by Caela Carter
Todd wanders out the side door, bare chested and carrying a wet polo shirt. His khaki shorts swing on his hip bones just under the lip of his plaid boxers. The muscles in his stomach shift back and forth while he walks. He doesn’t see me, so I help myself: my final look, my good-bye to the body that caused all the damn trouble. His chest is smooth and tan, and when he spins to wring out the shirt, the flexing muscles make lines in his back and curlicues on his arms. I don’t want to have sex, but I want to run my hands over his stomach. When we first did it he was wiry with muscles that ran only up and down instead of bursting through to punctuate his skin. His shoulders were probably two full inches narrower. I look the same … a skinny gift box of a torso with strings attached for limbs. But he never noticed that.
Soon I’ll be a beach ball with a head.
He sees me kicking myself back and forth on the swing. “Hey.” He wanders over in a zigzag. He’s drunk. I expect him to sit on the other swing and do some dumbass confusing thing like putting his hand on my knee and inviting me to sleep in his dumb guest room, or telling me in one breath how he won’t support me but that he never slept with other girls. Instead, he walks right up to me, bends over, and kisses my mouth. I just puked, but he tastes like stale beer, so I guess it doesn’t matter.
He has forgotten everything. He screwed up my life and he’s the one who gets to drink himself into oblivion. He’s the one who gets to pretend. Soon I will feel his hands descend on my throbbing nipples in an attempt to cop a feel at nothing, and then he will be pulling me toward the hedges next to the highway. But the dumbass stands.
“Don’t go. Please don’t go,” he says.
What the hell?
“I know this is a problem, but stay. This whole year, all these parties, all these stupid football games … nothing will be fun without you.”
I’m not going to any parties or football games because you knocked me up, dumbass!
I say, “The Silent Parents didn’t give me a choice.”
He sits next to me and pulls my hand into his lap.
Rub your thumb in my elbow. Please, one more time, rub your thumb in my elbow.
He starts to swing, just a little, and so do I. It’s crazy hard to swing holding hands though, so we stop.
“I’m sorry, E.”
I start to tell him that it’s okay, but he should be freaking sorry. For knocking me up, for convincing me so many times to have sex without a condom, for telling me I was on my own. He should be in as much trouble as I am. But I just shrug.
Then I realize something. Something desperate. I drop his hand and stop his swing. He’s drunk. That sucks. I have to get this through his pea brain.
“Todd.” He widens his eyes at me. I don’t usually say his name.
“Yeah?”
“You have to pretend my aunt is sick. You can’t say a word.”
“I know.”
“Have you told anyone already?” I whisper.
“No.” He’s looking right between my eyes, not in them. What if he’s lying?
“If I hear about this from one person, even one single person, you are dead meat,” I tell him.
His eyes go wide again. This time he focuses all that green right on me. I don’t care, I’m too angry to look into them, so I try to burn them with my own retinas instead. “I’ll tell your mom; I’ll tell all your stupid friends; I’ll tell the nuns and you will get kicked out of school and out of your house and I won’t even care. If just one person knows where I was when I get back, that’s what I’ll do. I swear I will.”
He looks scared, really scared. Shit, what if he told someone already? But he shakes his head. “I’m not going to tell anyone, babe”—don’t call me that now!—“but Lizzie—”
“Lizzie doesn’t know.”
“You still didn’t tell Lizzie? You told her you were going to. I heard you.”
“I didn’t tell anyone. You gotta keep your mouth shut, or I swear I’ll ruin your life.” I stand up.
“Where are you going?” He sounds like he might cry, the baby.
“Chicago,” I say, and turn to walk away. It would be awesome if I could just keep walking. It would be amazing if I leave him sitting on the swing with his mouth hanging open and his arms reaching for my skinny ass. I would be like a heroine from the stupid movies if I just stroll out of the yard right now, open my car door, and drive away to Never-Never Land where I can pretend I didn’t spend the past two weeks growing up on fast-forward, making the biggest decisions of my life. I can pretend I’m not scared shitless and I’m not seething mad at everyone I love, especially the stupid boy behind me.
