Positively Mine

by Christine Duval

  Karen told me that I need to avoid alcohol and caffeine… if I continue with the pregnancy. Although I don’t exactly binge drink, I’ve definitely had enough over the past several weeks. It’s kind of unavoidable as a freshman. I realize my hand is resting where she did the ultrasound, and I slide it off and bolt up the stairs before anyone tries to assign me a job.

  Thanks to Mike’s speakers, music fills the building, allowing me to escape to the third floor unnoticed. I head down the hall fumbling for my keys, and just when I think I’m in the clear…

  “Hey, Laurel!”

  I turn to see Liz, who I’ve had more than a few conversations with and even gone to several parties with too. She’s a tall, pretty blonde from Florida, who can be relatively social when she is in the mood. You wouldn’t look at her when she is gabbing at a party and think she’d want to be in one of the quietest dorms on campus. But I’ve been around her enough since orientation to notice that she also has this other side too, sometimes to the point where she won’t say hi even if you’re the only people in the hallway. That’s fine with me because I live better in uncertainty most of the time anyway. But I think a lot of people just don’t get her.

  I try to force a smile. “Hi, Liz.”

  “Where have you been all day? You missed Swedish Massage. We learned how to use our knuckles to penetrate deep tissue.” She laughs. She’s obviously in her social mood, much to my despair.

  “I, uh, had a doctor appointment.” I blurt out, and as soon as it’s out of my mouth I regret it.

  “Oh. Are you sick or something?”

  I couldn’t make up something else? A meeting with an advisor? A hangover? I had to say doctor appointment. What did I go to the doctor for? My mind is blank.

  I stand silent a little too long, and she starts to squint her eyes, waiting for a response.

  “Uh, no. Not sick. Just some female stuff going on. No big deal.” There’s the understatement of the century.

  “Oh, I got ya.” She gives me a wink. “So you coming down to set up? Rumor has it we’re ordering pizza. And Mike has a senior connection out getting a keg.”

  “Maybe later. I’m kind of tired. I might take a nap before everything gets started.”

  She shrugs. “Suit yourself. But don’t make me come looking for you later.” She saunters off.

  As soon as the door is closed and locked behind me, it hits me like a ton of bricks. Total exhaustion. Without bothering to take off my sneakers, I lie down on my squeaky cot of a bed, pull the comforter over my head, and I am out.

  Chapter Three

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “Laurel?”

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “Seriously, Laurel. I told you not to make me come looking for you.”

  I roll over into the pitch blackness as Liz pounds on my door. What time is it? I fumble for my phone on the lamp table. When I find it and press, green neon illuminates my room. 10:30pm. Wow. I slept for almost six hours.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “I know you’re there. Come on. Wake up. You’re missing the party.”

  I run my fingers through my hair. The music downstairs is blasting. Do I answer her?

  “I know you can hear me. Don’t think you’re getting out of this. I’m going to get another beer, and then I’ll be back…with reinforcements and maybe the RA’s key to your room. So get your butt out of bed and put on something hot. We’ve got a dorm full of cute guys.”

  Just what I need right now.

  I turn on the lamp as soon as I hear her footsteps fade down the hall. I have no doubt she’ll be back – even drunker next time – so I stand up and look at myself in the full-length mirror. I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. My normally straightened brown hair is about three inches shorter and curly thanks to all the humidity in the air plus the fact turning on the flat iron wasn’t exactly a priority today. My face is a pasty white, and my green eyes – usually my best feature – are overpowered by dark circles underneath them. Is this what pregnancy does to a girl?

  I lift up my shirt and look at my belly. I’ve always been lucky to be thin, and I can’t envision my stomach protruding out like a basketball. How can there be something growing inside of me? The music blasts louder. Maybe going down would do me some good.

  I kick off my sneakers and strip off my clothes, then grab for a pair of jeans and a party top. Attempting a brush through my wavy knots proves an impossibility, so I pull my hair up in a bun, powder on some pink blush and lip gloss, and suddenly I don’t look half dead anymore. I grab my keys and head downstairs.

  As I weave through strangers sitting on the stairs, talking to each other, sipping out of red cups, and not making any effort to move as I make my descent, I pause on the first-floor landing to take in the scene below. My dorm is unrecognizable. Unfamiliar faces are all over the place – hanging out along the main hall, coming and going as if it was their own dorm, and the lounge…wow, the lounge. Thanks to a strobe machine and some poorly chosen dance music, it has been transformed into what seems like a bad 80s’ disco. I walk in and survey the room for Liz, but other than quiet June standing behind the table with snacks on it, I don’t see anyone I know. So I make my way down the hall to Mike’s.

  Once through the double doors that separate the first floor dorms from the lobby, the lights are all turned off. As I travel the dark narrow hall, small groups of people are sitting in various rooms having their own intimate parties. At the far end – the last room before the fire exit – a large crowd has spilled into the hallway. Someone has propped the fire door open, and people are hanging around outside as well. I squeeze through to find close to twenty people packed like sardines in Mike’s tiny single. Here is where the party is. And, sure enough, Liz is in the corner in what looks like an intense conversation with a guy about a foot taller than her, which says a lot. Mike is chatting up a couple people around the keg while he fills up a plastic pitcher.

