She texts him that he is her favourite. That his voice is the sweetest.
She usually ignores the Employees Must Wash Hands poster out of spite, with all its ninny rules like using paper towel as some kind of barrier between her hand and the taps. Any other day it would be ridiculous.
Pregnant. Marla tickles her tummy, her little creature. She wants to be fabulously big, right now, in this pastel public washroom! Marla fantasizes about her belly button ballooning out like it could be pinched. When she tells Liam, he’s probably going to start bawling and tell her he’s the luckiest man ever.
After work, Marla heads to her other job, the one she got all by herself. The falling snow is heavy and sticky, the kind that makes commuters nervous. Marla suspects she’ll leave the car at work overnight. The diner is in Motel Village, which is a strip mall of concrete bunkers stacked between the university and a McDonalds on the highway, bordered by the football stadium. Some of the motels have windows too small to climb out of, all barred. The diner’s open twenty-four hours.
The pay at the diner is better, somewhat in spite of the clientele. Coffee-drinking seniors are good tippers, but it takes quite a few of them to make any money—they come in the morning and fill the seats for hours. Drunk university students come after eight, and half of them tip fabulously on giant meals and endless refills. The rest eyeball girls and barf in the dirty bathrooms. Marla covets the evening shift, but her prissy manager isn’t keen yet. Marla’s still on afternoons, proving herself.
After lunch, when the restaurant is asleep, Marla makes her move. “Naomi, I need you to cover for me,” she says. Naomi is a wrestler at the university, all long muscles. She once did the worm in the diner’s entrance.
“Yeah, what for?” She’s filling ketchup bottles, dancing with them.
“I have to go to the walk-in clinic to renew my birth control.”
Naomi shakes her head. “You need a physical for that. It’ll take forever.”
“I always tell them I’m just on break and I’ll do the exam next time.”
“Really? That works?”
“Every time.” Marla is always so happy when university kids with their brand-new phones look up to her. She could teach them a thing or two.
“But Bettina’s coming on soon.” Bettina is stick thin and gets mani-pedis and hates when Marla forgets to stack the menus face-up. She’s the manager.
“Tell her I’m taking the grease out or I’m making a call from the can. I’ll be back in a half hour.”
Marla is positive she’s pregnant. She went through the checklist twice: no period, sore breasts, a new tendency towards napping, and a positive pregnancy test. This is for confirmation, to find out what to do next.
Marla takes the C-train two stops with university students and grandmothers with wheeled carts. It’s not cold now, and she looks forward to riding the bus to Liam’s because there’s a bus stop at the Vietnamese noodle place. She wades through the snow piling in the parking lot, past the banks and fast food joints with their drive thru lines idling, the sagging grocery store and the pub with the dark wood panelling, to the walk-in clinic. She answers no to everything on the medical history form except for “Female Only: Pregnant Not Pregnant”. She circles Pregnant and then writes beside it, “Yes, I am knocked up,” for emphasis. She’s always liked the sound of that phrase. Marla scans the other questions and stops at “Other,” with its stack of blank lines. She should probably write it, in case it’s important for the baby, so she does. Marla hands her form in, feeling good, like the first girl to finish her test. She flips through magazines, stuffing one in her purse for Dani.
When the nurse calls her, Marla fills the pee cup and leaves it in the hole in the wall, then waits in the examination room. The walls are covered with posters and pamphlets about how the inside of a person should be behaving: bodies cross-sectioned and full of plasticine-like parts. Marla wishes she had someone to bring with her to this appointment, someone who could tell her it’s normal to be excited in a heart-in-your-throat way. Her foster parents, Dave and Elise, will be disappointed because they think she can’t do anything right. She hasn’t told Dani yet in case it makes her sad about Kamon. She wants to be sure.
The doctor taps on the door as he opens it. “Marla?” he says. He is mid-forties with lush hair, wearing dress-for-success socks. Marla likes that even down to his feet he is a prepster. He reads a paper, the one she filled out. “You are definitely pregnant.”
