by Nicole Baart
I held the blanket to my face. It smelled of Grandma and home and a newness that was clean and unspoiled. I wrapped it around myself and curled up on my bed, knowing that countless hours and days and even weeks of my grandmother’s life twined around me like a tender embrace. It took my breath away.
Skipping chemistry was not a conscious decision, but Grandma’s blanket was so warm and comforting around me that I fell asleep where I lay. When I woke up, a twinge in my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and I was shocked to glance at the alarm clock beside me to see 11:17 blinking in monochromatic green.
I sat up slowly and pulled the blanket tight across my shoulders. Grandma’s card was still waiting patiently at the end of the bed, and I reached for it halfheartedly. Sliding my thumb under the corner of the envelope, I tore it open, leaving a mess of jagged edges. The card depicted a mountain scene and was from one of those boxed sets on display at any pharmacy or dollar store. I had received cards from the same set for every birthday the last four years running, and something about the familiarity of it made me want to cry. I avoided looking at the card and instead tipped it upside down so the twenty-dollar bill Grandma always stowed inside fell into my outstretched palm. It was just enough for lunch and a little birthday present for myself.
An hour later, as I left Wal-Mart clutching my purchase in a flimsy plastic bag, I wondered at how I could consider such an item a gift.
The bathroom was empty at twelve-thirty in the afternoon— everyone was in class, at lunch, or napping—and I pushed open the door to the stall at the very end. Within seconds a tiny pink plus sign appeared in the first window of the slender plastic stick just as I knew it would. Though I had hoped I was wrong, though I had prayed to the God of my youth to spare me this one grief, the test was merely a confirmation of what I had slowly become sure of in the days and weeks after the night I came home from Thanksgiving. There was a certain relief in knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt. No more worrying, wondering, or waiting. No more false hope. No more denying it. I was pregnant.
I wrapped the test in toilet paper, thankful that at least I had the bathroom to myself. Pushing it to the very bottom of the garbage can, I felt fear and shame crawl across my skin like a cold northern breeze on a hot fall day. Any strength I felt was fading quickly in the threat of the long winter ahead. I crossed to the lineup of sinks and tried to wash some of the guilt from my hands. Soap and water were not enough to clean what felt dirty in me.
Bundling myself in mittens and a long scarf, I wished I could tuck Grandma’s blanket around me instead of the stiff parka that was hung over the back of my chair. But of course, that was a ridiculous sentiment, and I zipped the unyielding coat with fumbling fingers and started absently down the stairs to wander in the chill December wind. There was no intent to my roaming, no destination I could discern, but my body needed to move, to distance myself from any closed space that afforded my fears easy, unobstructed access to my heavy, tortured heart.
The sky was gray and sagging against the weight of innumerable skeins of unfallen snow. A cool dampness infused the air—the fragrance of frost, sinuous and raw—and hung in misty exhalation among the barren twigs of sleeping trees. I turned my palms outward at my sides and let the almost-winter afternoon poke fingers of insufficient blessing across my stooping frame.
I walked until my eyes were bright with cold and thought about how grateful I was that my dad would never know all I had done. Who I had become.
Once, before he died, he had caught my hand in his and held it almost harshly against his chest as if nothing could convince him to ever let it go. He knew then that he was very sick, and we made jokes when his hair began to fall out from chemo because we wanted to believe that it would grow in again when the cancer had left him. The illness had become him and was as inseparable from his body as the blood that tried unsuccessfully to fight and restrain. He knew he was dying. It made him despair of ever saying all he wanted to say to me, and often a moment would grab him so that his heart could not beat again until he had told me what he needed to tell.
“You were not a mistake, Julia,” he whispered to me that day.
The sun was shining, and it was hot and iridescent outside, making the ground float inches above where it was supposed to be like the mirage of an oasis across the scorching desert sand. I was wearing a blue bikini with white flowers beneath a tank top and cutoffs. My feet were in flip-flops, my toenails painted the color of cotton candy, my hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of my neck. There was a beach towel slung across my shoulders. I was young and innocent and naive. He was older than his years and weathered and dying. It had never once crossed my mind that I had been a mistake. He had most likely struggled with that thought every day for the last sixteen years.
“I wanted you from day one,” Dad murmured, searching my face as if what he said would change my life forever.
I shifted from one foot to the other, wiggled my thumb as it lay trapped beneath his skinny hands. “I know you love me, Dad,” I said because his gaze was unnerving. He was going to tell me a secret that I had always known deep down, and I didn’t want to hear it. “I’m going to be late,” I added quietly, apologetically.
My plea went unobserved.
“There is a big difference between an unexpected surprise and an unwanted one,” he pressed on, pleading with me to believe him. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened between your mother and me. You were the one beautiful thing that came out of it all.” He was blinking now, remembering.
For the first time ever I allowed myself to think of how it must have gone, what Janice must have said to him. I didn’t want to know—a part of me wished I could ignore it always—but now that he was talking, I couldn’t stop myself from picturing her. Had she cried? Had he? Did he propose to her the moment the words crossed her lips or did he run? Were my grandparents opposed to the idea? Two wrongs don’t make a right!
