Getting Played

by Chase, Emma

  “As if I could ever forget.” I snort out a chuckle. “That sucked.”

  But then I stop chuckling.

  And everything inside me freezes—going as stone-cold as my poor chilly nipples. Because I did forget—what it felt like to be pregnant. The early signs.

  It’s like God gives women amnesia about the really shitty parts of child-bearing, so we won’t mind doing it again and again. But now, in this kitchen—it’s like a horrible lightning bolt of epiphany has struck me. Like the blinders have fallen away.

  And I remember all the early symptoms. The soul-deep exhaustion, the heavy, sluggish, bloated feeling, the nausea . . . the painful, aching breasts.

  Everything I’ve been experiencing for the last three weeks.

  I chalked it up to the excitement and stress of starting the show, the move—but there’s something else. Something else I totally forgot.

  “Oh, no.”

  I start counting backward in my head. The days, the weeks, not retracing my steps . . . but my menstrual cycle. And I feel the color drain from my face.

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.”

  “Are you gonna puke?” Jack takes a few steps back—out of the potential splash-zone. “Is she gonna puke, Er?”

  A—yes, I’m definitely gonna puke.

  And B—

  “Lainey, what is it?”

  I look into Erin’s eyes, the “B” spilling from my lips in hushed, shocked words.

  “I need to take a pregnancy test.”

  Chapter Four

  Lainey

  “Why does this keep happening to me?!”

  Three positive pregnancy tests later—we’re all in the kitchen, with all of my sisters fully updated on the latest unexpected, development. My parents are still clueless and supervising the grandchildren down on the dock.

  I’m pregnant. Knocked up. In the family way. Unplanned. Again.

  No matter how many times or how many different ways I say it to myself—I still can’t make it make sense. When I first found out I was pregnant with Jason, the overwhelming feeling was fear—fear of what I was going to do, what my parents would say, fear of the unknown.

  This time around I’m older—though wiser is still up for debate.

  And I’m just utterly . . . flabbergasted. Flabbergasted is a really good word.

  “We used condoms! We used a whole box of condoms!”

  “Wow.” Judith smirks. “The drummer-boy really brought it, huh?”

  Brooke twists her pearls. “Not the time, Judith.”

  Jason’s father was my first—my first serious boyfriend, my first everything. We used condoms too, though a bit fumblingly. And by the third or fourth time we’d had sex—boom, I was pregnant.

  “Was there any P and V slip and slide action going on?” Erin asks me.

  “No! There was no P and V contact without latex, at all.”

  I stare at my laptop screen, searching for an answer that will make this make sense. Because that’s what you do when you’re flabbergasted—you Google.

  “Are my vaginal secretions acidic or something? Do they just eat through the condom?”

  “That would be cool.” Linda grins. “Like a Sigourney Weaver kind of Aliens vagina. I’m gonna use that.” She writes it down on a sticky note.

  And I think I might be hyperventilating.

  “Do you think it was a stealthing?” my brother-in-law Ronaldo asks.

  “What’s stealthing?” Brooke asks.

  “It’s when a guy slips off the condom for the big finish without the girl knowing.”

  “Ew. That’s a thing?” Brooke asks.

  “Unfortunately, yeah.”

  “Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with men?” Judith asks.

  “That’s why I’m a lesbian,” Linda announces. “You should all try it. No offense to the penises in the room, but pussy is where it’s at.”

  Jack points at Linda. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Brooke gapes at Linda. “Your wife had an affair with your marriage counselor.”

  “Well, Genevieve happens to be lesbian who’s also an asshole,” Linda explains. “We’re gay, not perfect.”

  I shake my head. “He didn’t stealth. He wasn’t like that. I watched him take the condoms off. And put them on for that matter—the way he ripped open the foil package with his teeth was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Well, there you go!” Judith throws up her hands. “Opening condoms with your teeth makes them, on average, 30% less effective.”

  This seems to be new information to everyone one in the room.

  “Really?” Brooke asks.

  “Oh, boy,” Erin groans.

  “Maybe you should take one of those pregnancy tests,” Jack says hopefully. “If I put a bun in your oven—you’ll have to marry me.”

  Erin smacks his arm. “Focus, Jack. We’re in the middle of a Defcon 1 level Burrows-breakdown here.”

  That’s when my mother walks into the kitchen. And we all go still and silent—it’s a reflex.

  She smiles sweetly. “What’s going on?”

  In benign, synchronized voices that can only be achieved through years of practice, we all respond, “Nothing.”

  She aims that probing Mom-gaze at each of us. Erin steps forward, acting as the shield.

  “We’re talking about Christmas presents, Mom. For you and Dad.”

  “Hmm.” She nods, reaching for the child-friendly lemonade. “All right.”