Marla congratulates herself and her tiny stowaway. What a feat!
“What was the date of your last menstrual period?”
Oh. “I’m not sure, exactly.” He’s looking at her over the rims of his glasses like she’s an insolent twelve-year old instead of twenty-two. “It’s probably been almost two months.”
“You should narrow down the date,” he reprimands. “I take it you will be terminating?”
“Pardon?” This man must have the wrong person.
“The pregnancy. You will be terminating it?”
Marla shakes her head slowly. She hadn’t considered abortion. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know how far along I am.”
“The D and C can be performed up to thirteen weeks gestation. An ultrasound will confirm the dates.”
Marla thinks about it, trying to hurry because the doctor is tapping his foot. It’s the logical thing to do, she supposes. Get this taken care of and maybe have another baby sometime. Marla pictures herself lying on the table for the procedure. Would Liam come? Dani would, but she would say harsh things maybe, sad things, and Marla would cry.
The doctor is not fazed. “Well?”
“I don’t know, I mean, I just thought about keeping it.” She brushes a hair from her face and accidentally knocks the vagina light awkwardly close to her ear.
The doctor repositions it without looking up. “It says here you have fetal alcohol syndrome. What kind of support network do you have?”
It’s partial FAS, but she doesn’t correct him. He should be able to read. “I have my boyfriend, and some other people.”
He takes off his glasses to level with her. “You know, this is a decision you want to be really sure about.” The way he’s looking at her gives her such a horrible mix of self-pity and shame that it feels like hatred. “I’ll write you a requisition for an ultrasound, and you can go from there.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she says.
The doctor pulls pamphlets off the wall as he talks. “Of course not. If you decide to carry the baby, absolutely no drinking. Also: no smoking; eat nutritious foods, there is no need to binge; take prenatal vitamins with folic acid; some bleeding is normal; if you are going to miscarry, don’t go to the hospital, there is really nothing we can do at this stage. After the first three months, you should have regular prenatal care. Do you have a family physician?”
She shakes her head, a bad mom already, holding government-sponsored literature on quitting smoking. Isn’t he going to do an exam? “I don’t smoke anymore,” she says.
He’s not listening. “Where will you deliver?”
Marla hadn’t thought of that. “The Foothills, I guess. It’s the closest.” She might be able to see the mountains from her room.
“I’ll refer you to a doctor who delivers there. Their office will call you to set up an appointment.”
Marla presses her hand on her lower belly right where she gets menstrual cramps. That’s where her baby is. “What about the heartbeat?”
“Your doctor will check the heartbeat once you are at twelve weeks. Is there anything else?” he asks, hand on the doorknob.
“No.”
“Great. Have a nice day.”
Marla gathers all the pamphlets and reads them as she walks to the train. Snowflakes melt on her hands, their tiny perfection repeated endlessly like even the air is heavy with possibility. The pamphlets are
written in two-syllable words for tween moms. One is about healthy eating during pregnancy, and Marla circles foods to avoid: albacore tuna, unpasteurized cheeses and milk, raw eggs. These people care about her baby. The pregnant women in the pictures aren’t feeling stupid or unsure; they’re bulging with happiness.
There are more: domestic abuse, common pregnancy complaints, how to recognize a miscarriage, what to know about your newborn. Hemorrhoids, jaundice, colic. What if the baby cries all night and needs to be driven around in the car to fall asleep? Or put in a mechanical swing? Marla wonders how much those cost. Probably fifty bucks. At least twenty-five, even if it’s used. Marla closes her eyes, worried, and then laughs at herself. She doesn’t need that garbage. She can figure it out.
She tucks all the pamphlets into her sack, thinking about making a special file. She will steal a folder from the clinic and use their stickers to write “My Kickass Baby.”
Need a new idea?
Stay late instead
why? did you fight them?
not like that now.
