Pizza Girl

by Jean Kyoung Frazier

  “What?”

  “It’s good you’re not excited. Or it’s good you know you’re not excited.” Her voice was different now, more like it was when I first heard it on the phone—low, trembling, a voice standing on the top of a ladder, the lip of a skyscraper, the peak of a mountain, a voice that can’t help but look over the edge even though it knows this will serve only as a reminder that it’s a long way down, a voice that needed to be cradled, tucked in gently each night. “People will always love telling you how you’re supposed to be feeling and it will always make you feel less than when you don’t feel it. I’m sorry if I was being one of those people.” She shook her head. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “I’ll tell you what I wish someone told me when I was eighteen—it never goes away.”

  “What is ‘it,’ exactly?”

  “All of it, any of it, just it.” Suddenly, she reached out and pushed a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “Jesus, you’re so young. Of course you’re not excited.”

  She kept staring at me and I was worried that she was going to ask more, that I would dump the weight of my life among her living-room clutter. She just turned, grabbed the turtle painting, and handed it to me. “For the baby. Boy or girl, everyone likes turtles.”

  I wasn’t much of a crier—Billy and I had rented Toy Story 2 last week and the collar of his shirt was damp by the end, mine dry. As I took that shitty painting I felt weirdly close to tears.

  “Here’s money for the pizza, keep the change.” She handed me a twenty and pulled out another, pressed it firmly into my palm. “And a little extra for you, my savior.”

  She walked me to the front door and hugged me and I didn’t mind. She smiled and I wanted to bottle it up, pour it over my morning cereal. “Take care, Pizza Girl.”

  The door shut and I stared at it, tried to come up with reasons to knock and bring her back.

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS A BLESSING I didn’t get into a car accident. I spent the rest of my shift in a daze. My hands and feet felt and behaved like bricks. I knocked over a stack of boxes and dropped a napkin dispenser I was trying to refill. As Darryl bent down to help me clean up, he asked me if I’d taken pulls from his Bacardi.

  I mixed up orders. Drew Herold got Patty Johnston’s Meat Lovers, extra bacon. Patty Johnston got Drew Herold’s Very Veggie, no sauce. “You might as well just get a salad,” she said, shaking her head, inspecting a mushroom between her fingers. She was nice, an older mom type who looked like she was used to dealing with youthful incompetence. She didn’t mind having to wait while I drove back to retrieve her pizza, just told me to include garlic bread sticks for free next time she called in. Drew Herold was less nice, told me that meat was murder, he’d be calling Domino’s in the future.

  When I got back to the shop, I went to the bathroom and didn’t notice the seat was up. There was toilet water on my pants as Peter yelled at me. Driving home, I missed the turn for my street three times. I kept getting distracted by lamppost lights—I saw Jenny standing underneath each one. She was still lovely, even under their harsh orange glow.

  * * *

  —

  AT NIGHT, after Billy was snoring in my ear and I heard Mom flick off the TV and double-lock the front door, I’d run my hands through Billy’s hair twice and then quietly get out of bed. I’d tiptoe down the stairs and into the backyard, walk across the lawn, and go inside Dad’s shed.

  In his last years, Dad spent most of his time in here. When he got home from whatever his current job was, when Mom or I pissed him off, when he just needed a breath, some “Me Time,” he’d throw open the screen door and stomp across the lawn, lock himself in the shed for hours.

  The shed was always padlocked. He repeated over and over that Mom and I were forbidden to go inside. A little after he died, I got a hammer and swung at the lock until it broke off.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but I realized then a part of me hoped that whenever he went into the shed he’d feel bad about what he’d said, how he acted, his boozy, sour breath. He’d feel bad and he’d grab his toolbox or notebook and try to make us something to apologize, would write long letters to us promising to be a better man. I pictured him whittling little sculptures, painting them bright, hopeful colors. His letters would contain beautiful, flowery language.

  When I went inside there were no tools, or papers, or paints. There was just an old armchair, a small TV on a table barely big enough to support it, a mini-fridge. Empty beer cans and cigarette butts covered most of the floor. There were a pile of old newspapers and a foam football in the corner.

