We get to the front door and I look back into the room. Just one glimpse.
And I feel myself shattering.
* * *
I sit in the passenger seat of the truck, and Peter drives, and we haven’t said anything since we left the party. This is the wrong thing for me to do right now, but I just can’t stop. I have missed him so much. I want to be stronger than this. I want to throw myself into the new trajectory, but this one isn’t over yet. The curtain hasn’t closed. I either have to do that now or I have to reopen it for Act II. Or are we in Act III yet?
ACT III
SCENE 1
Peter Comes Back Into My Life.
Past and Present Reunite.
No More Looking Back.
What is Rose telling Seth right now?
The truck slows down and we’re back. Our spot. Our secret overlook point. Exactly where I knew he would drive us. Below, the ocean is black and endless. The sky is covered in a thick dark cloud, hiding the stars. Everything is dark. Everything.
When we stop, we still don’t talk. But we’re kissing. We’re kissing because that means we don’t have to talk. His lips are cold and black and I’m choking in his mouth. But I keep kissing him. Kissing him and crying and kissing him and trying so hard to feel close to him again.
“I miss you, Genesis.”
“How is this real? How are you telling me you miss me?”
He doesn’t say anything. We cry into each other.
“You’re the one who left. You are.”
I left too though. When did we leave each other? It was definitely before the clinic. There wasn’t a moment. It was a gradual seeping sadness that comes so slowly, and eats half of you before you notice. It’s easier to blame a moment.
It’s easier to kiss instead of talk.
It’s easier to overlook.
Can we fix this? Should we?
If there was more light, I’d be able to see if his cheeks were filled up with red-hot blood, or faded into white. If there was more light, I could read his face, read his confusion or sadness or relief or what it is he’s feeling, but I can’t. And I’m choking on the darkness. The lack of light. The lack of knowing.
“Why did you leave?”
“I told you I would leave you if you went through with it,” he says.
This cracks me open, unleashes something wild. “Shut up. Just shut up.”
“I did! I told you!”
“But we made the decision together.”
“You made the decision, Gen. I agreed to let you decide.”
“Then why did you show up in the morning? Why did you take me there? Why?”
“I wanted to be with you. I wanted to. And then I didn’t know how to anymore. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
I scream. I scream high up to the moon that doesn’t exist tonight. I scream to shut up to shut up to shut up. And then he wraps his arms around me and holds on tight and I say no over and over again until they are whispers. He smells so familiar. He knows how to hold me. He knows how to settle all my rage. It’s as simple as a quiet hushing into my ear and a strong, solid body that says fall. Fall into me and let me be your support. It’s the easiest place to be. And I almost lost it. I almost lost him.
“I couldn’t do it. I didn’t think I could do it.”
I know this is what he said to me. I know he told me everything. I know he stayed with me even when his mother said not to. Even when there was so much to lose.
“I miss you so much, Genesis. I made such a huge mistake. You’re my forever girl. You’re my forever. I know why you had to do it. I know it was for our forever.”
“It was for us. It’s not the right time. It’s just not.”
Everything about his face is turned down. It’s the saddest I’ve ever seen him look.
“I screwed up, Genesis. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t do this to me right now.”
Then we’re kissing again and his mouth is not a black hole. It’s softer. Safer. He backs away, straightens, and says, “Were you there with a guy?”
“Peter.”
“Were you?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Yes, I was.”
“Genesis, we haven’t broken up yet.”
“What are you talking about? Of course we’ve broken up. Or more accurately: You left me. You can’t run away like that and then expect me to stay.”
“I never wanted to leave you.”
“But you did.”
“I did.”
“What are you saying right now? That you want to be with me?”
“I am with you.”
How is he saying everything I wanted him to just three days ago? Did whatever dream liquid we were suspended in at Rose’s house pour down the dark New Jersey highway? Did we just spill back into our safe place?
Am I about to wake up and not know where I am?
We sit in heavy silence for what could be light-years, letting everything sink back in. Sink back together.
“I need to get out of here,” I say.
“Where can I take you?”
I can’t face the party, what I’ve done to everyone there. So I just say, “Home.”
Peter turns the ignition. I rest my head on the cold glass as we pull into the rolling darkness.
I look at the clock.
Midnight.
Now it really is my birthday.
ACT IV
SCENE 1
(This scene takes place in the exam room at Planned Parenthood. GENESIS sits on the edge of the examination table, dressed for the procedure. The DOULA sits next to her in a chair, the DOCTOR on a stool in front of her.)
DOCTOR
Do you have any last questions before we start the procedure?
GENESIS
No. I’m ready.
DOCTOR
(Looking through papers on a clipboard)
You’re sure you don’t want any level of sedation?
GENESIS (TO AUDIENCE)
What I want to tell her is: “I’m sure. I need to feel this. I need to know it’s real. I need to feel it leaving. I need to feel that I’m making a choice and it’s mine.” But I just nod.
