by Ana Gibson
It started in elementary and middle school. I was picked on a lot, which ended up with me being in a lot of fights and suspensions. Labels were put on me almost instantly. Looking back on it, I wouldn't consider myself a bad child that liked to fight, it was just that I had grown accustomed to protecting myself at all costs no matter who it was because of my mom. My mom was the first bully I ever encountered. So with that, I grew balls pretty early. I was that long-limbed, brown, nappy-headed boy she couldn't stand and she made me pay for it like I was the one who chose my looks. She'd tell me a lot that she wished I had skin and eyes like she did—light and green—but ended up with my father's complexion; leather brown and just like his eyes, between light and hazel and his wooly hair. Never thought a mother could only love a child based on his skin color amongst many other things.
Then, I was going through that awkward stage of developing like most kids do. Was I funny looking? Absolutely, but seeing me now, I could probably be on a GQ magazine if I ever got the opportunity.
But anyway, learning how to stick up for myself, I brought that same attitude with me throughout high school, which gave me clout as the boy who goes hard. I was the 'you-bet-not-fuck-with him-cause’-you-will-get-your-ass-beat' dude on campus. Never did I want that title but it did earn me respect. It told people that I was here. I was a force to be reckoned with and that people actually could see me. From that, I gained lots of friends—the basketball and football teams all knew who I was. Cheerleaders and dance teams wanted every part of me. All of the staff knew who I was, whether they liked me or not. I was popular in my own right even if I was labeled the troubled child. I did things that I know now wasn't the best for me at the time, but it was all for good reason. As stupid as it sounds, I found a place for me to be somebody, anybody, so that I didn't feel secluded or invisible. All four years of high school, that was my life. Devin—the one that teachers couldn't stand and the one that all his peers adored, but once I graduated, relationships and the orient of my family shifted. Left out in the world, still with a mother who couldn't care less if I was going to succeed or not and a father who left me alone with her, I fell right back into that ghost.
Much like this week. Chain-smoking from shelter to shelter— just another number on a cot waiting for the next day. Some days I'm lucky if I even get spoken to. I get the looks, the stares, the ‘he-better-not-ask-me-for-nothing' attitudes. Somewhere I've lost my place, and something has taken it by default. Being in a city where I'm constantly surrounded by people, I still feel the most lonely, the most unseen.
Today is about to be another checklist of the same homeless routine. First, I have to go get my little girl and then figure out what we're gonna do after that. If I'm lucky, find some way to get money and have a decent meal before the night is over.
Here she comes now!
“Daddy!”
“Hey, Lil’ girl.” I take her into a hug.
She steps back and pulls out a picture project that she made in class today.
“It's us,” she says. “Ms. Faith wanted us to draw how we see our future, so I came up with this. I have other ones too, but this is my favorite.” I take the picture into my hand, carefully examining it. The sun sits brightly in the corner of the paper, and a big blue house with a red door is situated in the middle. A cute little brown dog looks to be running across the lawn. Or it could be a big rat, I don't know. I can't really tell. But anyway, next to the house is a tree adorned with a tire swing and a stick figure sitting happily in the middle while two adult stick figures push from behind. Their skinny arms out-stretched pretty far. Thank goodness people don't look like this in reality.
“Who are these people?”
“That's me,” she points in the swing. I figured that.
“That's going to be our doggy. His name is going to be Bart,” she laughs. Only my child.
She continues showing me who everyone else is. “That's you, and that's going to be my new mommy.”
Wait, what? New mommy? What is she talkin' about?
“You mean your mommy, Mia?”
“No daddy. My new mom. I prayed last night for a new mommy for me and you.”
I don't even know what to say right now. She's definitely growing up and a lot more mature than I expected her to be. But the thing is I can't get that for her. Not with how we are now. No woman wants a homeless man, let alone a homeless man with a child. But I won't tell her that. Who knows, maybe one day it will happen, but for now, this is what it is.
CHAPTER 6
FAITH
My mother’s voice plays in my head.
‘It's not as bad as you think it is. Give him time. He loves you. Under all that pent-up energy, he loves you.’ But does he? Does he for real? With his huge, thick hands glued around my neck, pressing my body against the wall in an attempt to keep me quiet—he loves me?
‘He's a man. Give him what he asks for.’
Yes, mother, I hear you. I'll give him my tears while he insults the very essence of my womanhood. Stop trying to be in control, you say? The reigns of my life have been involuntarily taken into submission, restraining the very air I long to breathe. I was never in control.
‘He loves you.’ I heard you. ‘He loves you.’ That's what you keep saying. ‘He loves you.’ Who in me does he love actually? It's the mere thought of me, a figment of weakness within his imagination. He doesn't love me. He loves that he can be dominant. I wish you could see him now, trying to strip me out of myself. And you say he's a good man. How is he a good man? There's emptiness in his eyes and ice in every breath he uses to freeze me in fear.
There is no goodness in him.
‘He loves you.’ I heard you say it the first time. How can I be convinced?
‘Be a good woman, and you won't have to worry.’
