Jumping Off Swings

by Jo Knowles

  He moves closer to me. His hand is still clasped with mine. I keep holding on and so does he. I shut my eyes and wait. He moves even closer, then kisses me on the cheek. His warm lips barely brush against my skin.

  When he moves his head back to where it was, I feel where his lips touched my cheek and know I want more.

  I move my face closer to his.

  “Again,” I say quietly. Under normal circumstances I would probably die of embarrassment for letting those words escape. But Caleb leans toward me again and aims for my cheek. Without thinking, I turn my head and close my eyes and pray my lips meet his lips and not his nose or eyebrow.

  Our lips touch, then press against each other, then open, just slightly. His soft, wet tongue gently finds its way to mine and we’re actually kissing and my whole body is on fire. I don’t dare open my eyes. I just let his hand reach up around me and hold my chin while we kiss and spin, so slowly, like in a dream. He smells and tastes like cold, fresh air.

  I take him all in and repeat to myself that this isn’t a dream; this is a perfect moment. This is the perfect first kiss I’ve been waiting for all my life.

  I’M SUPPOSED TO BE DOING MY HOMEWORK, but the baby won’t stop moving. I get up from my desk and lie down on my bed. I know I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t try to feel. But I can’t help it.

  I slip my shirt up over my belly. I put both hands on it and press. It feels like the baby is pressing back, trying to get out. Or maybe just exploring its tiny home. It doesn’t know that all it will ever know of me is the inside.

  I stretch my fingers across my belly and glide my hand back and forth, waving softly. Sometimes I think I feel a hand reaching out for mine. Or it could be a foot, kicking my hand away. I wish I could tell the difference.

  Whenever I feel movement, I reach down to feel whatever is poking out. I’ve seen Liz watch me. Our eyes meet and she winks, but she never says anything. I think she knows it would hurt too much if we started talking about it. If we started to love it. So I just lie here and feel these shapes and try to guess what they are.

  My bedroom door opens, and my mother steps in and jumps at the sight of me.

  “Oh.” She’s holding a laundry basket full of my brother’s dirty clothes. She looks away quickly.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.” She says it like I’m a stranger, not her daughter.

  I pull down my shirt fast. But I know she saw by the way she jerked her head away. She saw my round belly and my belly button sticking out. She saw my baby.

  She rushes over to my hamper and adds my dirty clothes to the rest. I sit up, holding my shirt over my belly.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says again. Her voice is shaky. “I didn’t know you were in here.” She says it to the window looking out over our front yard, though. Not to me.

  I want to tell her I’m the one who is sorry. I want to tell her not to be so sad.

  Her shoulders start to tremble, but she doesn’t turn around. She just holds on to that basket of dirty laundry, facing the window, her fingers curled tightly around the handles.

  She takes a deep breath. Maybe she will finally talk to me. Maybe she will finally let me tell her how things happened, if I dare.

  But she turns to leave.

  “Mom?” I say the word calmly. I don’t want her to go. Suddenly, I want so badly to talk. I want her to be more than that orange-juice-commercial mom. I want her to stop doing the laundry and making breakfast. I want her to see inside me. I want her to hug me and hold me and tell me she would take the pain for me if she could. Just like she did when I was little and I hurt myself. I want her to fill me up with her words. I want her to say something. Anything. I want her to tell me it’s all right. That everything is going to be OK. Even if we both know it’s a lie.

  “Mom, please don’t go.”

  She finally turns toward me. Her cheeks have tear lines, and her nose is running.

  I move to the edge of the bed. Closer to her. “I’m sorry, Mom.” My own tears slide down my jaw and drip onto my shirt.

  She sniffs and wipes her wet cheek on her shoulder. “I know, baby.”

  I put my feet on the floor and start to hoist myself up. But as I rise, she walks to the door.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  I step forward, but she’s gone. I listen to her go down the stairs and start the wash.

  I touch my belly again. It makes me feel so empty and full at the same time. I have to wonder, after the baby is born, how I’ll ever fill the space.