Then a thought exploded through me like lightning charring a rotten tree: had he begged her to keep me?
Dad had caught up with me in the mudroom, and I could feel heat creeping through the old, poorly sealed door. I could kiss him on the cheek, pull my hand from his, and walk into the sun, where everything could be forgotten or at least buried beneath the scent of tanning oil and lazy conversation with Thomas. Or I could ask him and make him tell me the truth. Did she want me, even a little?
“I love you too, Dad,” I whispered, touching his cheek with my lips and turning from him.
He had squeezed my hand before he let it go.
Now, as I walked in the stillness and the cold, the beginning of a life inside me, I didn’t regret never asking him that question. I didn’t want to know the answer. It was enough to understand that he had wanted me. Though it felt like someone else had the thought and offered it like an inheritance to me—something I could not refuse—I discovered that I wanted this baby. I hoped it was enough.
Whether it was subconscious or intentional, I found myself standing outside Parker’s duplex. His truck was in the driveway instead of out back beneath the carport, and when I touched the hood, it was still warm through my frosty mitten. I knew it had been a long day for him already—Tuesdays and Thursdays were even worse than the Monday, Wednesday, Friday routine—and I almost walked away without knocking on the door, without repeating the conversation that had played in my mind since I first suspected that I was pregnant.
But I didn’t have much time. Christmas vacation was five days away, and when I went home, I did not plan to come back. At the very least, Parker had the right to know that he was going to be a father. Something inside me shrank at the thought, realizing that though Janice had given birth to me, it would be fraudulent to call her a mother. Maybe Parker would be like Janice. Maybe he would have no desire to be a father, good or otherwise. But either way, he deserved to know.
When Parker opened the door, a shadow fell over his face, and he seemed to force an uncertain smile at me. His attention
and consideration were waning as I became more and more remote, and though he deserved credit for sticking it out to the best of his abilities, I knew he was ready to cut his losses and move on from me. I wasn’t angry at him. I was just sad for us.
“Hi,” I said, and there was sympathy in my voice because he didn’t know what was about to hit him.
“Hi,” he imitated. We stood there for an awkward moment before he took a step back from the door. “Would you like to come in?” he finally asked, though it did not sound like he hoped I would comply.
“I would,” I said, taking a step toward him as he made room for me on the threshold.
Two of his roommates were spread out across the living room, doing homework on opposite couches. I could hear voices coming from the bedrooms, and a woman’s laugh indicated that she was the fiancée I had never met. The apartment was bustling. There was no way I could say what had to be said in here.
I turned to Parker as he eased the door shut. “Actually, Parker, would you mind taking a walk with me? We should talk.”
To say that he appeared relieved may have been a bit of an overstatement, but he grabbed his coat hurriedly and ushered me outside. “I was thinking we should talk too,” he said when we were on the front step. He must have seen his opportunity to put an end to all of this, and he took my elbow and steered me past his truck to go back the way that I had come. “I’ve been meaning to call you,” he said.
“I’ve been meaning to call you,” I echoed.
We walked in silence for a block as if his roommates would spy on us and we needed to be sure we were alone before we could truly be honest. When the duplex was out of sight behind a row of evergreens and a split-rail fence designated the beginning of Swallow’s Nest Park, Parker stopped. “Sit, Julia,” he suggested, though it sounded more like a command. He moved to curl his arms around me and lifted me onto the splintery fence so our eyes were level. His hands rested on the wood on either side of my hips, but he did not touch me again in any way.
“Parker,” I started before he could say anything. “I—”
“No, Julia,” he interrupted. “I need to say something first.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He leaned down and let his head fall between his shoulders, and I could see the top of his head. It was apparent that he wouldn’t let me talk first, so I waited for him to speak. After a few deep breaths that collected in a foggy mist over my lap, Parker began. “I don’t want you to think that I used you.”
It was an introduction that left no room for speculation about his eventual conclusion.
“I really liked you.” Parker looked up quickly and amended himself. “I really like you. But ever since …” He shrugged. It wasn’t like he needed to fill in the blank. “Everything is just different. I think I was right in the beginning. You’re too young for me.” He pushed off from the fence and kicked at the root of a tree that was bubbling through an enormous crack in the pavement. “Julia, you’re only eighteen.”
“Nineteen,” I corrected without thinking. “It’s my birthday today.”
His eyes shot to mine. “Oh, I am such a jerk. I can’t believe it’s your birthday!”
A wry smile was all I could conjure up, but my heart truly did go out to him. I should have been a fond memory in the annals of his life, but from this day forward and forevermore I would be, at best, never far from his mind and at worst, an enduring black spot of guilt and regret.
“It doesn’t matter,” I consoled him. “I’ve never been big on birthdays anyway. Besides, I knew that this—” I motioned from myself to him and back—“couldn’t go on.”