  I thought about going back into the house and getting a book of matches, watching the shed burn before my eyes. I didn’t. I sat in the armchair and cried for the first and only time since he died.

  Ever since Billy and I decided we’d be keeping the baby, I’d been coming to the shed most nights. I’d sit in the armchair and flick on the TV to the infomercial channel—there was something weirdly peaceful about people enthusiastically trying to sell you things. After a while, I’d open the fridge and pull out a beer. It was lite beer, I reasoned, basically water. I would only have one, sometimes two if the day had been long and my head and body both felt heavy. I’d drink slowly, try and empty my mind, focus on the infomercials and how much better my life could be if I had a Snuggie, or a Shake Weight, or Ginsu Steak Knives—I’d be warm, fit, and able to slice through anything.

  It was the best part of my days.

  I was halfway through my third beer when I remembered. I walked out of the shed and to the front of the house and unlocked the trunk of my car, grabbed Jenny’s painting.

  There were no nails to hang it, so I just leaned the misshapen turtle against the wall with the TV. It looked good there.

  3

  “AT TWELVE WEEKS, the baby is the size of a plum.”

  The clinic doctor told me this with a smile as he squirted gel onto my belly. The gel was a translucent blue, felt slimy and cold. Alien spit, I thought.

  “Like what type of plum? And how ripe is it?” I shivered as I watched him spread the gel around. “At the supermarket, plums come in lots of different sizes.”

  The doctor standing above me was an old man with hair coming out of his nose and ears. His hands looked older than the rest of him—large and gnarled, veins popping out, deeply lined palms—I wondered when the last time he had sex was, what those hands felt like against bare thighs. His name tag literally read Dr. Oldman and I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t been lying on my back, shirt up, sweaty and alone. I couldn’t stop imagining a plum in my stomach.

  “You’re a funny girl,” he said.

  I imagined the plum growing arms and legs and trying to communicate with me. I couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. The plum quickly gave up on me and started banging its tiny fists against the inner walls of my stomach, dug its teeth into me, and drew blood. I shivered again.

  The night before, Billy had rubbed my shoulders and offered to come with me, but the appointment was at nine. Landscaping crews did their biggest jobs before the sun reached its full power—a few parks, schools, one cemetery—since hard work was a little less hard when sweat wasn’t pouring into your eyes, the back of your neck wasn’t red and burnt, thirstiness was a feeling that started in your throat and spread to your mind. I kissed both of Billy’s eyelids and told him that I would be fine, he shouldn’t skip work, we couldn’t afford that.

  The money Billy’s parents left him had been huge in helping us with bills, groceries, a fun trip to the movies here and there, and we both tried not to think about how the total was deflating at a rapid rate. Mom was a checker at Kmart and the job sucked—she’d been working there for ten years and had only just received her first raise, a dollar more per hour—but we were lucky they provided insurance. I held Billy’s large, sweet head b
etween my hands and told him to go to work, I’d be fine, would make sure to bring home the first picture of Billy Jr.

  As I lay there watching Dr. Oldman set up the ultrasound equipment, I tuned out his small talk about his daughters—there were five of them, all named after famous mountain ranges—and forced myself to wonder why I really didn’t want Billy to come with me to the appointment.

  Yes, it was true that there was a never-ending list of things Billy and I needed and that most of those things were tied to money. At night we’d strip naked and cuddle in bed, taking turns being big spoon, and going on and on about how dope life would be if we had a bottomless bank account.

  No question, we’d quit our jobs. Mom had been good to us, we’d buy her her own place, one with a front- and backyard, a kitchen worthy of her skill, finally by the ocean, close enough that if she opened the windows sand would get blown in by the sea breeze. With Mom taken care of and our schedules open, next we’d buy a new car, something fast and flashy and gas-inefficient, red or yellow, maybe a sharp electric blue, good-fucking-bye to that goddamn Festiva. Billy had a book of U.S. maps. We’d pore over the pages and debate where to drive first, where we wanted the baby to be born—“How cool would it be to say you were from Zzyzx, California?” We’d go back and forth for a while until Billy would shrug and smile. “Let’s just go everywhere, literally every city in America. I want to go everywhere with you. The baby will be cool no matter where he’s from.”

