What Comes After

by Joanne Tompkins

  My father never again reached for my hand.

  * * *

  —

  I WAS CONSIDERING ALL THIS AS I TRAVELED TOWARD my childhood home, sensing as I often did in flight that I had escaped the planet with its artificial dividing lines—cities and states and countries, skin colors and genders, religions and political tribes, animal, mineral, plant. At thirty thousand feet, these distinctions fell away. But even at that lofty height, I believed with unquestioned certainty that a boundary could be drawn around a small group of people and labeled a family. My family. Yours.

  Except mine no longer had a past to which I could return nor a future beyond my own depleted life. There was only my aunt’s disintegrating mind and a grave barely a month old.

  36

  On Monday night, Lorrie arrived in the pouring rain, the hood of a purple rain jacket cinched tight around her face. Evangeline invited her inside. This time, Lorrie didn’t hesitate, handing Evangeline the container so she could slip off her dripping coat.

  Once they were in the kitchen, Evangeline felt shy. Should she offer to share the salad with Lorrie?

  “You need anything else?” Lorrie asked.

  “This is so nice,” Evangeline said, but it sounded stiff, like they were on a bad first date.

  That nod again, then, “School going all right?”

  Lorrie was probably wondering if she had made any friends, and that made Evangeline uncomfortable, though things were fine that way. Saturday at Natalia’s had been fun. Her mom had to go into work at the last minute—she was some kind of lawyer—but Evangeline and Natalia cooked tamales anyway. They enjoyed teasing her little sister, Sophie, who kept shouting that they were stupid even as she insisted on hanging around.

  “It can be hard starting in the middle of things,” Lorrie said softly.

  Evangeline realized she hadn’t answered, so she said, “School’s okay. Chemistry is kind of boring, but don’t let Isaac know I said that.”

  Lorrie laughed. “Tell me about it. I’m trying to get through my nursing prereqs. That stuff is hard.”

  “I thought Isaac said you were already some kind of nurse.”

  “Not a nurse,” she said, lowering herself onto a chair. “I’m just a CNA, a certified nursing assistant. We change diapers and clean up puke.” She glanced at the bowl. “Sorry, not really dinner conversation.”

  Evangeline lifted the lid of the Tupperware and peeked at the salad, disappointed to see more than the usual rash of cherry tomatoes. “But you know some things, right? Some medical stuff?”

  “A little, I guess. Why? You worried about something?”

  “Not really.” She glanced toward the salad. “Maybe lighter on the tomatoes?”

  “What?”

  “You said before. You know, if I didn’t like something, I could tell you.”

  “Oh. Sure. No tomatoes.”

  “No. Some tomatoes. I’m practicing eating disgusting things for the baby. Just not so many.”

  Lorrie laughed, and it was easy, natural, like they’d been friends a long time. “But I think you’re worried about something else. Something medical?”

  “I guess. It’s nothing really. Just a little bleeding. You know. On my panties.”

  Lorrie’s brows furrowed. “How far along are you?”

  “Ten, eleven weeks, something like that.”

  “When did this start?”

  “About five days ago. Just spotting. A little worse today. I put a tampon in just in case.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  Lorrie sat up straighter, all those lean muscles kicking in. “Okay. That’s fine. But first, do you have any pads?”

  “Yeah. There’re some in the bathroom.”

  “Good. Why don’t you go take care of the tampon, see if there’s much blood, and then put on a pad instead. You want to be able to see what’s happening, and tampons are breeding grounds for bacteria. You don’t want that near the baby. While you’re doing that, I’ll call the after-hours line for your OB. The number is by the phone, right?”

  Evangeline nodded, worried now.

  “It’s not an emergency,” Lorrie said. “I’m pretty sure anyway. A lot of women spot in the first trimester, but since you’re at the tail end of that, I’d feel a lot better if we checked in with your doctor.”

  When Evangeline returned a few minutes later, Lorrie was sitting at the table pretending to read the local paper.