The snow has turned to slush, which means it’s safe to drive, so after work, Marla stuffs the baby pamphlets in her glove box. Seeing no other cars in front of Liam’s house, and peering in his window to be sure there are no little students still standing around, she lifts the brass knocker and lets it fall.
“Marla,” Liam says when he opens the door, “you are radiant. Come in.”
“Hello, mister,” she says. She’s going to tell him right now. As a prelude, Marla jumps into his arms, knocking over his cello-shaped umbrella stand.
“Hey, that was—”
“Don’t worry about it,” she whispers. She wiggles out of her heavy coat and presses her breasts into Liam’s face. “I have a secret.”
He reaches down to right the umbrella stand, holding her awkwardly with one arm. “Me too. You want to do the car now or later?”
Marla slides to the floor. He has a secret too? “I think the brakes are getting better,” she says, lying. She doesn’t want to be the mom-to-be driving a car without brakes. That’s irresponsible.
Liam pulls on a suede jacket and leather kid gloves. “Marla, you know how I feel about that car.”
“Yeah. She must be stopped. Get it?” He gives her a half smile. She reaches into his closet for the overalls and work boots she kept from her parks and rec city job, another gig her foster parents got her. She hands Liam the keys. “Let’s go.”
Marla waits until Liam has angled the rear wheel up on the curb so she can see. There’s a little nipple under there, and she takes it off and puts it in her pocket, then wiggles under to wrap a rag around the opening. Slush gets under her collar.
“Hit it,” she says.
Liam pumps the brake and nothing much comes out for a bit. When the rag gets oily, she tells him to stop. “I don’t have any more brake fluid.”
He steps out and gets down on one knee beside her. “Hardly a concern for a girl who drives around with almost no braking capacity. How much is in your car fund?”
Marla thinks about it. “Dave and Elise gave me five hundred for my birthday last month. So, five fifty. Besides, the brakes are probably at sixty percent now.” She puts the nipple back on so they can do the other side. When both brake lines have been bled, she throws the rag in the back seat.
“Have you thought about taking the bus?”
“Yeah. It’s expensive.”
“Not more than the car.”
“I’d still need the car for work. The clinic isn’t on a bus route.”
“You need a plan. What if you took the bus more often, not all the time, and put fifty dollars a week into your car fund? Your car would last longer, and you could buy a new one sooner.”
“That sounds complicated.” Marla doesn’t want to tell him that she usually runs out of money before the end of the month and ends up living on peanut butter and frozen perogies, or that Dani arranges the bills so nothing gets cut off. It’s not like her foster parents didn’t make calendars and send text reminders, but there were so many it got overwhelming.
His phone beeps, and he reads intently, then types with his thumbs for almost a minute. Marla stands under the streetlamp, waiting, thinking. She makes a hole in the slush to scuff at the hard snow with her boot. “Liam, what if we moved in together? Then I could walk to the clinic.”
He stops, slips his phone into his pocket. The streetlamp glows orange on his face, and for a second she’s not sure he heard her. But he did. “I can’t live with Dani. Plus, I don’t think we’re ready. I’m still getting over everything.”
She knows about his cheating ex-wife. Marla’s not that kind of see you next Tuesday, but she was a bad person the other night. She takes her tip money for the week from inside her coat, quarters and loonies in an envelope, and hands it to Liam. “This is yours. I took money for Dani the other night.”
Liam folds the envelope, smoothing it. The creases around his eyes bunch up, but he’s not angry like the first time, just sad. “I’m not an enabler. This doesn’t help her.”
Marla stuffs her fingers in her pockets, cold. Of course she’s helping Dani. Who else will? But that doesn’t matter now. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
He stares down the road as if her words are tiring. “Dani should be paying rent.”
“I want to live with you, not Dani.”
Liam holds the door open. “Come.”