  This was all talk, though, something to occupy our minds and fill our sleep with big, bright images. Billy was content with our life, what we had was more than enough for him, and I was pretty sure it was enough for me too. We would find ways to make money and get by. He could’ve definitely skipped work to come with me to our baby’s twelve-week ultrasound.

  In the week leading up to the appointment, every time I pictured Billy standing by my side and holding my hand, sweat would begin to collect on my upper lip. Mom always told me that this was how she knew when I was nervous, Dad used to nervous-sweat too. She remembered on their wedding day standing at the altar before him, hoping that he’d wipe his lip with the back of his hand before he kissed her.

  Even just picturing Billy next to me at that moment in the clinic, I could feel the lip sweat forming. He would’ve been his lovely, charming self, making small talk right back with Dr. Oldman, asking polite questions while also being funny—“What’re your daughters’ names? I can only guess one: Sierra Nevada. You didn’t name one Kilimanjaro, did you?” Their joint laughter echoed in my head, and I felt the pits of my shirt begin to grow dark and wet.

  Dr. Oldman must’ve noticed the sweat. “Hey, now, there’s no reason to be scared.” He patted my shoulder warmly. “This is a happy day. Let’s go take a closer view of this baby.”

  He pressed the transducer against my belly and rubbed the gel around. I couldn’t look at the screen, so I closed my eyes and imagined more of what Billy would be saying if he were there—“Doc, are there ways we can make the baby left-handed? Lefties are harder to pitch to”—I didn’t know when I started being able to predict what Billy would say or why, even in my imagination, he annoyed me.

  My thoughts were turning poisonous. I wished I had my iPod, something to help keep me steady, my mind a little fuzzy and unfocused. I was so stupid not to bring my iPod. I was about to ask Dr. Oldman if he had a CD player, a boom box—anything that could play music, any kind of music, preferably something heavy on beat, light on lyrics—when his voice cut through the air: “There! Open your eyes, see for yourself.”

  The image on the screen was grainy and the baby didn’t look much like a baby, didn’t look like a plum either. I could tell that it had a head and a body and feet, but if I squinted a little, it became nothing, a smudge on a screen.

  “Everything looks great. Your baby is healthy, has toes and everything,” Dr. Oldman continued. “Would you like to know the sex?”

  “No.” I said it too quickly.

  I tried not to squint, kept my eyes wide open, struggled not to blink, stared at this thing—no, this Fully Formed Human Being—growing inside me.

  “It’s breathtaking, isn’t it? The creation of life.” Dr. Oldman looked close to tears. “These are the moments that make my job worth it.”

  I felt bad for all my bad thoughts about Dr. Oldman, about Billy, about everyone. I wanted to be the type of person that walked with their back straight, the dirt under their fingernails pure. I didn’t want to be a chain saw, I wanted to be a plastic baggie. No shredding, just holding. I wondered what animals lived under the shadows of my bones. I hoped they were animals of nobility—lions and eagles and horses with long manes—and not what I feared—vultures and wolves and drooling hyenas. I spit in a customer’s pizza last week because he called me a bitch over the phone, but maybe he was having a bad day, maybe he spilled coffee on his favorite shirt, stubbed his toe, missed the bus to work, someone close to him died, maybe I really was just being a bitch.

  Dr. Oldman rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat. “Sorry, you just remind me a lot of my youngest.”

  I thought, This is your chance, this is where you can start, ask him about his daughter, how we’re alike, is her name Appalachian? I knew he wanted me to ask, I could see it in his clear brown eyes. I just smiled weakly. “It’s okay. Really.”