  I’M LYING IN MY ROOM listening to the birds outside. I used to think they sang because they were happy. But then I learned on a nature show that they’re really showing off. Trying to lure some other bird so they can mate with it. Or let the other birds know not to get too close to their turf. I wish I’d never seen that show. Because now all I think about is what those pretty sounds mean. And how they’re not pretty at all.

  Liz gave me some books. Our Bodies, Ourselves and What to Expect When You’re Expecting. On the cover of the second one, a woman sits in a rocking chair. She’s rocking the baby inside her. It’s a strange picture for that book. Because even though it’s a drawing, I don’t think she looks happy. And I wonder what she’s expecting. What am I?

  I don’t have a rocking chair, but sometimes I sit in my pink beanbag chair and hold my belly in my hands, listening to the beads settle underneath me like rain. I feel the baby quietly moving around to get comfortable. I feel shapes press against my hands, slowly, slowly, pushing against my palms and fingers, and I push back gently to say Hello. I’m here.

  Whenever the baby stops moving, I wait, push my hands against my stomach, then shift a little until I feel the baby move under my fingers again. Just to make sure the baby is still OK.

  At school I feel Josh watching me. He follows me, keeping his distance. I remember his hands on me, reaching to get inside. I don’t know what he wants now. I don’t know if he wants to talk to me. But I can’t. I can’t look at his hands. I can’t hear his voice or smell his breath. I can’t even look at his face.

  I tried to read the books because Liz said to. She said I should do the exercises. She’s worried. She knows it’s going to hurt.

  They say not to sleep on your back. Or sit in hot tubs. Or change your cat’s litter box. They say to do weird exercises. Kegels. Pelvic tilt. Dromedary droop. They tell you to do all this stuff. So your back doesn’t hurt. To keep you from tearing. To make sure your body recovers from childbirth.

  I think of the movies and TV shows of women screaming while they give birth. Saying they hate men. Saying they will never have sex again. And crying. Because it hurts so much.

  My heartbeat quickens and my forehead gets damp thinking about it. I have to squeeze my hands into fists and bite my knuckles so I don’t scream out before I even feel any pain.

  How am I going to do this?

  When Luke knocks on my door, I forget about the birds and the pain. I stop thinking about the little hand or foot pushing against my insides.

  “Time for school,” he says. He avoids looking near my belly. They all do. “If you hurry, I’ll take you.” He turns and thuds down the carpeted stairs like he always does.

  I hoist myself up and pull on the Salvation Army shirt I wear to cover my belly. I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t care. School will be over in three more weeks. Ms. Lyons will be so relieved when I’m finally gone. No more worrying about other girls wanting to have babies. No more worrying about the school’s image.

  No more me.

  I’M OFFICIALLY A STALKER. When the last bell rings, I know she’ll come out of study hall and I wait at the end of the hallway, pretending to look for something in my locker. She comes out of the room, looking at the floor while people hurry by her. She walks slowly, as if her back hurts. As soon as she heads toward the opposite end of the hall, I follow, keeping my distance. When she gets near her locker, she turns and I see her belly sticking out. My heart beat
s faster, like it always does. I quickly step out of sight.

  That’s my baby.

  Our baby.

  She tries to hide the bump with baggy clothes — T-shirts with plaid button-up shirts over them that don’t button at all. But I can see it.

  That’s my baby growing in there.

  I’ve heard about girls who hid being pregnant all the way up until they had the baby. One girl had a baby in the bathroom during her prom or some crazy shit like that. But Ellie doesn’t try that hard to cover it up. What’s the point? Everyone knows. Still, she doesn’t make a big show of it, either.

  Sometimes people stop talking when they see me coming down the hall. I don’t know why they bother. It’s not like I don’t know what they’re saying. There’s the asshole who knocked her up. There’s the idiot who couldn’t figure out how to use a condom. What a loser.

  I’m sure they all speculate about what’s going to happen after the baby is born. The truth is, they probably know more than I do.