But I’m not awesome and amazing and perfect, so I stop and turn when Todd yells my name.
He’s still sitting on the swing, but he’s leaning all the way forward like he might fall flat on his nose any minute and his arms are reaching for me like the dumbass thinks they could grow the five feet it would take to pull me back and his face is so puppy dog it isn’t even cute, like puppy-dog-turned-cockroach. But because I am weak and stupid, I turn around and walk back over to him and let him hug me. My arms dangle at my sides while he squeezes the crap out of my entire upper body and puts his nose in my hair.
“I’m really going to miss you,” he says.
You shouldn’t get to say that to me.
I don’t know what to say. I’m too angry for “I’ll miss you too,” even though I will. I can’t just shrug. I want to say “whatever,” but then he’ll cry again and I’ll go back for more of the confusing treatment.
“I’ll be back.”
He finally loosens his grip. As soon as he does, I sprint for my car, running as fast as my sick, tired, pregnant, skinny body can before I go back for more of that warm, shirtless hug.
Which one is the real boy: the Todd who says he can’t help me, or the Todd who begs me to stay?
7 Months, 2 Days
Somewhere in Kentucky, I roll down the window and puke all over the side of the Jeep.
“Morning sickness,” Mom says pointlessly, as I text Lizzie a quick good-bye. Those are the first words of this lovely little mother-daughter road trip. My head falls back on the seat and I’m instantly asleep again. I keep my eyes closed when the car takes an exit and pulls into a gas station. I stay still as Mom sprays my puke off the side of my beloved Jeep. She climbs in, and as we sail the highway again, I am lulled back asleep.
It’s good because I don’t want to be awake with her. I don’t want to face everything: Aunt Linda knows I’m a screwup. I have to live with three people I barely even know—Aunt Linda’s wife or lover or whatever you call her, and the two little girls they just adopted. Sleep is easier. Maybe I can just sleep until April, when Dr. Elizabeth says this thing will finally be out of me. After that, I’ll never sleep again.
But as we cross into Tennessee my brain starts rumbling all over the place. I squeeze my eyes shut, preferring complete boredom to Mom’s company but my stomach has other ideas. I lean out the window again and leave whatever was in my stomach on the road.
“You must be hungry,” she says when I pull my head back in the window.
I just shrug.
“I think we’ll stay in Nashville tonight. It’s about halfway. But it’s going to be another two hours and you probably need to eat right now. You know, you’ve got to take better care of yourself, eating and sleeping.”
I shrug again, even as my stomach roars.
We eat in near silence and roll back onto the road. The sky is darkening but not black. I don’t know what else to do. I feel like I should do homework, but I haven’t even begun my junior year yet, not really. In Chicago school doesn’t start for another week. It’s like the past two weeks—those days that changed my entire life—didn’t even exist. I should talk to Mom but I have no idea what she wants to say to me. I should be yelling at her. I should be making her feel as crappy for kicking me out as I feel for being worthless to her.
I wish she would put on the radio or something. A re
al Bad Girl would just reach up and flip it on. I don’t.
Finally, I pull out a pen and paper and start writing to Lizzie.
Hey Bestie,
I’m actually writing this to you, with a pen and paper and all that, because I’m in the car with my mom and the silence is like completely suffocating. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you talking and talking with me this year. I can’t believe my parents are kicking me out like this in my junior year of high school.
Mom just asked me what I’m doing. She asked if I was going to mail this to you, like with a stamp. But I told her I’d type it over at the hotel tonight and e-mail it to you.
So, I hope you are feeling okay tonight after that party. It seemed like you were having fun. Also, this is the third time you hooked up with Sean in like a month … do you like him, Lizzie? I think it would be good if you did, you know. It’s okay to have a boyfriend. I kind of wish I had made Todd my boyfriend when I had a chance, now that I have to leave him anyway.
