by Jamie Blair
“The bank. You’re taking out two hundred bucks to pay me back for the weed you flushed.”
I burst out laughing. “Seriously? You think I’m paying you back so you can go buy more? Not a chance.”
Her arm shoots out like lightning. The back of her hand connects with my mouth. “You want to be a smart-ass? Huh? Keep it up, and I’ll knock every tooth you have right out of your head!”
The salty taste of warm blood fills my mouth. I probe around with my tongue until a searing pain shoots through my lip where my top tooth made a gash.
She pulls up to the ATM, rolls down her window, and holds out her hand. “Give me your card.”
Everything inside me clenches in anger. My fingers rip the zipper on my backpack open and yank out my wallet. I shove the card into her hand without looking at her and recite the pin. “Four seven six five.”
My lip throbs as she punches the numbers into the keypad. A minute later, I hear the whirr of the machine spitting out cash.
My cash.
My meager means of escaping.
I hate her.
I hate her with an all-encompassing passion that I thrive on more than food. I will make her sorry.
She stuffs my money and my bank card into her purse and puts the car in drive.
I want my card, but I don’t want her to backhand me again. It sets off a tug-of-war in my brain. She knows I want to ask for it. By not asking, I’m making her think I’m afraid of her.
I’m not afraid of her.
“I want my card back.” I suck my lip in, preparing for another blow.
Instead, she laughs. “I’m keeping it in case you pull another stunt like you did this morning. Next time I won’t have to come haul your ass out of school and waste my gas. I’ll just go right to the bank.” Her eyebrows shoot up as she smiles at me, a How do you like that? smile.
I don’t like it.
But she’s a drunk and a junkie. She’ll get baked, and I’ll take my card back. No big deal.
She lights a cigarette, cracks the window, and runs her long fingernails through her hair. At the next street, she makes a right. “Gotta make a stop,” she says.
Of course we do. All those twenties are burning a hole through her purse.
The car lurches to a stop in front of a run-down duplex with a saggy roof. “Stay here,” she says.
I watch her stick-figure frame head up the walkway and onto the porch. Dave—Baby Daddy—answers the door and lets her inside.
Ten minutes go by and a car as rusty and beat as my mom’s pulls into the driveway. A woman with long black hair gets out and carries two plastic grocery bags across the bare dirt yard and takes them into Dave’s place. It must be his girlfriend, Angel—Baby Mama.
I try to picture a red and white tricycle on the sidewalk and struggle to form the image in my mind. It’s just not right. This isn’t a swing-set-and-baby-pool kind of place. The entire neighborhood is a drug-infested hole.
No kid can grow up here.
Mom comes out pinching the bridge of her nose and shoving baggies into her purse. She sniffs and snuffles all the way home. When we get inside, she cracks open a can of beer and throws herself onto the couch.
In my room, I toss my backpack on my bed and hear the TV come on. The clock reads ten till two. I should be in school for another twenty-five minutes. I don’t have to be at work until five. Three hours to kill, wanting to be anywhere but here.
I should’ve just screwed Jason. He would’ve picked me up. He’s twenty-two and has his own place. Hell, I could probably live with him. Mom doesn’t give a shit.
For a minute, I contemplate calling him and telling him I want to have sex with him. I wonder if he’d even be interested, if he’d come get me, since we’ve been apart for six months. I doubt he’d believe I’d suddenly be willing to give up my virginity to him. He’s tried enough times to know I won’t do it. He may be a low-life pizza delivery guy with no ambition, but he’s not dumb.
I lie on my mattress and stare out the window, up into the trees. I hate my life. I want out of it so bad, sometimes I think I might die.
My thoughts wander back to Baby Daddy’s apartment with the dirt yard, peeling paint, and hookers at the end of the street—and my mom coming out after snorting something and buying more weed.
A baby can’t live there. Its life would suck more than mine.
chapter
three
I come home from work to find Mom’s bedroom door closed. The murmur of a male voice tells me she’s not alone.
