by Landis Lain
“Sure baby,” said Grammy. “Let’s go have some fruit cake and ring in the New Year.”
“Okay,” said Brielle, and she stood and helped her grandmother off the couch.
It was getting easier to think about Damon without her heart aching every second of the day. Not easy. But easier.
January
Damon
Damon had come to the kitchen at his mother’s summons.
“Hi, Mrs. Evans,” said Damon. He tried not to show his mortification at the sympathetic look that Mrs. Evans turned on him. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know about Sasha’s pregnancy but it seemed like everybody already knew.
“Hi, Damon,” said Sammie’s mother, pushing her silver and black locks away from her face. Damon knew that she was some kind of judge and that his parents had consulted her in the past about legal issues. She had hung her leather storm coat over the back of her chair and was sitting the kitchen table chatting with Damon’s mother. Damon loved Mrs. Evans. She was cooler than most adults, and could hold intelligent conversation on almost every subject. She never treated Damon like a freak and they’d talked a lot about his hopes and the future. She was always loaning him interesting books to read.
“Have a seat, Damon,” said his mother. Damon took a chair across from Mrs. Evans and his mother sat down next to him. “The reason I called you in here is that Mrs. Evans is going to tell us what your rights are in terms of the baby.”
Damon nodded without saying anything. The baby wasn’t real to him and he tried to block it out of his mind as much as possible.
“The first thing that will happen after the baby is born,” said Mrs. Evans, “is that you’ll be asked to acknowledge paternity on the birth certificate. Are you certain that this is your baby?”
“Yes, ma’am” he said, “pretty certain.”
“At any rate,” said Mrs. Evans. “The big deal about that will be because Sasha is probably receiving Medicaid and other benefits from welfare, if she’s not on her mother’s insurance. The State of Michigan has a big push on to go after fathers for child support.”
“The boy is still in high school,” protested Damon’s mother. “We are planning for Damon to take care of his responsibility, but he won’t have much to pay with. That means us. That girl’s mother is already suing us for medical bills incurred so far.”
Damon had been looking at his hands, uncomfortable with the conversation. At his mother’s revelation his head shot up and he met her eyes in mortification.
“Sasha sued me?” he croaked.
“No,” said Mrs. Evans. “Sasha’s mother did, because her insurance is not covering all of the expenses and Sasha is probably just now signing up for Medicaid benefits. The mother also wanted to have you locked up, but I told her that you were the minor and her daughter should have been charged with statutory rape as it is, so she shut up.”
“It wasn’t rape,” said Damon, his face burning with mortification.
“I figured not,” said Mrs. Evans, calmly. “However, the fact remains that you are a minor child. You cannot legally acknowledge paternity. You have to submit to blood tests. The court will order it if you don’t decide to pay for them yourself.”
“When?” asked Damon, though he really did not care. This baby was his; he could feel it with every labored breath that he took. He had never once doubted Sasha’s words to him.
“After the baby is born,” said Mrs. Evans. “It takes a few weeks for the court to order the tests and a few weeks to get the DNA testing. Until then, you can acknowledge paternity with the Friend of the Court and pay some child support in good faith. Your dad or mom can take you down to fill out the paper work. They have to sign for you. It’s better to do it that way than wait until you turn eighteen and get hit with a paternity suit and have to pay back child support.”
“Okay, but it’s dumb. I know the baby is mine,” said Damon.
“Yes, well, I’m sure that’s true,” said Mrs. Evans, but neither woman looked as sure as he felt. “But you have the absolute right to know for certain.”
He was weary of the conversation. It was the second time that someone had brought this subject up to him and Damon was tired of hearing about it. The first time had been his boys had been telling him he’d better get the baby tested to make sure it was his. Stump had even gone so far as to tell him that he’d pee in a cup for Damon so it would be proven that the baby wasn’t Damon’s and Damon could go with his life.
“So, you can’t get a blood test while the mother is still pregnant?” asked Damon,
“No,” said Mrs. Evans. “It would be dangerous for the baby.” She explained that the procedure involved drawing blood from the mother, father and baby. Damon wanted to roll his eyes, but didn’t.
So much for the peeing in a cup scenario. Must be why they call it blood tests. Damon resolved to do his research about blood tests very soon. Good thing he hadn’t asked Sasha about it now. And good thing he was talking to Mrs. Evans. She was always straight with him.
“After the baby is born, there is a simple test they can do with swabs to your cheek,” said Mrs. Evans. “It is a lot less invasive than an in vitro blood test.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Evans.”
He glanced at his mother. She granted permission with her eyes to leave the table. He stood up and walked out of the room.
Brielle
“What’s the matter, baby?” Brielle’s mother asked her. Kyzie was at dance class and Brielle’s father was out of town on business. Brielle and her mother sat on the couch watching Love and Basketball on television. Brielle had just let loose a heartfelt sigh.
“Why do you think that something is wrong?” asked Brielle.
Her mother rolled her eyes.
“Let me think,” Mommy said, and used her fingers to tick off the reasons. “You’re watching one of your favorite movies and you’re not happy about the happy ending. You’ve been rolling your eyes every time Omar Epps comes on camera and you’ve been calling Sanaa Lathan stupid for the past hour under your breath. So I ask you again, what is wrong?”