Look, you’ve gotta keep an eye on Todd for me, okay? I mean, he isn’t my boyfriend or anything, but if he gets some stupid new girlfriend, will you tell me about it? I don’t want some bimbo surprising me when I finally get to come back. Okay?
I know you are going to want me to talk about what’s going on, so I’m going to try. I’m scared. I love my aunt Linda, but she doesn’t know the worst stuff about me—like drugs and sex. She just knows about Judy, the uptight big sister who squashed Aunt Linda all those years. (I have to keep inching closer to the passenger-side window while I write this. I think my mom is trying to read it over my shoulders even though she is supposed to be driving. (DRIVE, MOM. DON’T READ THIS. IT’S DANGEROUS!) Anyway, Aunt Linda has a wife or a partner or whatever, I don’t know what you call it, but they had that commitment ceremony that I went to when we were freshmen, remember? That was the last time I saw her. And the woman she married or whatever, Nora. I don’t know, she seems nice, I guess, but just a little, like, stiff. I don’t think she’ll be too happy to have another person living with them, corrupting their daughters. And I mean, they just adopted these kids like a year ago. Then here I come waltzing in to screw up the dynamic. It sucks, you know?
I want to live with you, Lizzie. Because I know you would talk to me. And because I know you would want me around.
I swallow before going on, but I know I have to lie.
And I’m scared about what will happen to Aunt Linda. I don’t know any more about it because it’s not like Mom is talking, but when I find out I’ll let you know.
Why is it easier to open up to Lizzie with this lie than it is to tell her the truth?
I don’t think I’ll even bother to make friends at this new school. I’m going to take a break from being Bad and work on getting As. Plus I’m going to have to go to the school where Aunt Linda works and I think it’s different from St. Mary’s. I mean, I know this is bad to say or whatever, but the kids there, they don’t have much money I think. Aunt Linda says that they don’t teach Japanese there, so I’m going to end up taking Spanish with freshmen! Can you believe that? It sucks. No point in making friends.
Who’d want some pregnant new girl as a friend anyway?
I mean, I’m only going to be here like a year, then I’ll be back with you.
“Evelyn,” Mom interrupts. “It’s getting too dark to write.”
It’s not dark at all with the highway lights on, but I’m too tired to argue. Besides, she managed to say some words. I should reward her for that. I cap my pen and lay my head back and fall asleep.
Finally, we get to Nashville. Mom made hotel reservations, but they ran out of rooms with two beds.
I walk into the cozy room and wish I were with Todd instead. The bed is huge—thank God—but Todd and I would squeeze together and only take up a little bit of it. There’s a pile of board games on a table next to the bed, and a balcony off the back with a fireplace next to it. The room is gorgeous, but Mom still can barely talk to me, and now I’m supposed to sleep with her. This is awful.
The shower is huge. I imagine Todd in it with me, water sliding down all those muscley curlicues in his upper arms.
When I get back into the room, I pull my notebook out of the backpack, grab a spare key, and head toward the door.
“Where are you going, Evelyn?”
“To the computer in the lobby to type the e-mail to Lizzie.”
“You need to get some sleep tonight so you can do some driving tomorrow,” Mom says. But she doesn’t say no, so I keep staring at her, doorknob in one hand, notebook in the other. “Hurry back,” she says finally.
I find peace typing words I already wrote. I’m nervous to send her all that truth—all those fears about Aunt Linda and Nora and this different school. But I’m nauseated about sending her all the lies—between each word is the baby, crying, screaming, confused—but I just can’t tell her. I can’t stand another person knowing.
At the end, I add:
Now I just typed that into this computer at a Nashville hotel. My stupid mother is making us share a bed tonight. Can you believe that?
I miss you already, Lizzie. Please call me every day. I know you have other friends, but I really don’t. Not like you.
This is the most honest thing I’ve ever said to you: please don’t forget about me. I need you.