(DOULA takes GENESIS’s hand. A loud hammering noise is heard.)
GENESIS
What’s that noise?
DOCTOR
That’s just the heater, sweetie. Old building.
GENESIS
Oh.
DOCTOR
Put your feet up in the stirrups. Then scoot your bottom down toward me.
(She does.)
I need to determine the position of your uterus.
(The hammering starts again. GENESIS closes her legs.)
That’s just the heater, sweetie. Try to relax, okay? Now, I’m going to insert two fingers, then press into your abdomen.
(Pause)
Are you okay, sweetie?
GENESIS (UNDER HER BREATH)
Would you quit calling me “sweetie”?
DOCTOR
What?
GENESIS
Nothing.
DOCTOR
This is the speculum. You might feel a cramp as I open up your cervix to get to your uterus.
(GENESIS looks up to the ceiling.)
GENESIS (TO AUDIENCE)
What you can’t see is that there is a poster right above my head, in my line of vision. A tropical beach scene. Somewhere for me to be other than here.
(DOCTOR administers the local anesthesia and GENESIS digs her free hand into the crinkly paper underneath her. DOULA holds tightly to the other.)
DOCTOR
Good job, sweetie. That burning sensation is normal. It should be over in just a second. And then you won’t feel a thing.
(DOCTOR procures a metal rod.)
This is to dilate your cervix.
(She begins. GENESIS moves her hand to her stomach.)
Are you doing okay, sweetie?
(DOCTOR pulls her face mask aside. GENESIS nods.)
Are you sure? Remember you have to tell me if anything feels too uncomfortable.
GENESIS
I’m fine. Is it almost over?
DOCTOR
Almost.
(DOCTOR inserts plastic tube, and we hear the buzzing sound of a machine. GENESIS hums.)
(The machine stops.)
You’re all good.
(DOCTOR removes speculum.)
GENESIS
That’s it?
DOCTOR
That’s it. Leyla will walk you to the recovery room. You’ll take some antibiotics, and when you feel ready, we’ll go over the aftercare instructions and then you can go.
GENESIS
Okay.
DOCTOR
You did very well, Genesis.
(Pause)
You’re probably going to feel a lot of things in the weeks to come. No one has the right to criticize what you did with your own body. I just want you to remember that today you made a choice that was right for you, okay?
GENESIS
I know.
DOCTOR
Good. Now go rest. No rush.
GENESIS
Thank you.
DOCTOR
You’re welcome. You have someone to escort you home, right?
GENESIS
Yes. My boyfriend. He’s in the waiting room.
(Lights fade to blackout.)
NO SWIMMING
The drive back into town is silent. No music. No voices. Just the sound of the world outside the car. We are suspended in the blur of movement around us. I don’t know what holds me together. I don’t know what keeps me from exploding, but I swear if Peter opens his mouth, if he even looks at me, then I might burst open. I keep my hand on the door handle.
I want to blame this all on Peter, but this moment is mine. This shame I feel for leaving the birthday party Rose planned for me, for leaving the boy who paid so much money to get me there in a cab, for not acknowledging anyone who came over to celebrate with us, that’s all mine. Maybe we deserve each other.
Peter is doing that thing with his mouth where he tries not to smile but instead his lips sort of jut out. I used to think it was cute.
I’m in Peter’s truck again. My seat. My spot.
My house is dark when we arrive. My mom must be asleep. I wonder if she remembers it’s my birthday. I wonder if she’ll ever get out of her pool of sadness. She’s not expecting me. Rose arranged that too.
Neither of us gets out of the car.
This is the moment where the whole stage is dark and a weak spotlight focuses on these two people who fell in love with each other, who made promises to each other, who don’t know which direction to turn, who lost the last pages of their scripts and have to improvise now.
“I didn’t want to leave. But I told you I couldn’t handle it.”
He started.
I follow: “Did you really want to have a child with me?”
“No.”
“But you do realize that it happened?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell your mom?”
“I did.”
I can’t believe this. After everything. After all he begged me to keep it secret, he told his mom?
“She forbade me to talk to you ever again.”
“She tried that once before.”
“I know. But this time she meant it.”
“And did you defend me?”
“Genesis, do you know I had to make a hard decision too? Do you know my whole life I’ve been told this was a mortal sin? That it’s murder? It’s pretty much the worst thing anyone can do.”
“How is that supposed to make me feel?”
“It broke me apart to leave you, but I couldn’t stay.”
“Where did you go?”
“Home.”
“And your mom wondered why you weren’t at school? And you told her everything?”
“Yes.”
“So she wins.”
“You have no idea how hard this has been for me.”
“I’m sorry. You knew what you were getting into.”
“You always say that, Genesis. You always think no one can handle you and you’re the only one who struggles.”
