelling, who asked me a thousand questions about life in the Silent House, whose naked body would feel so natural next to mine.

  Sean and Lizzie burst into the kitchen in a torrent of energy and Sean runs right up to us and knocks our heads together. “Ow, jerkoff,” I say, rubbing my skull.

  “Will you two just bang it out already? So much sexual tension here.” Sean waves his arms between Todd and me, accidentally brushing my boob with each swing and not even noticing.

  Todd and I stare at him, reducing Lizzie to a fit of giggles. She won’t say anything to Sean, I know that, but she also doesn’t know about the Fake Breakup last week, so I hope she doesn’t lean in and whisper something to Todd. I’m exhausted. I check the clock. Eleven. That has to be late enough.

  “Come on, Lizzie. Let’s go home.”

  “Home! Are you crazy?” Lizzie spits between giggles. “Don’t go home, have a beer.” She st
ares at me like it’s a challenge.

  “Yeah, the party’s just starting!” Sean slaps me on the shoulder. “Don’t be mad about the sexual tension. I didn’t put it there, I just tell it like it is.”

  “Get over yourself, Sean. I don’t care what you say. I’m just tired and I want to go home. Let’s go, Lizzie.”

  She looks at me, confused. “No?”

  “Lizzie, I’m really tired.”

  “So have a beer. You’ve barely had any.”

  “I don’t want a beer. I want a pillow.” Sean’s and Todd’s eyes bounce between our faces like this is a tennis match.

  “So go to your own house then. I’m not ready to go.”

  I want to scream. I can’t go to my own house. I can’t stay here. “Please?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? You say there is nothing wrong with you but something clearly is. If you don’t tell me, then you’re not coming back to my fucking house.” Lizzie’s eyes look angry. I hope mine look pleading.

  “I’ll tell you when we get home. I promise,” I say.

  Todd sucks in air.

  A stampede of naked boys crashes through the kitchen yelling, “Streak! Streak!”

  “Sweet!” Sean says, pulling off his shirt and yanking down his shorts and boxers in one swift motion. Still in his sneakers, he chases the crowd. The sticky, sweaty smell they trail into the kitchen causes my lunch to rise dangerously high in my esophagus. Lizzie dissolves into giggles and runs after them into the pool, in all of her clothing.

  I take a Solo cup, fill it with water, and hoist myself onto the kitchen counter. Todd comes over and puts his hand on my knee. I do not like it there. It feels like a spider.

  “You didn’t tell her?” he asks, like somehow this makes him feel worse for knocking me up, telling me he wouldn’t do anything to help, and then dumping me.