She has more than just a small baby bump now, and some guy is in there—ugh, the thought of it repulses me.
I turn the TV up louder to drown out their voices. “Happy fucking New Year to me.”
The ball drops, and I have another shitty year to look forward to. Hope leaves home this year. The baby’s born this year and is taken away, along with my excuse for harassing my mom to stop doing drugs.
I flip open the pizza box that I brought home from work and grab a slice. The cheese is hot and stringy and oozes down the sides onto my fingers.
Just as I’m about to take my first bite, there’s a knock at the door. I toss my slice back into the box, wipe my hands on my jeans, and make my way across the room to the door. I tug it open, and a woman with long, dark hair is standing there.
“Is Dave here?” she asks.
Baby Mama. I thought she looked familiar. “No.”
She narrows her eyes. “His truck just appeared on the street outside your house?”
I stick my head out the door. Damn, she’s right. His truck is out there. “Oh. I just got home from work a little while ago. Guess he is here.” Banging my mom.
“Tell him to get his ass home, okay? I’ve got a house full of people with money wanting to party.”
I nod. “Sure.”
She looks like she’s about to say something else but spins around and jogs down the steps. I watch her get into her rust-bucket car and back out of the driveway, hitting every rut along the way.
“Who was that?”
I jump about ten feet into the air at Mom’s voice behind me. “You scared the hell out of me!” I turn and lean into the door. My butt pushes it closed. She’s outside her bedroom in her skanky pink bathrobe with Dave beside her smoothing his greasy hair. “Dave’s woman. She wants his ass home. Something about people partying and money . . . I don’t know.”
Both of their faces fall.
“How did she know you were here?” Mom asks him, pushing up her sleeve and rubbing her fingers over the tracks on her arm.
He shakes his head. “Shit.” He yanks his T-shirt on and pulls his brown work boots onto his feet. “I’ll call you.” He dashes out the door and slams it behind him.
“Whatever.” Mom runs her fingers through the back of her hair, where its typical, postsex, matted, Irish-Setter-butt style is happening.
I sit back on the couch and pick up my pizza again. “Tell me he’s not dumb enough to believe you suddenly gained ten pounds in just your gut. He does know you’re pregnant, right?”
She smirks. “Of course he knows.”
“So . . .” I raise my eyebrows.
“We were just having fun, okay? God. I don’t know why I’d expect you to know anything about that. Here you are, New Year’s Eve, sitting home alone eating pizza on Mommy’s couch.”
“My life’s not exactly conducive to relationships.”
“Hope’s is. She has no problem with friends and a boyfriend. Looks like it’s just you, sweetie. You’re the one who’s got the problem.” She stalks into the bathroom and closes the door. The shower comes on and the pipes start banging.
• • •
A week into the new year, I’m sitting in the obstetrician’s office with Mom. I called and made the appointment and threatened to tell Angel that she was screwing Dave if she didn’t come.
“Ms. Kurtz,” the doctor says after Mom’s exam, “at or around twenty weeks, we do an ultrasound to make sure the baby’s devel
oping. After you’re dressed, a nurse will be in to take you to the ultrasound room.” The doctor hands Mom a couple of packets of prenatal vitamins, makes a few notes in Mom’s chart, and leaves the room.
Mom slides off the examination table. The paper gown rustles as she moves. “You’re paying for the ultrasound. I’m not wasting my money on that. It’s your fault I’m even here.” She tosses the vitamins onto my lap. “And I’m not taking these.”
My eyes roll. “I’m sure Dave will pay for an ultrasound of his child.” I tuck the vitamins into her purse. “Are you going to find out what it is?”
Her eyebrows lower as she fastens her bra. “It’s a baby, Faith. I thought you knew that already.”
“A girl or a boy—hello?”
She shrugs. “Who cares? All I care about is this whole thing being halfway over. Eighteen more weeks until I’m ten grand richer.”
The nurse knocks and pokes her head in just as Mom finishes getting dressed. “All set?” she asks.