  I decide to leave Liz alone to work her love connection and nudge my way to the keg.

  “Hi, Mike.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  Before I can say anything, he grabs an empty cup and fills it with a beer. “Here. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

  I peer at the cup for a second, wondering if there is a way to refuse, but if I don’t take it, he might get suspicious. “Thanks.”

  He clinks it. “Bottoms up.” Then he takes a huge swig out of the pitcher he’s holding.

  “Nice,” I comment.

  He doesn’t seem to notice I don’t share in his toast, and he pulls me gently in a neck hold over to a group of guys who are sitting on his bed.

  “Laurel, these are some of my best buds from Saratoga. They drove here today for the party. Guys, this is Laurel – the coolest girl in the dorm.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “No, seriously. You are definitely the coolest girl here. No doubt.”

  Mike’s friends don’t pay me much attention.

  “Why do you say I’m the coolest girl here? What about Liz? She’s fun.”

  “Yeah. When she’s not in one of her moods.”

  “True.” I laugh. “So why did you pick this dorm? You don’t seem like the anti-social type.”

  He takes another swig, “I come from a huge family. I’m the oldest of seven. I’ve never had a room to myself my entire life. This was the only place where I’d be guaranteed a single.” He smiles. “I didn’t think it would be THIS quiet.”

  “Well, it’s not so bad tonight.” I feel myself relax and take a sip of beer.

  “What about you? You’re from New York City, where everything is always going on. Why’d you pick the quiet dorm?”

  “‘Cause I’m from New York City where everything is always going on. I wanted some peace.”

  “I hear you.” He clinks my cup again and swills. “I don’t think this place is so bad. It takes longer to get to know everyone, but they’re okay.”

  “Yeah. I’m not
complaining. And besides, it’s better than being stuck all year with a roommate you can’t stand.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So those are your friends from high school?”

  “We’ve been good friends since like kindergarten.”

  I lean my back up against a wall that has now been vacated by a couple that wandered into the hall. It feels good to have the distraction of conversation. “Do you miss Saratoga?”

  Mike joins me, resting the bulk of his weight on his shoulder. “Who has time? I can’t believe how much work we have.”

  “Yeah, it is pretty intense. Every teacher expects you to read like a hundred pages a night. It’s fine if you like the subject, but I can’t stand my legal ethics course.”

  “Why are you taking legal ethics? Do you want to be a lawyer?”

  “No way. My dad’s a lawyer. My mom was a lawyer. Enough with law already.” I sigh.

  “Your mom was a lawyer? What is she now?” Mike asks this innocently as people often do when they inquire about my mother. I always feel bad with my answer.

  “She’s dead.”

  Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh, god. I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “A bad car accident. Eight years ago.”

  “Wow. That must have been tough.”

  “It sucked. But my dad and I try to make the best of things,” I lie.

  I look down at my cup and realize that as I’ve been talking, I’ve also been drinking. It’s almost empty. Karen’s words about avoiding alcohol flash through my mind, but I push them out and take another sip.

  “So why the legal ethics class?” Mike thankfully moves off the topic of my mom, and I appreciate it because sometimes people ask me a million questions about the accident, and then I want to crawl into a hole.

  “I don’t know. My dad thought I might change my mind about law. I think he has this fantasy about me someday joining the law firm, continuing in the family tradition. Harris and Harris again like it used to be when my mom was alive.”

  “Your parents were law partners?”

  “Yup. They both went to Colman, too, if you can believe it. My mom grew up on a winery not far from here.”

  “Really?” Mike grins. “I knew you had an interesting story.” He grabs my arm. “Come on. We need some more beer.”

  Other than a few fleeting conversations with people here and there, Mike and I spend most of the night talking to each other. It’s easy with him. He’s friendly and laidback, and there aren’t any awkward silences. Plus I’d be lying if I didn’t admit he’s pretty easy on the eyes, too. He doesn’t tower over my vertically challenged self, but he’s got some height on me, and he’s built just enough that he doesn’t come across as skinny. I like how his bangs sweep across his forehead. By the time I scan the room to see that just about everyone has left except his visitors, who hover around the keg like it’s the Holy Grail, I feel like I’ve found a friend.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket. It’s after three.

  “Hey, Mike. I’m going to take off.”

  He’s started playing a video game on a small television he’s mounted with wire to the 1950s’ built-in desk that comes standard to every room in Miller.

  “Want me to walk you upstairs?” His eyes are bloodshot, and his shirt is partly untucked from his jeans. He looks tired and drunk, but adorable.

  “It’s two flights. I can handle it.”

  “You sure? I hear there’re a lot of questionable people in these parts.”

  “I’ll call you if I run into any trouble.” I smile.

  “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I turn to his friends to say goodbye, but they’re in drunk bro zone. So I give them a lame wave and close the door.

  My head has barely hit the pillow when I begin to feel really, really queasy. It starts out slow – just this tinge of something off in my stomach. Why did I drink those beers?