  “What’d they say?” Evangeline asked.

  “I decided to wait to hear what you found. How was it?”

  “Kind of the same, just a little reddish-brown stuff.” She wasn’t embarrassed to say things like this to Lorrie.

  “Good. Now I want you to call the after-hours line and tell them what’s going on. I’ll be right here.”

  “Really? Wouldn’t it be better if you did? I don’t want to bother them.”

  “It was wrong of me to say I would. You need to see how easy it is to call if you’re worried. Besides, they might have questions I can’t answer. You’re not bothering them. That’s what they’re there for.”

  Evangeline twisted her mouth and shrugged. What would the nurse on the line think of her? She was sixteen and pregnant and bleeding for a while and not calling. She’d had enough judgment thrown at her for a couple of lifetimes. Even her own mother had thought she was beyond help.

  Lorrie gave a stern nod at the phone, and it was strange, because Lorrie was so clear and certain in her directive that Evangeline felt she had no choice. The on-call nurse asked the same questions as Lorrie, and it comforted Evangeline to know that someone smart about pregnancies lived next door. The nurse made Evangeline repeat back that she’d call her doctor’s office first thing in the morning.

  As she hung up, Lorrie said, “Tomorrow’s my day off. I can take you whenever you need.”

  Evangeline thanked her, and Lorrie stood to go. At the door, she said, “Call me first thing when you know the time of your appointment. My number’s by the phone. And if things change or you just wake up scared or anything else, call me, okay?”

  Evangeline agreed, and Lorrie, as if sensing hesitation in her, said, “Anything else you’re worried about?”

  “She said I should have called the day it started.” She glanced up, tried to gauge Lorrie’s face. “Said sometimes these things can be serious. You don’t think I hurt the baby, do you?”

  Lorrie pulled Evangeline to her. Her arms were as dense and strong as bundles of knotted wire, and Evangeline felt a dull pain from the pressure on her ribs. Still, being held like that, like a child deserving comfort, made her want to cry.

  After a moment, Lorrie pulled away, held her at arm’s length and said firmly, “You didn’t hurt the baby. You’re doing right by that little one. Next time you’ll know, is all.”

  37

  Day of My Death

  I keep thinking of my mom. Can’t help it. She set up in my head when I was a little kid, and ever since then those mom eyes of hers have watched my every move. It used to make me angry, how she was in there judging me all the time. When I was twelve, I started yelling at her, defending myself against things I’d only imagined she’d said.

  Once, when I wasn’t invited to a party at Jackson’s house, I shouted that she was the reason no one wanted me around. “Who wouldn’t be weird if their mom was always telling them what a loser they are!” My real mom never once said anything like that, but the mom in my head did all the time. My real mom listened for a while with this patient look on her face, then held up a hand. When I stopped ranting, she said, “I’m not sure where you’re coming up with this stuff, but here’s the deal: Every mother screws up her children one way or another. It’s up to you whether you stay that way.”

  That thing about it being up to me? Whether I fixed myself or
not? That’s the one thing she really did say that made me the maddest. Because it’s not that simple. It’s true if you look at it one way and not true if you look at it another. Not that I’m mad about it anymore. I don’t have time for that. But it does make me sad—thinking she might believe I made a choice about what I became.

  But my mom is like that herself. She can look like one thing from a certain angle and something completely different from another. There are things about her I’ll never understand, like how she could be so strong and so weak at the same time, particularly when it came to my dad.

  I keep thinking back to when I was eleven and my dad showed up with a scorching red RAM 1500 truck we couldn’t possibly afford. He’d rustled up the down payment by raiding a small college fund Mom had socked away for Nells and me. Mom had to be furious, but I didn’t blame him. His old truck was a gear-grinding, oxidized navy Chevy with ruined seats and a rear end beat to hell. It wasn’t worth shit, so he said we’d keep it and I could have it when I turned fifteen. Back then, I thought it was a helluva deal.