“As set as I’ll ever be.” Mom snatches her purse from my lap and follows the nurse out of the room.
Down the hall to the right, the nurse gets Mom situated on another table and pulls the waist of her pants down below her belly.
“This will be warm,” the nurse says, and squirts some clear jelly on Mom’s stomach. “You can come in,” she says to me, motioning me in from the doorway. “Are you hoping for a brother or a sister?”
I take a few steps farther into the room as the nurse presses the probe to Mom’s stomach and the screen comes to life with a black-and-white image of a tiny, moving baby. “Either’s fine.”
Transfixed, I stare at the screen in awe. It’s actually a baby, not a blob or a clump of cells, but a baby with arms, legs, everything. Its little hands wave around like it’s swimming. Tiny feet kick.
The nurse takes pictures and measurements. Mom has her eyes closed. It looks like she’s sleeping.
“Do you want to know the sex?” the nurse asks.
“I do,” I say. “I want to know.”
The nurse looks to Mom, who makes a grunting noise. “Sure. Whatever.”
I can’t take my eyes from the screen. The nurse maneuvers the ultrasound wand to try to get a look between the baby’s legs. The baby squirms, making it difficult.
Finally, the nurse says, “There. It’s a girl.”
“A girl,” I whisper. She’s beautiful. I can already tell she looks a little bit like Hope.
“Okay,” the nurse says, and takes the wand off Mom’s stomach. “We’re all done.” She gives Mom some tissues to wipe the slime off her belly.
“About time,” Mom says, yanking up her pants. “Let’s go, Faith. You should be satisfied now.” She throws her purse over her shoulder and leaves the room.
“Thanks,” I tell the nurse.
She turns on her stool and holds out black-and-white photos for me to take. “Don’t forget these.” Her forehead’s creased. She’s concerned. For me. Or the baby. I’m not sure. Maybe both.
I take the photos and stuff them into my pocket. “Thank you.”
• • •
“I don’t think she looks like me,” Hope says, holding the ultrasound pictures over her head, toward the light.
We’re lying on our beds. I’m trying to figure out how to bribe Mom to take the prenatal vitamins. Maybe I can dissolve the vitamins in coffee.
“Why do you have these, anyway?” Hope tosses the pictures toward my bed. I catch two, but the third falls to the floor.
“ ’Cuz the nurse handed them to me. Mom doesn’t want them.” I stretch my arm out, reach the picture on the floor with my fingertip, and slide it over to myself.
“Why do you?” She hoists one leg in the air and reaches for her toes, stretching.
I shrug. “I don’t.”
“You kept them.” She switches legs.
“You can’t just throw something like that away. I’ll give them to Dave next time he comes over to bang Mom.”
“Eww. Don’t say that. You know I can’t stand to think about her and men . . . right in there.” She points toward Mom’s room with her toes. “Four and a half more months and I’m out of here.”
I sigh and roll to my side, facing her. “Don’t remind me.”
She lowers her leg. “You’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m here all that much now.”
“No, but I know you’ll be back every night. I’m not alone in this hell.”
She laughs. “So, it’s a case of misery loves company, is that it? You don’t want to suffer alone?”
The corners of my mouth turn up. “Maybe.”
“I’ll sneak you into my dorm room overnight a few times this summer, okay?”
“Gee, thanks.” I roll my eyes. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She gets up and flips off the light. “It’s all I can do. I’m sorry. You know you have to find a way out of here, right? I don’t know how I’m going to get through even one semester without worrying about you.”
I dig my feet under my blanket and pull it up to my shoulders. “I know. I’ll think of something. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll always worry. I love you, Faithy.”
“Love you too.”
In the morning, I make a pot of coffee, dissolve two prenatal vitamins in it, and leave a note, pretending to be a wonderful, thoughtful daughter who just happened to make her mom coffee before she left for school.
She’ll know something’s up, but I don’t think she’ll know what. She’ll drink it.