  I turn to my side and hope it will pass, but the feeling begins to grow, and before I know what hits me I am grabbing for my garbage can and hurling. And hurling again. And again.

  Chills and sweat take turns tormenting me as my body seems to have lost all ability to regulate temperature. And it keeps on coming until well after I’ve thrown up everything I’ve had to drink and eat in the last day. Ugh!

  Finally I manage to inch my way back to bed, clawing my comforter around me. I pull my pillow over my head – which is pounding – and wait for sleep to give me some mercy. The birds are singing outside my window before I am able to drift off.

  Chapter Four

  The sour smell of vomit wakes me a few hours later. Unable to tolerate it, I take my garbage can down the hall to the bathroom and dump its contents into a toilet, then shed my clothes and climb into a shower. With the diversion of an upset stomach now gone and the silence of a dorm post-party, there is nothing to distract my mind, and I am unable to block the intense feeling that begins rising up in my chest as I’m forced to face the truth. I’m fucking pregnant! And I have no idea what to do about it.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and let the hot water pummel my face.

  Do I tell my father? Do I tell the baby’s father? How?

  My heart begins pounding like I’m running a marathon, and adrenaline floods my system. I take a few deep breaths and try to focus on something, anything, to calm myself down. I force myself to listen to the sounds of people trickling into the bathroom, squeaky faucets turning on in the stalls on either side of me.

  Once all three showers are going at the same time, the hot water runs out fast.

  “Oh, man. There’s no more hot water again,” comes from the stall to my left.

  “Dammit!” from the one to my right.

  But for me, the cold proves a good thing. The snap of icy water lowers the volume of my mind instantly. I stand in it for a few minutes, and it numbs me just enough.

  Realizing I don’t have a towel, I wrestle with my shirt and leggings as they adhere to every last inch of my wet body. When I’m finally dressed in sopping clothes, the bathroom has cleared, allowing me to slither back to the solitude of my room without small talk. But the lingering stench hits me as soon as I open the door. I force my one lone window as wide as it will go and stick my head out to breathe the fresh air. I’ve got to get out of this room, out of this dorm, and off this campus for a while.

  Reaching for my jewelry box, I push aside the bracelets, rings and necklaces my dad has given me over the years. There are quite a few as he doesn’t seem to notice I’m not much of a jewelry person. Underneath the sparkling beads, Tiffany silver and 14 karat gold is a single key. I add it to my key chain and place it into my backpack, trying to ignore the envelope full of decisions I have to make.

  On my laptop, I pull up a map of the Finger Lakes and plot how long the ride would be to Dresden. Eighteen miles. On any other day I could do it. Do I have it in me today?

  Once I throw on some riding clothes and toss my wet hair into a ponytail, I feel ready. A day to think. I make my way to the bike rack, passing bed-headed, bloodshot dorm mates stumbling to the bathroom for an inevitable cold shower. And just before taking off, I slide my hand into my backpack, into the manila envelope, and reach for one of those horse-pill vitamins lying at the bottom, swallowing one with my water. Just in case.

  Riding down the hill past the freshman dorms, Kashong Lake shimmers deep turquoise, and the warmth of the late morning sun offsets the coolness in the air. Given that it has rained almost every day since I arrived in August, students are taking full advantage with blankets laid out on the grassy shoreline, bikini tops by the dozen, and radios blaring. I pass Joni’s Hot Truck, a sandwich shop on wheels, on a nearby side street, and there’s a line down the road with people waiting for her amazing grilled paninis.

  Main Street turns into Lake Road, taking me past the marina, and then along Kashong Lakeshore Park, where the picnickers, runners and motorcyclists are out in droves.

  Eight and half miles go qui
ckly with my mind distracted by the beauty beside me. But once off the lake, the rest of the ride is not as easy since it is mostly uphill. My legs burn with the sloped terrain and my mind slips back to my situation.

  I don’t even know why I let it happen. Maybe I felt like we needed to finally get it over with – which is terrible. Let’s get the sex over with. But we were caught somewhere between friend and boyfriend/girlfriend status for so long. Something needed to change.

  He was the first person I met on Shelter Island when my dad bought a house there a few years back. I may as well have been a permanent fixture on his boat this past summer. It didn’t necessarily seem like a bad thing when we finally hooked up. But there was always this vague tension between us. We’d be together all summer long and then barely talk during the school year. Even though I must have invited him into the city a dozen times, he’d never come.

  Still, even if we weren’t meant to be, to blow me off the way he did with only a text two nights later to make sure that we were – to put it in his exact words – good? What is that?

  Oh, we’re good. We’re REAL good now.

  As I crest the next hill, I whisper, “What do I do?”

  The September breeze has no answer for me.

  My legs ache with each incline, and I’m almost ready to surrender when Seneca Lake comes into view off in the distance, popping through the orange maples. It’s been three years since I was here, and the sight of that glassy pool with the low-lying clouds hovering over it like a bowl of cotton brings a rush of memories – long lazy days on my grandparents’ farm, riding on the tractor with my grandfather, baking cookies with my grandmother, days when I was a kid and my mom was still alive.