  The RAM was repossessed six months in, but we still had it that day in the grocery parking lot, the one where my mother was smacked to the ground. And like that, my room is smelling like hot pavement and car exhaust from that August afternoon.

  This is no abstract theory now. I’m there, standing on that simmering tar, living it like it’s something new. When Mom falls, my old English teacher, Ms. Grainger, rushes over, and so does a guy, all muscles and shaved head, who’d been loading groceries into a neighboring car. They slip hands under each arm, guide her up. Mom tries to shrug them off, saying, “I’m fine. I’m fine. I can’t believe how clumsy I am.”

  Ms. Grainger steps back, gives Mom some space, but the man’s not having it. He’s got these huge hands, veins bulging, and one has a grip on Mom’s upper arm. He’s holding her away from Dad, saying, “But he hit you. He knocked you down.” With his free hand, he’s digging out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  The weird part is, Mom seems genuinely confused. She swipes an arm across her face as if dazed, says, “No. No. It wasn’t like that. I tripped. He swung his arm to catch me. He was trying to catch me, you see?”

  The man is struggling to dial one-handed. He stops when she says that. Now he’s the one confused. He looks at the teacher standing there.

  “I’m not sure,” the teacher says. “I didn’t see how it started. It was her falling that caught my eye.” Those eyes that did the catching? Well, they’re squirming around like they don’t believe a word coming out of her own mouth.

  “But your face,” the man says to Mom. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I hit the rear gate on the way down.”

  My father’s arms hang limp at his sides, his eyes teary like they always are. He steps toward Mom, and the man pulls her back, as if even with some boxer guy holding her, Dad might take another swing at her.

  “Let me help my wife,” he says. He says it all kind of submissive, and you couldn’t imagine a man like that—so soft and weak and pleading—hitting anyone. “She tripped. I couldn’t catch her in time. I’m worried about her. Please, I need to get her to the doctor.”

  The man lets Mom break away. She goes to Dad, leans into him a little, laughs, and says, “I’m such a klutz.”

  Dad touches the bruise forming near her mouth. “Let’s get you seen, okay?”

  They’re so convincing that even I’m starting to wonder if I saw it right. The man turns to me with that question on his face, and I look away. Ms. Grainger leans into Mom, whispers, “Give me a call, Lorrie, if there’s anything you need. Anything at all.” Mom winces as if pinched, and the teacher, embarrassed, retreats. The man shoves his phone into his pocket, raises his hands in surrender, says, “Okay. Okay.” He looks Dad over, then Mom. Both of them are ignoring him now, and he turns back to his car.

  We drive home in silence. We’re supposed to pick up Nells at a friend’s house, but Dad says he’ll get her later. Mom’s face keeps bleeding. She daubs at it with a corner of her sweater. No one mentions a doctor again.

  * * *

  —

  THERE’S NOTHING AFTER THAT. A screen gone blank. I stop and rewind. Replay it, slower this time.

  I’m thinking I must have felt it—that first tiny hole, the one that let evil slip in—when Dad hit Mom. I stop there, but I’m wrong. It’s nothing so simple as hating Dad or feeling guilty for not protecting Mom.

  I keep going, one second at a time. When I find it, I’m mystified. It’s Mom leaning into Dad. It’s Dad’s tenderness as he touches her face. That’s when a rupture forms in my heart, when I feel something hard sprouting there.

  38

  Evangeline found no new spotting in the morning, and the doctor scheduled her for that afternoon. At two, Lorrie was parked in the school’s loading zone as promised. And later, when Evangeline returned to reception after the exam, she once again discovered an adult waiting for her. A part of her bristled, the part that hated people knowing her business, that assumed adults did things for their own selfish motives. But a bigger part thought it was nice, because Evangeline felt, with the ease of simple knowing, that the woman actually cared about her.

  “The baby’s okay,” Evangeline said. “Everything was good.”