“What could you possibly struggle with?”
“I love my family, Gen. You might not agree with everything we do, but they raised me. They made me. And you loved me for me. Believe it or not, it’s not a competition between you and my mother.”
“Peter, I do love you.”
“I love you too, Genesis. With all of my heart. I just got scared.”
Silence.
“I wish I could watch our whole relationship on instant replay and see where it actually broke down,” I finally say.
“I wish that too.”
“We can’t, though.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry I let my family get in the way.”
“I did the exact same thing.”
Does love have to be so hard? Is it always?
“I wanted this to be everything.”
“It was everything.”
“I don’t know how to be without you.”
Our faces are so close together, like we’re about to kiss. We used to kiss so perfectly. The perfect, steamy, heart-crushing kiss. I want to believe I’ve felt true love. That my love for Peter and his love for me was so real it could break through mountains and part seas and all that.
And maybe it did.
Our lips meet. Because they are supposed to. And this is some other kind of good-bye. The kind that means hello to something else.
He walks me to the door because he always did. Because he would never not. I want to keep him here, hold on to him all night. But he’s already late. He’s already staying longer than he’s supposed to.
We enter my house, and I’m struck cold. It’s quiet, airless. Like we dove into the deep end, walking through the door. The urge to check on my mom rushes through me. I want to fight this and be in the moment with Peter. I want him to know sometimes it can be about us and not about our families. But it’s too quiet. Too cold.
“I need to check on her.”
He nods.
And when I open the door to her bedroom and see her on the floor instead of in bed with an empty pill bottle next to her and vomit spilled down her chest, I scream as loud as a person can with a tidal wave crashing down on their head.
The rest weaves together like this:
I can’t see because my eyes are full of tears.
I can’t talk because my throat is full of glue.
I can’t breathe because I don’t know if my mother can.
Then SNAP! I’m pumping her chest the way we had to learn in gym and I’m breathing into her mouth. Peter calls an ambulance, and in those minutes that are actually eternities, I breathe for her, make her heart beat. I’m not letting go.
“Stay here. Stay here. Stay here. Stay.”
Where does she want to go?
“Stay here, Mommy. You can’t leave me. You can’t.”
I’m her breath until the sirens take over and the lights and the stretchers and the air pump and the ride through Point Shelley is blurring, zipping, merging, spinning.
When we arrive at the hospital, I have to let them take her. I have to let them work on her. I can’t do anything from here. I can’t do anything but wait.
And Peter holds on tight while I do.
ACT V
SCENE 1
I wake up with my head on Peter’s shoulder. I’m covered with a thin burgundy blanket. This is a waiting room. It smells like bleach and something sweet, like strawberry. He wakes up with me and draws me into his chest. The cold metal armrest between us keeps our bodies separate.
“Is she…?” How do I finish that sentence?
Dead?
Alive?
Conscious?
Relieved?
Disappointed?
“She’s going to be fine, Genesis. She hasn’t woken up yet, but
there doesn’t seem to be brain damage or liver failure or anything like that.”
Apparently, the doctors have talked to us. Apparently, I insisted on sleeping here at the hospital, and not calling anyone. Apparently, the doctors have called my mother’s parents, and they will be here any moment.
Apparently, this time, once she wakes up, she will not be released.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria,” Peter says.
I follow him, like it’s so easy, like it’s the only thing I know how to do. Peter gets us both coffee. He asks if I’m hungry, but I shake my head.
“Table for two by the window?”
Is it okay to laugh right now? Is it okay to smile at the full circle of life? I don’t laugh. But I do smile.
“We’ve done this before.”
“The best first date I’ve ever been on.”
“Peter?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you so much. Just … thank you.”
He doesn’t look one hundred years old anymore. He looks like someone I love. Someone who took care of me when I needed it most, and who probably always will. But it’s also as if I’m looking at him through smudged glass. An imperfect picture.
“What’s happening right now?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Peter.”
Six words. Six words that don’t sound harsh or cold. Six words that are for both of us.
“I wish I could take back what I did to you.”
“It isn’t about that.”
We can’t erase that. But somehow we needed it. Somehow, it propelled us, altered our course, made us see things clearly.
“I’m here for you if you need anything,” he says to me.
“I know that.”
“Is this it?”
I think maybe we both ask this question at the same time. I think maybe we’ve helped each other and we’ve hurt each other and we need each other, but we need to untangle ourselves. I needed him. I survived because of him.
I think about kissing him. The good-bye kiss. The perfect ending. Here.
He leans in, but I put two fingers on his lips. That’s it. His eyes sparkle with tears, and he swallows.
“I’m going to be okay,” I say.
“I know you are.… I just have one question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
A laugh escapes me like a gurgle. Twenty Questions. We hug one more time. For a little bit too long.
Aftercare Instructions Page 18