“Boys are stupid,” said Brielle.
“They can be,” said her mother in a neutral tone of voice. She waited patiently for Brielle to get to the point. Brielle sighed again.
“Do you think Damon ever loved me, mommy?” asked Brielle. Her mother was silent for a few moments. Then she sighed, too.
“I cannot answer that question,” Mrs. Bronson said. “What do you think?”
“I thought that he did,” said Brielle. She fingered her loose hair. Now that swim was over, she’d had the tresses straightened and curled. “I believed him when he said so. But then he dumped me over the phone and made it seem like I did something. He didn’t even tell me that he got another girl pregnant.”
“Well, I have to say, dumping you over the phone was a rotten thing to do,” said Mrs. Bronson. “He should have at least told you what was going on. You want me to go kill his simple butt for you?”
Brielle laughed. “No, mommy, but thanks.”
“You want me to hate him for you?”
“No, I don’t hate him,” said Brielle, sobering.
“Why not?” asked her mother. “He treated you like crap.”
“I don’t know,” said Brielle. “Mommy, do you think I’m too young to be in love?”
Her mother sighed.
“No, baby,” she said. “Even though you are very young, I would never dismiss your feelings. I’m sure you do care for this boy very deeply. And from what I saw, he liked you, too,-”
“He said that he loved me,” interrupted Brielle.
“Talk is easy. Walk is harder,” said her mother.
“Okay?”
“He meant it when he said it, probably. He seems like a nice young man. But seventeen year old boys are not that mature, babe. He was probably pretty overwhelmed by the situation. Most people would be. He was probably scared and hurt and ashamed. So instead of behaving like a man, which he is not, he p
anicked and you got hurt.”
Her mom got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. She yanked open the freezer door and pulled out two chocolate covered ice creams on a stick. She closed the freezer and came back into the family room. She handed one of the ice cream bars to Brielle and sat back down on the couch next to Brielle.
“Chocolate therapy,” she said.
“Are you mad at him, mommy?” asked Brielle. She took a bite out of her ice cream bar.
“A little,” said Mrs. Bronson. “I’m angry because you got hurt. I want to beat him in the head with my fist for hurting you. I want to beat him for being stupid. But on the other hand, I want to hug the boy, because I know that he must be going through it right now.”
“I kind of feel like that, too,” said Brielle.
“Having a baby at seventeen is no joke,” said her mother. “I’m also relieved that you are not the girl he got pregnant.”
“Me, too,” said Brielle. She turned back to the television and leaned against her mother. “So, how should I treat him when I see him at school?”
“Honestly,” said her mother, putting an arm around Brielle’s shoulders. “Go with how you feel. But if you are going to be constantly busting his chops, let it go. Don’t deal with him at all. It’s not worth your happiness.”
Brielle nodded, took another bite of her ice cream and sighed.
Damon
At midnight, Damon stared at the ceiling. He’d been sleeping with a night light, as though he was a small child again. The little light made a diamond pattern on the wall that gave him comfort. He felt shrouded in darkness most of the time and if his room was totally dark at night he woke up sweating and short of breath. His sister wasn’t speaking to him at all. His mother was worried about him, but his father had told him that the insomnia would pass when he accepted that he was going to be a father and the baby was born. His brother Dexter told him to get some sleep now because when the baby came, it was over. Damon wished with his whole being that his mind would shut down so that he could, too. He’d never felt such exhaustion in his life. Damon’s cell phone rang and he answered immediately, knowing that it was Sasha.
“What?” he asked.
He could hear heavy breathing and moaning.
“Sasha,” he said. “Quit playing on the phone.”
She’d been calling him every night, trying to get him to talk to her, trying to get him to agree about their future together. Damon had told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t trying to be with her. He’d gone to the prenatal classes and he was going to be in the delivery room. He was going to take care of the baby, but he wasn’t going to be with Sasha. She still didn’t believe him and called him so much that he’d started turning his cell phone off. Tonight, he’d turned the phone on, and punched in Brielle’s number. He wanted to talk to her so badly that he could smell her scent in the air. Right before he pushed send call, his courage deserted him. He pushed cancel.
The ring tone on the phone in his hand brought him back to the present.
“What, Sasha?” he said, voice harsh with unshed tears.
“It’s time to have the baby, Damon,” said Sasha, in a shallow, pain-filled voice. “Meet me and ma at the hospital.”
“Okay,” said Damon. Every thought that he had was wiped out of his brain. His head felt blank white, the absence of all color or sensation. He sat on the bed for a long time before he got his bearings enough to think about moving.
Damon didn’t think that he could drive. His legs felt like jelly and he was breathing like he’d run a mile in snow boots. Damon went down the hall to his parents’ room and woke his father up.
“Dad,” he said, shaking his father’s shoulder.
“What is it?” his father asked groggily.
“Can you drive me to the hospital,” Damon said. “I, um, I don’t think I can drive.”
His father sat up, fully awake.
“Sure, son,” he said and headed straight to the bathroom. Damon’s mother sat up in bed.