  Caleb says Ellie plans to give the baby up for adoption. I tell myself that’s the best thing. To give the baby to someone who really wants it.

  But what if I wanted it? Why don’t I get a say?

  Yeah.

  I know that’s crazy.

  But so is the fact that there’s going to be this kid out there — my kid — and I’m never going to know it. I’ll never know if it was a boy or a girl. I’ll never find out if it looked like me. Or talked like me. Or felt about things the way I do.

  I know if I wanted to, I could probably take some test and prove the baby’s mine. Take custody. But what a joke. What baby would stand a chance living in my fucked-up house?

  Crazy.

  I guess that’s why I keep following Ellie around, sneaking glimpses of our growing baby. Because that’s all I’ll ever get.

  I guess that’s why I feel like I’m sinking underwater and I can’t breathe and I can’t call out for help because there’s no one there to pull me out anyway.

  I guess that’s why I feel like I’ll die if I don’t see my baby before it’s gone for good.

  “PROMISE ME YOU’LL TELL ME WHEN IT HAPPENS.”

  Josh looks at me in this desperate way, like people do in movies when they’ve been shot through the chest and are trying to utter their last words. Don’t ask me how I’ll find out when Ellie goes into labor, but I nod and promise anyway.

  “Do you think it will be soon?” Josh asks.

  We’re sitting in my room for a change. My mom has a Saturday morning class, and Josh said he needed an escape from his house but didn’t feel like going to the park. He didn’t bother to stop for Dave on his way here. Dave’s always with his new girlfriend, anyway. And when he’s not with her, he’s telling us about their amazing sex life and every other little thing about her enough to drive us nuts.

  I don’t tell them about Corinne. We haven’t told anyone about us, actually. I guess we both feel too guilty about being happy with everything that’s happening.

  “My mom thinks Ellie could have the baby any day now,” I answer.

  “Guess I better get going before she gets back,” he says.

  “My mom doesn’t hate you,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “She knows you made a mistake. That’s all.”

  He doesn’t answer. I follow him down the stairs and into the entryway. Before he gets to the door, he sees the overnight bag my mom put by the door.

  “Your mom going somewhere?” he asks.

  “Uh . . . it’s for Ellie,” I say. “My mom put some stuff together for her, you know, for when she’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh. Right.” He stares at the bag, like he wants to know what’s inside, but he doesn’t ask.

  For the past few weeks, my mom has been adding stuff to the bag. The jazz CD she plays when Ellie’s here. The soft kind of tissues with lotion in them. A pair of slippers. Some magazines. I thought about putting the teakettle bird in there, too, just to let her know my mom wasn’t the only one thinking about her. But in the end, I decided not to. I don’t know why. Maybe I just don’t want her thinking about saving things. Even metal birds.

  When Josh opens the door to leave, my mom is running up the porch steps, out of breath.

  “Oh! Hi.” She looks at me for help, but I have no idea what to say.

  “Josh, I haven’t seen you in ages. Um . . .” She reaches for Ellie’s bag. “It’s time,” she says awkwardly. “Stay by the phone, OK? I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  She starts to turn, then stops.

  “Are you all right?” she asks Josh.

  He opens his mouth but can’t seem to answer. My mom gives him a hug. She’s smaller than him, but he leans into her as tears start to run down his cheeks. I look away.

  “I’ve got to go,” my mom says finally, easing herself away from Josh. “Everything’s going to be OK,” she tells him.

  He nods, wiping his face with the back of his forearm.

  The screen door slams shut. Josh steps back and stumbles. I grab his arm to keep him up.

  “I’m going,” he tells me.

  Crap. I put my hand on the door to stop him. “Josh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  He puts his own hand on the door. “Why not?”

  “Because. I don’t think — I’m not sure Ellie —”

  “Don’t worry. I know she doesn’t want to see me. She

  won’t even know I’m there. It’s my kid, too, Cay. Or did you forget?”