When will he be good to me? That's what I worry. Doesn't matter if I'm good or not. I am still here fighting because of you. I fight in this never-ending battle between wanting to be loved and wanting to be heard. But know when I get the courage to stand on my own two feet and roar as loud as a Lion, it will be then you will see who I am.
‘Oh child, nonsense. I know who you are. Hush your silly thoughts and go with it.’
Right. Just go with it.
“You're hurting me,” I say to Clayton as he keeps me pressed against the wall. A cramp in my stomach weakens me a little.
“I'm not letting you go until you apologize.”
“Let me go, Clayton. You're hurting me,” I say again as calm as I can. His lips tighten, and he stares me deep in the eyes and finally lets me go.
“Watch how you talk to me.”
Between the pulse of cramps and the soreness around my neck, I keep myself quiet. Not out of fear, but because I know something is not right. Over these last few weeks, I've been the most stressed. More stressed than I have ever been. With the wedding plans going awry, my school kids acting like a bunch of banshees and finding out that Clayton has a sidepiece, my world has taken a nosedive off of a cliff. The good thing though is that I've learned how to hide it. I hide it so well that no one would ever know what's really going on between him and I. Our love has been inconsistent for two years now. I don't know if I can actually call it love though. I've grown to hate him. I hate him so much, but mama always says, ‘oh honey, it'll change. Give him time.’ But I know that's not true. I don't have time to waste on a potential that he'll never have. I can't hold on to a promise that will never come.
Another cramp. This doesn't feel right at all. Just breathe Faith. You're worked up, that's all.
The news of him cheating on me was the thing that broke me the most. It came right after I told him that I might be pregnant. We argued about it. He threatened a vasectomy. I wasn't sure at the time only because my periods have been known to be inconsistent.
I'm twelve weeks now.
Since all this news, he's become crueler. More isolated. More
Vain. At first, it was just little mental things he'd do, but now it's
down to the physical, and I don't mean the kind of physical where I walk out the house black and blue, bloodied nose or anything like that. Usually, I get stuff thrown at me, or I'll get a slap, or he'll push me into stuff. However, I do fight back, make no mistake about it. I've taught myself to not be afraid of him cause’ that only gives him the fuel to go farther than he needs to. I have a brother and a few uncles, so I know how to defend myself.
“I'm going downstairs,” he tells me as I grasp hold of the dresser to catch my breath. The pain in my belly is worsening. These cramps are growing by the second. Maybe a hot shower will do.
“I don't care,” I tell him.
We separate and it's for the best. I gather all of my belongings and take my time going into the bathroom. My mother has had so much a hand in this hook up for us that I would've thought she was actually scouting him out for herself. Her and daddy ain't really on the best of terms, though they put up a united front most days. They're divorced but try to act like they're still together.
Christmas day was the day I said yes to his proposal. We were at my uncle's house. I, just like everyone else, was shocked but my shock came more from a place where I didn't even think he was that serious about me to begin with. I agreed for two reasons: One was so that neither of us would feel embarrassed if I had said no, and two, per my mother, my pickings are getting slim, and my clock is ticking. I do believe that there was a huge part of me that would have leaped for joy if I had just hauled tail that evening, but instead, I hushed my sensible side, thinking that maybe it was just pre-cold feet because he didn't start off this way. He was very charming.
Now come to think of it, this whole engagement thing was more than likely my mother's idea too because that whole year with me about to turn thirty, still unwedded, no real career (in her sight at least) and still figuring my life out, she would plague me with redundant statements like, ‘Faith, you're hitting your thirties. All of your friends are getting married, have bright futures and careers. What are you going to do with yourself? Your clock is ticking, and I'm not getting any younger. When are you going to make me a grandmother again? Your brother and sister already started their families. You know Trish is pregnant again. Wouldn't it be nice if you two had a baby together?’ yadda, yadda.
That annoyed the hell out of me. A year later, she introduced me to Clayton. At first glance, I thought him to be mister debonair. He definitely had it going on. His suave attitude would make any woman want to drop her panties or be his trophy wife, but I tried to see a little more than just his physical. I've been there and done that. I gave him a chance. Sorry I did.
It's a bit fuzzy on how we ended up in this place now. All I know is that once he told me he saw me in his future, that's when it finally hit me. I thought about all those talks, all those annoying talks my mother would force on me, and figured they'd paid off at this point. We'd found what she had been looking for, for me.
Since then, I've been regretting it.
I run the water to almost hot, feeling the tightness in my stomach causing me to moan. I don't know what's actually happening here. The other day when we were fighting, I was trying to get out of his grip. He had his arms locked around my waist so tight, he could've taken the breath out of me. I recall forcing myself forward, dragging him with me. I don't know where that kind of strength came from, but I guess it made him mad enough to find all his strength and pull me back towards him. His arms thrashed into my stomach as if he was giving a blatantly incorrect Heimlich maneuver and we both fell to the floor. It was like a gut punch, to say the least, and I felt every bit of it. Since then, my stomach hasn't been feeling right.
The cramping snatches my breath suddenly. A red dot lands by my foot, and then another until it turns into a stream running down both sides of my legs.