Ev
Even though I slept all day, I’m exhausted when I pad back into the room. I’m relieved to hear Mom’s measured breathing as I slip between the sheets. I roll onto one side, away from her so I can pretend I’m alone. I put my hand on the flat part of my stomach, right beneath my belly button, and whisper so quietly that Mom wouldn’t be able to hear me even if she were awake.
“I’m sorry this is so hard on you already. It’s not your fault you were made by a dumbass and a dimwit. It’s your bad luck to have crappy parents like Todd and me. And an even crappier mom—holy shit, she’s your grandma.” I turn my head and look at the back of my mom’s hair, sensibly pulled away from her neck. Her ribs go up and down with even breaths. How can the Ice Queen be a grandmother? That’s harder to imagine than Todd and me being parents. I curl up again and put my hand back on the bean in my belly. “I’m sorry that you’re taking me away from all my friends and my maybe boyfriend. And I’m sorry that it’s making me mad at you. It’s not your fault.” I rub my hand back and forth for a minute, as if my stomach were a baby chick or something. “I still want to get rid of you. But I’m not going to. I promise.”
Then I close my eyes to fall asleep with my palm still resting there. It’s only seconds until I feel her fingers in my hair, smoothing it out on the pillow behind me.
“I love you, Evelyn,” she says. “I hope you know how much. I’m only this angry because I love you.”
I pull my knees to my chin and lower my head toward them, trying to stop the stinging in my eyes.
“I’m so worried for you, sweetie. I don’t think you know what it means to lose, to really lose something.”
Of course I know what it means to lose. She’s been living in the same house. She should know. There is a pause and she rolls onto her back. I almost start to fall asleep but then her voice comes back; she’s talking to the ceiling.
“When I was your age, I was just so busy trying to do well in school and taking care of your aunt Linda, who was only seven then. And Nanny and Pop-Pop, you know they didn’t have much money. I mean, we were fine when it was just the three of us, but they didn’t have the funds to suddenly adopt another one. They were both working full time, so I was picking Linda up from school and dropping her off and sometimes even meeting with her teachers and it was a lot. I think I lost my youth then. I love Linda, but when she went from baby to kid, I went from kid to adult. It was too fast. I know you think I’m a fuddy-duddy, a stick-in-the-mud, but I’m telling you: I had to be. We would have fallen apart, my family. I was the only one who had any mind for structure—I reminded them when the mortgage was due and to make car payments a
nd to pay for Linda’s after-school care. From the time I was fifteen. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t want you to have to grow up so fast.”
I can’t help it, my knees relax, my breathing eases and my ears perk up. I didn’t know any of this stuff. I don’t know why she’s telling me this now, and I resent the way my heart is softening toward it, but I sort of want to know. I do want to know.
“Now you’re having a baby, you’re probably listing all the things you will do differently than me.”
Nope. I’m not thinking about that at all. Pregnancy, yes. Motherhood, no.
“And I know the list is a mile long, and it probably should be. I don’t want you to be stiff like me. But I am only so stiff because I wanted to take the best possible care of you. I was the kind of mother who needed to read a book in order to figure out how to hold you. By the time I got used to supporting your head, you were able to hold it up on your own anyway. By the time I got used to you crawling, you were walking. I always knew I’d do better on the next one, but we, your dad and I … well, you know this part of my story. We never got that lucky. Your dad, he was so much better with you.
“And you don’t really know loss until you’ve lost a child. You know I still talk to them? Every night when I’m going to bed, I say good night to my babies in heaven. I’ve been missing them so much that I haven’t given your life enough attention in years. I know it’s not fair. And I’m not telling you all this to make excuses for the mistakes I’ve made, but just to warn you—you are going to lose a lot right now. Don’t let it take you over. Don’t let it steal what’s left.”
I think she’s going to stop there, but she just keeps talking. The words pile like bricks onto the bed. They keep me still, keep me awake, trap me. It’s so scary to hear her talk like this after the silent car ride. All day long I just wanted her to speak, but not to lay it on like this.