Parker sighed. “I really am sorry. You’re …” He struggled to find the right word. “Well, you defy explanation, Julia.” He smiled at me sweetly and closed the space between us to place a gentle kiss on my mouth. “I really do hope everything works out for you.”
“Same to you,” I murmured, placing my hand on his shoulder.
He obviously felt magnitude in the weight of my touch and looked at me a little warily as he asked, “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”
My eyes dropped to the broken sidewalk, but my fingers curled into the flesh of his arm as if I knew I would have to hold him there. I bit my bottom lip until it was numb in the icy air, and when I looked up at him, I could see that he was as innocent and unsuspecting as a child before a momentous revelation. I’m sorry, honey, but Santa Claus isn’t real. We’re moving away because Daddy has a new job. Your mommy and I are getting a divorce. It hurt so much to tell him; I mouthed the words twice before I could give them voice.
Parker stared at me incredulously and followed my lips with his eyes.
“I’m pregnant,” I croaked.
He recoiled as if I had slapped him with every ounce of my strength. “What?” he spat out, though it was shock and not anger that hardened his voice.
I didn’t want to say, You heard me, because it seemed abrupt and unkind, so I said nothing. I held his eyes with my own because the truth was apparent, and I didn’t have to repeat myself for Parker to know that it wasn’t a ploy or a game to keep him when he had just said good-bye.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered, stepping away from me, though distance wouldn’t change anything.
“It was just one time.” “It was enough,” I said quietly, and my voice filled the space between us and not an inch more.
Parker clenched his hands into fists and pushed the bony knuckles into his eyes. He rocked forward on his toes and then back to his heels, and if we’d been on a football field, I would have considered him a formidable opponent—he looked ready and able to annihilate anyone in his way.
I moved to slide off the fence and go to him, but the fierce angles of his body belied muscles that were taut and ready, and I didn’t want to startle him out of whatever stronghold his mind had escaped to.
When the silence had stretched to the point of snapping, I forced myself to try and calm the storm that was swelling inside him.
“Look, Parker,” I started feebly, “you don’t have to do anything. I’m not asking anything of you.” I hadn’t planned on saying more, but words stumbled over my tongue on their way to escape. “I don’t want you to marry me or pay child support or anything stupid like that. I just wanted you to know. I felt like you should know. I couldn’t walk away without giving you the chance to …” I couldn’t finish the thought. I had no idea what I wanted from Parker. But something uncoiled inside when I said all I had come to say, and I slumped on the fence, dropping my arms beside me to stop myself from falling.
Parker let his hands release their hold on his eyes, and he studied me for a moment. “You’re keeping the baby?” he asked, his voice a mix of contempt and disbelief.
I hadn’t considered anything else, so his question left me disoriented and confused. “Yes,” I replied finally.
He stepped up to me and gripped my arms in his powerful hands. Something in me had called him to take charge of the situation, and he held me now like a little girl who didn’t understand what was happening and needed to be told what was best for her and everyone involved. “Look, Julia, we need some time to think. Go home and get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow. You’re not making sense, okay? We need some time and distance. … We’ll figure it out.” Parker said the last part to himself, but he gave me a little shake and squeezed my arms so hard it almost hurt. Then he turned abruptly and started down the sidewalk heading away from his apartment. He broke into a jog after a few long strides, and when he disappeared around the block, he was running.
I just watched him go.
Exile
I PACKED MY CAR a bit at a time, taking small loads of things to fit like the pieces of a complicated puzzle in the trunk of my little two-door sedan. Every time I left the dorm, I took something with me so that one day I got up and looked for a clean pair of jeans and found my closet nearly empty. It stunned me. I hadn’t realized how quickly the transition out of this life was h
appening.
My half of our shared room had always been sparse, but Becca noticed the slow erosion and left me a note on our message board. Moving out?
I scribbled a messy Yes underneath her words, and she didn’t ask anything more, either in person or via the marker board. It kind of bothered me that she was willing to accept my departure without so much as a weak explanation, but I was also grateful. I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to account for why I wasn’t coming back.
Exams were a waste of time, as I had no intention of continuing my education anytime soon, and I skipped them entirely. Instead I sat at a table in the corner of Starbucks and let vanilla lattes go cold in front of me with textbooks spread awry as if I were studying intently. The occasional patron foraging for an empty table would give me a dirty look to which I would respond with a halfhearted flip of a page that I hadn’t even glanced at once.
Mostly I just stared out the window at passing traffic and tried to keep my mind from dwelling on anything. I had heard somewhere that coffee consumption was severely frowned upon in pregnancy, so I ordered my drinks decaf and hoped that Connie behind the counter wouldn’t ask me about my sudden switch.
Someone had also once commented that pregnant women have a certain look, a glow that is unmistakable. I couldn’t help questioning if all my subversion was rendered ineffective because of my own body quietly proclaiming my condition. It was an awful thought. I was betraying myself. Whom could I depend on if I couldn’t even trust myself?
The steady evacuation of campus had begun on Wednesday. As students completed their last exams, shouts of relief and triumph punctuated the halls, and cars began to disappear from the parking lots.