“Clay?” I scream.
The blood smears all over my shaking hands as I try and touch to see where it's coming from. Tears gathering in my eyes. Red everywhere—warm and painful, running down my legs with the strength of a rushing dam. There's literally blood everywhere. My insides contract and vibrate down into my pelvis, ripping me open to release the smallest piece of me. The tightening forces me forward and brings me to my knees. I grab myself and groan, close my eyes and pretend this isn't happening. This is not happening. I just know I’m seeing things.
The progression steals my breaths—both short and shallow and shivers migrate to the top of my skin. The process fully taking over even though I beg for it not to. I can't stop it. I don't want to push even though my body tells me to. Drops of tears try to wash away the stains and pools of my womb, but instead, it mixes together—death and pain marrying as one. Why is there blood everywhere? No one can tell me. I squat here alone on this bathroom floor and he's on the other side fully aware as my body gives in. It hurts. Oh God, it hurts.
“Clayton?”
Doesn't he hear me? The wind feeling like it's been knocked out of me. What seems like forever only takes a few minutes and he comes back to the door, knocking.
“Hurry up. I need to shower.”
I sob into myself. The flow of tears quiet but steady as his voice echoes through my head. I say through soft whimpers, “I'm losing the baby.” The shadows beneath the door slowly move away.
Then silence.
And just like that, it passes. I bring it to my hand—its body so tiny, covered in blood and lifeless. Holding it close as I can, I break down.
I'm so sorry I couldn't save you.
By myself I lay on this floor, cold and empty, the rest of me draining into oblivion. Close your eyes and remember me, my love. A piece of me is gone, but I won't forget you. In my dreams, I will be there, so good night my sweetheart.
He didn't want kids anyway.
CHAPTER 7
FAITH
Five Days Later
Today’s fieldtrip went smoother than I thought it would, given the circumstances I'm under. Though I'm not one hundred percent yet, I still gave it the best I had. Thank goodness for chaperones.
We return to the school. Each kid unload themselves off the bus one by one. Some of the parents are already here to pick up their children, and the remaining few that are left, come back with me inside of the building.
We get settled into the classroom and kill time with drawing, coloring, puzzles and such. Everyone seems content, smiles and playful laughter vibrating the room, everyone except her—my star student. She stands by the door on her tiptoes, fingers tightly gripping the windowpane as she looks out. She has not been herself today, and she won't tell me what is exactly wrong with her.
“Logan, sweetie, come have a seat.”
She turns my way and reluctantly follows my orders and goes back to her desk. She did tell me she missed her dad. Maybe that's what's bothering her. I go over to her desk just to check one more time to see if there's anything else she'd like me to know.
“Is everything okay?”
“I'm fine,” she says.
“You don't look fine.”
“I am.” She hides her face in her arms, lays her head down on the desk. I try to lift her head again, searching those pretty eyes and say, “You can talk to me, Logan.” But she doesn't say anything back. I'll leave it alone for now.
The school bell rings for the end of the day. Everyone jets out of the door, including Logan. I chase after her and grab her backpack from behind.
“Logan your dad isn't here yet. I don't want you to have to stand out there. It's too cold. Let's wait in the class until he comes, okay?” She agrees and heads back with me, taking quick glances back and forth at the front of the school.
“He's outside. I know he is,” she says.
“Well if he is then he'll come in here and get you like he normally does.”
She again goes back to the classroom door and stares out of it impatiently.
“Where is he?” She mutters.
“Come on. Come over here by me.” I take her by the hand and walk us back to my desk. Crayons, pencils, mar
kers, construction paper, I set it all before her so she can keep herself occupied until he comes.
“What's all this for?”
“Don't you like to draw?”
“I do, but I don't want to today.”
“How come?”
“I don't have anything to draw.”
“Well, you could write then.” I hand her a good pen and some college ruled loose leaf.
“About what?”
“Today. The fieldtrip.”
“And say what?”
“Well, you could write about how much fun it was. Maybe write about what you learned.”
“Why do that when I can just tell you?” She says so seriously. I'm not even sure if I should laugh or what. This is not a child I'm talking to.
“Okay, well tell me, how did you like it?”
“It was okay.” It's that casual response that makes me second-guess that maybe that trip wasn't as great as I thought it to be.
“Well did you like anything about it?”
“Um, maybe one thing.”
“What was that?” I hope she gives me something to brag home about.
“Leaving.” She grabs a marker from out of my pail and begins scribbling on her paper.
“Why'd you want to leave?” I'm curious to know now because, from the looks on all of the other kids' faces, I could tell that they enjoyed themselves so why not her?
“I don't like planes. It's for boys.”
“That's not true. Don't you remember the first woman to fly a plane?”
“She looked like a boy.”
I giggle and snort unexpectedly. She smiles at me and busts out in a laugh herself.
“Amelia Earhart did not look like a boy,” I tell her. “Okay, you don't have to say anymore. I understand.” My chuckling subsides, and she goes back to doing whatever she is doing on that paper; drawing and writing and humming. I take a look at her work.