  Lorrie let out a breath. “That’s a relief.”

  “Since I haven’t had any new bleeding, I’ll just need to take it easy for a few days and make sure to let them know if it starts again.”

  “That’s good. Very good.” Lorrie checked the time. “I’m running a bit behind. Do you mind if we stop by the middle school on the way home? Fair warning, though—my daughter hates it when I’m late. She might be a little pissy.”

  Evangeline laughed. “How old is she?”

  “Thirteen—an eighth grader.”

  “If she’s thirteen and only a little pissy, I’d say you’re lucky. I was terrible at that age. My poor mother!” It felt strange to say that, “my poor mother,” even weirder to actually feel the tiniest bit sorry for her.

  Lorrie seemed uncomfortable at this mention. She made a show of rummaging through her purse, pulled out her keys and said, “Come on. Let’s go face the little brute.”

  * * *

  —

  EVANGELINE HAD NEVER NOTICED the middle school before. It was a low, sprawling, modern building surrounded by playing fields, with a big track behind. Unlike the high school, it looked built in the last century.

  The pickup area was empty except for a lone girl standing at the curb. Even at a distance, you could see how angry she was, the set of her hips, the way her arms crossed tight. As the battered Toyota Corolla pulled near, her arms fell to her sides. She looked nothing like Lorrie, taller than average and on the soft side, just bordering on plump. Her thick, dark hair was twisted in a high, messy knot. When the girl noticed Evangeline, she scowled.

  Evangeline unbuckled the seat belt, but Lorrie said, “Stay put. She can sit in back. It’s less than a mile. She could have walked if she was so eager to get home.”

  The girl swung open the back door. Before she could speak, Lorrie said, “Nells, this is Evangeline.”

  Evangeline’s heart went cold at the name. She wasn’t sure why. Had Lorrie mentioned her daughter’s name before? She didn’t think so. But then she’d never asked the slightest thing about her.

  “Hey,” Nells said, nice enough.

  Then she remembered. Jonah’s sister was named Nells. And she was thirteen. Christ! Lorrie was Jonah’s mother? How could that be? She knew they’d been neighbors, but when she’d seen Jonah that last time, it’d been blocks away. No one had ever said he and Daniel were next-door neighbors. She pulled off her seat belt.

  “You can sit up here,” she said. “I’ll walk. It’ll be good for me.”

  “You most certainly won’t,” Lorrie snapped. “The doctor said to take it easy
. Hiking uphill all the way home isn’t what she had in mind.”

  “I’ll walk slow.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Evangeline hesitated and rebuckled. There was no good response. “Sorry to be in your seat,” she said over her shoulder.

  “No big.”

  They drove in awkward silence for a block or two, and then Lorrie said, “Nells’s class is studying salmon restoration in some of the waterways around here.”

  “That sounds so interesting,” Evangeline said, the ridiculous fake brightness of her tone ricocheting around the car like an infuriating bug.

  “Not really,” Nells said.

  They didn’t even try after that, the three of them trapped together. Evangeline guessed that only she understood why they’d fallen into this place. Either Lorrie had no idea about her and Jonah or she did and assumed Evangeline had known all along who she was, because what right-thinking person in Isaac’s position wouldn’t have warned Evangeline that the possible grandmother of her child would be stopping by? What right-thinking person would say only that the woman was “a neighbor”? Of course, Evangeline had never admitted any romantic connection to Jonah, had she? Only that there had been lots of boys and Daniel wasn’t one. Still.

  When Lorrie stopped at her drive, Evangeline jumped out. As she was closing the door, Lorrie said, “See you tonight.”

  She leaned back in. “I forgot to tell you. I’m going over to a friend’s house to study.”

  “I can leave it by the door.”

  “No, that’s okay. My friend said her mom would make us dinner.”

  Evangeline thought she got out of that fairly well. She even remembered to say, “Nice to meet you, Nells,” before closing the door.