“It’s time, huh?” she asked. In the dark her voice was smooth and comforting. He could hear the ache in it that she couldn’t make the problem go away. Damon swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked. The baby wasn’t due for at least two more weeks according to Sasha’s calculations. But the doctor had told them both that babies could come anywhere after 36 weeks, so Damon had been on pins and needles for the last couple of weeks. Damon stood by his mother’s bed, not moving. She reached up and caressed his cheek with her hand. His mother wasn’t usually given to overly affectionate gestures. Her gentleness made him want to climb into bed with her and cuddle up next to her like he’d done when he was four years old.
“Damon,” she repeated. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No mama,” he said. “I have to do this myself.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
“Call me,” she said. He nodded, too full to speak.
“Let’s go, Damon,” his father called from the hall
He stood staring at his mother for a few more seconds, realizing that everything was about to change for him and then he whirled around and followed his father into the hallway.
“Damon,” she called.
“Yes, mama,” he checked his progress in the hall.
“Put some pants on, boy,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, looking down at his boxer shorts and naked legs.
All the way to the hospital, Damon fought off dread and excitement. Tonight, this morning, it was all crashing down on him. He was going to be a father. Somebody really was going to wear those little bitty doll clothes.
His whole life was about to change and he couldn’t do anything about it. He patted his jeans pocket to make certain that he had his inhaler. He didn’t want to get inside the delivery room and pass out from lack of breath. It was bitterly cold outside, never a good thing for asthma, so Damon took slow breaths to acclimate himself to the snowy late January air. His father was silent on the fifteen minute drive, but he gave Damon a hug around the shoulders across the front seat of the car when they drove up to the emergency room door. Damon’s mother had argued against him being in the delivery room because he was so young, but his father had vetoed her statements with a gruff, “Baby, he was there at the start. A man does better to begin as he means to go on.”
Damon was going to be a man and take care of his family because that is what a man did. He couldn’t be a famous doctor or lawyer, too. He’d let his father down with this pregnancy. He wasn’t about to let him down again by shirking any of his responsibilities. Damon’s father stopped the car. Damon opened the car door and a blast of cold air gusted in. He fell back against the seat as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him.
“It’s going to be okay, son,” said his father, gripping his shoulder. “Whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m scared,” admitted Damon for the first time, voice hoarse.
“Of course you are,” said his dad. “I was scared every time your mama and I had a new baby. It’s a scary thing, but it turns out okay.”
Damon nodded, grateful for his father’s steady presence.
“Get out,” said his father. “Go inside while I park the car.”
Damon didn’t move, rooted to the car seat.
“Damon,” said his father. “It’s time to take care of your business.”
He nodded and got out of the car.
Damon and Sasha
Damon wanted to vomit. Every time Sasha screamed and gripped his hand he wanted to just drop his head to waist height and throw up everything down to his toes. Except that his stomach was empty because he hadn’t eaten much in two days, too queasy to keep anything down. Having a baby was the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen. As far as he could tell it involved a lot of sweating, grunting, screaming and body fluids. The scent of vomit, sweat and blood and God knew what else all rolled into a mess of screamin
g, crying, cursing, young womanhood filled the air. It was a bloody stinking mess. He didn’t even want to think about the other stuff mixed in with the blood.
Sasha had spent the last hour begging for her mother to hold her hand, but her mother stayed over in the corner of the room and said nothing. Damon could not believe that his own mother had had five children. He thought that she must have been out of her freaking mind to subject herself to this torture. Every time Sasha screamed, Damon felt the sound race along his spine and he inwardly cringed as live guilt crawled into his belly and laid a lead egg there. He moaned softly in distress and then bit his lip to keep from crying out.
“It hurts so bad,” Sasha moaned. She crushed Damon’s hand in her smaller one. Damon winced, but said nothing. He didn’t want to hold Sasha’s hand, either, but he wasn’t heartless enough to leave her begging. The nurse smiled at her.
“Just a little longer, sweetie,” said the nurse, who’d identified herself as Amina. “You’re dilated to nine centimeters. One more and you can push this little love right out.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Sasha and burst into tears. Her lovely face was bloated from pain and contorted until it was almost unrecognizable. “I just want to go home.”
Damon wanted to cry, too. He vowed to himself to be as nice as possible to Sasha after this, the world’s guilt weighing heavy on his soul. How could he have known that this would be the outcome of a few moments of almost forgotten pleasure? Why hadn’t anybody told him? Or if they had, why didn’t he listen?
“Don’t be crying now,” said Sasha’s mother in a hard voice, echoing Damon’s thought pattern. “Should have thought about this moment a few months ago when you were gapping your legs open.”
Damon swung around to look at Mrs. Benson but kept his mouth shut. He clenched his jaw so tightly he could almost hear his teeth cracking under the pressure. Amina turned to Sasha.
“We might just have your mother wait outside,” she said, in a bright, even tone of voice that preschool teachers reserved for talking about recalcitrant two year olds. Then she turned to Sasha’s mother and said. “I know this is stressful for you, ma’am. So why don’t you go and get yourself a cup of coffee while your daughter births this baby, hmmm?”