I ride with Brian and Hope again, staring out the window in the backseat, listening to them make plans for the weekend. Again, I’m nagged by the urge to call Jason. All I do is work and go to school. I need more in my life, and not just because I want to have somewhere else to go besides home.
Strands of Hope’s golden hair glint in the winter sunlight streaming through the windshield. A pang of sadness reverberates through me. I don’t want her to go. I hate that she’s eighteen, graduating, and moving out. I hate that the track team starts practice over the summer and she has to be there the third week of June. I hate that she’s brave enough to go out and live her life.
I wish I was brave.
chapter
four
The car’s trunk is about to burst, and so is Mom’s stomach. The doctor put her on bed rest, and she’s pissed. Now that she can’t drive and has no reason to deny me using the car, I’ve spent most of spring break driving around to get away from her.
“Do you need help with that?” the woman asks. I’m at a yard sale and bought a stroller for the baby.
“No, I’ll get it in here.” I shove a car seat and a Pack ’n Play to the far sides of Mom’s trunk and jiggle the stroller in between. “There. Got it.”
“Hope your baby likes it!” she calls, and waves over her shoulder, walking back up the driveway.
“I’m sure she will.” I get in the car and turn the key in the ignition. I don’t think about what I’ve been doing all spring break, hitting yard sale after yard sale, collecting baby items. I just do it. I haven’t let myself admit why, though. That would be admitting I’m fucking crazy, and really, I don’t know that yet, because I don’t have a plan, because I won’t let myself think of one.
It’s this circular thought process that’s gotten me through the last week.
The one thing I do know is that this baby isn’t going to live the fucked-up life I’ve had for the past sixteen years. In the past few months, I’ve memorized those ultrasound pictures down to the last detail and driven past Dave and Angel’s place probably a hundred times.
I’ve seen drugged-up partiers passed out on their porch. I’ve seen the cops parked outside twice. I’ve seen enough drug dealers and whores for a lifetime. My little sister will not live there.
Not to mention, Dave’s still screwing my mom.
I’ve seen Angel’s own “visitor” come by their duplex late at night when Dave’s at my house. Those two don’t want a baby. They don�
�t even want each other. It’s obvious they were high when they made the decision to bring my mom into their effed-up plan.
My knuckles had gone pale, I’m gripping the steering wheel so tight. This baby is weighing heavy on my mind. I can’t ignore it.
Hope said I have to find my own way out.
I’ve found it.
I just can’t think about it.
Because that would be admitting I’m fucking crazy.
And the circle of thought continues all the way home until I’m inside and faced with my mom—out of bed and stoned on the couch with a can of beer in her hand.
Before she can say a word, I stride into my bedroom and close the door. It’s best to avoid her when she’s trashed. She likes to pick fights.
I lie down and close my eyes. My room is blessedly pitch black. It’s been warm for late April, and the crickets are loud outside my window, but they’re lulling me to sleep. It’s that time right before you pass out when you’re not sure if you’re dreaming or still awake. That’s why Mom’s voice doesn’t seem real at first.
“FAITH!”
“Huh?” I sit up and rub my blurry eyes.
“Faith, for Christ’s sake—get in here and help me!”
I stand and trip over my blanket, which is tangled around my feet. “I’m coming!”
She wails and I dart across the hall, dragging the blanket and tripping into the living room, where she’s still sprawled on the couch. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She pushes on the back of the couch, trying to get up. “Well, help me! Shit, Faith, what good are you?” Then she cries out again.
“Holy shit! You’re in labor!” She’s two weeks early. I grab her hand and try to tug her up. She grimaces in pain. I wish Hope were here. She’s much better at dealing with Mom. “I’ll call Brian’s house and tell Hope to come home.”
“Just get me in the car!” I grip her hand with both of mine and pull her to her feet. “Ahhh!” she shrieks.
“Okay. It’s okay. Breathe.” I wrap an arm around her back.
“Shut the fuck up, Faith! Just get me to the hospital.”