  * * *

  —

  I LEFT THE CLINIC with an armful of pamphlets and a list of prenatal vitamin brands. It was only 10:00 a.m., it felt like it was 2:00 p.m., my sweating was only going to get worse. I threw the pamphlets, the list, and the ultrasound photo into the nearest trash can. I was halfway to my car when I stopped, sighed, ran back, fished out the ultrasound photo, and stuffed it into the front left pocket of my jeans.

  The inside of the Festiva was boiling hot, the steering wheel hurt to touch. This was my nineteenth summer in Los Angeles. I should’ve known to park somewhere shaded.

  I opened all the car’s doors and paced in circles around it. My shift at Eddie’s wasn’t for over two hours and I had no idea what I was going to do with that time. Everyone I knew was always bitching about how they wanted more free time and I wanted to shove them in their chests, hard, tell them how lucky they were that each of their days contained boring, beautiful structure.

  I kept replaying the last thing Dr. Oldman had said to me before I left the office. He’d hugged me tight. “Congratulations on the end of your first trimester. It’s only just beginning.”

  He’d said it with both rows of his crooked, yellow teeth showing, said it to excite me. But the words just banged around the inside of my head and made me feel lopsided, like I was dehydrated, even though I had just finished a whole bottle of water.

  I blinked hard and then opened the car’s trunk, searched every corner of it. Nothing. I checked the glove box. Nothing. The overhead compartment. Nothing. I was about to give up when I reached under the driver’s seat and felt my fingers brush against glass. I curled them around the body and pulled out a half-full bottle of Evan Williams.

  That fucking fuck, I thought. I knew it, I fucking knew he would have a bottle stashed somewhere in here, that fucking asshole.

  I took a deep swig and got into the car, turned on the radio, pulled out of the parking lot, and fiddled with the volume, started driving west. West seemed right.

  * * *

  —

  I GOT TIRED OF DRIVING EVENTUALLY, pulled over about a mile from Eddie’s. I still had an hour to kill and I didn’t want to drink any more of Dad’s bottle.

  The sidewalks were busy. Unlike me, people were dressed appropriately for summer in tank tops and shorts, their flip-flops smacked pleasantly against the pavement. I reached down and untied the laces on my sneakers, started pacing back and forth along the block.

  I stared hard at every person I walked past. If they didn’t tell me my shoes were untied, I cursed them in my head
—Fuck you, how dare you not warn a pregnant woman that she could fall—and if they did tell me my shoes were untied, I cursed them in my head—Fuck you, leave me alone, I can do whatever I want.

  * * *

  —

  I SHOWED UP FOR MY SHIFT at Eddie’s soaked in sweat. My uniform polo was a dark green, and loose strands of my hair were plastered to my neck and forehead.

  Darryl lowered his magazine and eyed me up and down. “You better clean up before Peter sees you. You know he’s been extra bitch-ass ever since we dropped to a ‘B’ rating.”

  I shrugged. Darryl shrugged back. “Whatever,” he said.

  He looked back down at his magazine and added, like he’d only just remembered, “Oh, by the way, someone called asking for you. Some woman.”

  “A woman?” My head snapped up. “What woman?”

  He raised his eyebrows, picked up a scrap of paper, and handed it to me.

  I held the paper delicately in my hands, ran my fingers over the words, and repeated them softly under my breath. “Adam loved the pizza. You’re amazing. Come today at 4:30 p.m. Same order. Jenny Hauser.”

  “So? What’s all that about?” Darryl asked. “Customers don’t like you, much less use any word close to ‘amazing’ to describe you.”

  “I’m likable and amazing, thank you.” I flicked Darryl off as I stuffed the note into my jeans pocket, the same pocket as the ultrasound photo. “Excuse me, I have to pee.”

  I went to the bathroom, didn’t pee. I squirted pink, watered-down soap into my hands and scrubbed my face, neck, arms, any sweaty exposed body parts. I combed my hair with my fingers and tucked in my polo, untucked it, tried to look presentable.

  4

  UNFORTUNATELY, it was a while before 4:30 p.m. and there were other people hungry for pizza.