  “I didn’t forget. I just —” A warm breeze drifts in the door. It smells like cut grass. It reminds me of the park and going there with Josh and Dave when we were little.

  “I have to try to see the baby, OK? I can’t explain why.” His voice cracks. “I just want to see before they take my baby away. That’s all.” He’s shaking.

  I’m surprised by the pain I feel in my own chest. I don’t know why I feel this way when the baby isn’t even mine, but I do. I feel . . . helpless.

  “OK,” I say. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, Cay. You stay here. This is something I have to do on my own.”

  He takes off out the door. From the window, I watch him run down the driveway and continue along the road. It’s not until I figure out he’s going to run all the way to the hospital that I realize I should have told him to take my car. And that it didn’t even occur to him that he could have asked.

  “HOW’S SHE DOING?” Liz asks.

  My cell is sweaty from my palm. I didn’t know my palms could sweat this much. I look over at Ellie, who is sitting in the passenger seat of my mom’s car. Her face is red as she concentrates on breathing. “OK,” I say.

  “How far apart are the contractions?”

  “Still five or six minutes.”

  “All right. That’s good. You’re on your way, right?”

  “Yes,” I say. “We’re about ten minutes away. We already called Ellie’s parents, and they’re going to meet us there.”

  “Good. Just tell her to try to stay as relaxed as possible. And keep telling her she’s doing great.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up and reach for Ellie’s hand. “Liz says to try to stay relaxed.”

  She breathes in and out slowly, nodding. “I need you to pull over.”

  “But —”

  “Please. I’m just — I’m not ready yet.”

  I do what she says and pull over at the first place we come to, which is a McDonald’s parking lot. The smell of French fries wafts inside the car.

  “Uh . . .” Ellie holds her side and leans forward.

  I reach over and put my hand on her knee. “Try to take slow breaths,” I say, trying to sound as calm as possible.

  “I’m scared,” she says to the windshield.

  Me, too.

  “I know,” I say. “But we should probably get going.”

  “Just give me a minute. I just need — some time.”

  We watch peop
le come out of the restaurant. People in suits rushing in during their breaks, too impatient for the drive-through. Moms clutching their kids’ hands as they pull ahead, whining for their Happy Meals.

  Ellie puts her hands under her belly again and closes her eyes.

  I check the clock and try to figure out how long we have until the next contraction. Liz thought Ellie should take birthing classes, but Ellie refused. She couldn’t bear to be around all those happy couples. She read every book she and Liz could find, but I think the more she read, the more afraid she got.

  I wait for the digital clock to mark another minute. Then another. Then Ellie pitches forward and moans. Her face is beet red. Her forehead is wet with sweat, even though the AC is making it feel like the Arctic in here.

  “OK,” she says when the contraction finally passes. “I guess it’s time.” The last words sound like they hurt to say.

  I nod, put the car in reverse, and stall. My hands are shaking. I fumble with the keys and restart the car.

  Ellie looks straight ahead and continues breathing.

  I pull out of the parking lot without even looking.

  Tires squeal behind me, and a guy in a pickup truck gives me the finger.

  “Same to you!” I yell, flipping him back.

  Ellie leans forward. “It hurts,” she says quietly. “It hurts so much.”

  “We’re almost there,” I tell her.

  Ellie writhes in the seat next to me.

  “You can cry, Ellie,” I say. “You can scream if you want. You don’t have to be brave.” But she just grits her teeth as my own tears start to run down my cheeks.

  The drive seems endless, but we finally arrive and I pull into the emergency entrance, jump out, and run around the car for Ellie. Her eyes plead with me through the window. I wish I could take her away from all this, go back in time and let her do it all differently. But all I can do is smile weakly at her and open the door. As I help Ellie out of the car, Liz pulls into the parking lot. When Ellie sees her, she finally starts to cry. Liz hugs her tight. Then Ellie’s parents show up and everyone crowds around Ellie so that they sort of swallow her up. I get pushed aside as they escort her across the parking lot.