Inside, Liam puts on classical music that he’ll tell her about and she’ll never remember. He plates two pieces of baklava and slides them down the counter. “Marla, I’m going to tell you something,” he says, his fork pointing at her a bit.
“Okay,” she says, ready for a lecture.
“I thought about what you said, and I talked to someone about that university job.”
His secret! “Yes, you have to do it!”
Liam leaves his fork in the air. “The audition’s really serious. I have the teaching experience, but I just don’t see how I’d be able to practise for hours every day with my hands like this.” He opens and closes his fists, his knuckles red and swollen.
Marla reaches in her purse for two plastic pill bottles. “I did some research at work, and the doctors said take loads of fish oil, more than recommended. It’s supposed to really help. And vitamin D.”
“Really? Thanks.” He reads the labels, frowning. “Even if that works, it’s probably temporary. It’s not going to slow the disease.”
“There’s also pot.” Liam frowns at her, but she keeps going. “Look, I know you won’t see a doctor, and I know why—you don’t want to hear a time limit on your genius hands. How long can you play for now?”
“Forty-five minutes max.”
“Maybe with the pills you can play long enough to practise for your audition.” Marla wants to work the baby thing in, but she can’t without deflating him in his moment of bigness. How could she have forgotten the job thingy? “You’re totally going to nail it,” she says, trying to mean it.
“Maybe. Thank you for thinking of me.” Liam wipes his mouth with a napkin and scoops all the crumbs into his hand. “How’s the diner going?” he asks, being polite.
“Well, Bobby Love seated a pile of es in my section on purpose and they didn’t tip.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that, especially for that pay.”
“It’s fine. Plus, I sent him into the men’s room to break up some sex.”
“You need a different job.”
Marla remembers doing resumés with Elise and getting exactly one call. It’s not like she’s not trying, but her job experience is patchy, and there was that fussy KFC manager who only wanted the chicken at one special temperature. “You and my foster parents will really hit it off, you know? That’s what they’re always saying.” Marla stands up too fast to take her plate to the dishwasher and g
ets dizzy. She has to hold onto the counter to steady herself.
Liam stands behind her, his hand on her back. His voice is gentle in her ear. “See, it’s taking too much out of you. Please sit.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” She smooths her hands over her stomach, ready to tell him, but his mouth gets softer in that way she likes when he lets down his guard.
Marla refuses to load her dinnerware into the dishwasher, and pulls him into her against the kitchen wall, taking his glasses off. “I love you,” she tells him. She draws spider webs on his back, ten fingers at a time, and kisses him with an open mouth. He is warm and calm, and he is the father of her baby. She squeezes his hands.
Liam pushes away, then shakes his hands out between them. “It’s really bad. I think it’s the weather.”
And just like that the energy fizzles into the sound of fluorescent lights buzzing. “I’m sorry,” she says, and follows Liam to his mother’s couch. She massages his hands, squeezing each finger and paying special attention to each nail bed until he closes his eyes. She thinks of her baby, of little chubby hands.
“There’s this thing,” she says.
He raises one finger. “Shhhh. The song.”
She waits, trying to think of adjectives to describe the music in case he asks her later. Broken-dollish, oom pah-y, painfully slow. “What are we listening to?” she asks.
“Satie,” he tells her, his voice heavy. “A drunk.”
“He seems playful.”
“You know he’s dead, right?”
“I suspected.”
Marla pulls on each finger, making a snapping sound. The music has softened, gone mournful. Liam’s fingertips are calloused with little sandpaper stones. She knows she won’t tell him tonight, because Liam’s asleep.
3. TORTILLA CHIP
MARLA PUTS IT OFF, getting right into torrid little work dramas and keeping Dani happy. She thinks of the baby as her special secret, seeing how that feels. It’s mostly good and easy, unless she smells meat, which tends to make her gag. And her breasts look great. It’s almost as if no one would ever have to know. She plans to tell Liam at Christmas, which is still a month away.
A Handbook for Beautiful People Page 3