  She turns toward the door, still suspicious—but at this point, I think my mom has learned sometimes it’s better not to know.

  Once she’s out the door, Brooke shakes her head. “Dad’s gonna lose it. This time he’s gonna stroke out—definitely.”

  My dad’s old-school. A believer in getting an education, getting married and having kids—in that order. Still, when I dropped out of college to have Jason, he handled it well—even though I could tell at the time he was disappointed in me. And he loves Jason with his whole heart—he couldn’t be prouder that he’s his grandson.

  But now, I’m worried about letting him down all over again. That he’ll view this as a mistake, a failure—his failure as a dad.

  “Hold the cell-phone, everyone,” Judith says. “Don’t you think you’re jumping the panic gun a little bit here? I mean, it’s not like you have to stay pregnant. They make a pill for that now, you know.”

  Brooke makes the sign of the cross. She teaches CCD at their local church. Like I said—couldn’t be more different if we tried.

  But Judith does have point. I’m a free-thinking, independent woman—and now really is not a good time for me to have another child. It’s pretty much the worst time ever.

  But then . . .

  I hear a laugh from outside. And it’s the best laugh—the best sound in the whole world. I move to the window and look out, watching him—my son, my heart, my little bird, my sweet boy. It wasn’t easy when I had him—but it was still the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never regretted it—him—not for a second. And however difficult it will be now at thirty-four—it’ll have to be easier than it was at nineteen.

  How can I . . . how can I know that and not have this baby too?

  It’s just that simple, and just that hard.

  I don’t have to analyze it—in those few, quick seconds my mind is made up.

  I’m having this baby.

  I feel my sisters’ eyes on me. And I know they see it on my face—the decision is already made.

  Linda blows out a big breath. “Who’s gonna tell Dad?”

  Brooke holds up her hand. “I told him last time. Judith—you’re up.”

  “Great.” Judith moves to the adult vodka and lemonade and takes a big gulp—straight from the pitcher.

  “Easy, cowgirl,” Linda says.

  Judith wipes her sleeve across her mouth.

  “I’m drinking for two—for me and Lainey.”

  Yeah. She’s got a point there.
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  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, I push back the work I’d planned to do on the house and make an emergency appointment with Dr. Werner, my OBGYN in Bayonne. After an exam and a pee-in-a-cup test, she confirms that I am, indeed, preggers—about eight weeks along. Then she has me lay back on the table for an abdominal ultrasound.

  I watch the screen, the familiar gray blobby shadows—but then I see it—right before the doctor points it out. That steady, rapid, rhythmic fluttering, like visual Morse Code that says, Hi—how are you? Here I am.

  It’s the baby’s heartbeat. Seeing it blows my mind.

  Makes it real.

  And the first bud of excitement—of joy—blooms inside me.

  It’s crazy how quickly twenty-four hours can change your perspective. It’s a miracle I don’t have whiplash. Of course I’m still excited about the show, the house—but this is different. More. Bigger. Huge. A life-changing kind of surprise.

  And not just for me.

  After leaving the doctor’s I stop at a Starbucks in town, plant myself at a table and whip open my laptop. Then I search for Dean—in every way I can think of. I don’t have a last name or an address. He told me about high school but not where he went or the year he graduated. So I start with what I know—the band.

  Amber Sound doesn’t have a website or contact information. In an image search, just a few nondescript, grainy pictures appear. I zoom in close on one in particular. I can’t see Dean’s face . . . but I’d know those hands anywhere. Next I try the number for the Beachside Bar, but it goes straight to voicemail, saying they’re closed for the season.

  I stare at the screen, nibbling on the tip of my fingernail, wracking my brain for another way to reach Dean, and coming up with zilch, nothing, nada.

  Shit.

  “Hey sexy—how’s it going?”

  Chet Deluca grew up in the house next door to my parents’. He’s a body builder, kind of the neighborhood Casanova, and a total ass. He’s always had a thing for me. Which he showed in multiple gross ways through the years—from peeping into my bedroom window with his telescope, to telling the whole school I had a threesome with him and his brother, Vic, when I turned him down for senior prom.

  I close my laptop as I answer with a brisk nod.

  “Chet.”

  He tugs at the wide brim of my brown fedora. “This is cute. I saw your show online, Lains—you’re looking good enough to eat out. We should hang.”

  Chet also doesn’t know how to take a hint—or a straight-up “fuck no,” for that matter.

  I stand, smoothing down the hips of my indigo peasant skirt and adjusting my hat back into place. “No, thanks. I’m not interested.”

  “Another time then—you must be real busy.” His eyes drag up and down over me, and my stomach flops like a fish on a dock.

  I wonder if I barf all over him, if he’ll get the message then.

  Instead, I pick the path that requires less clean-up, and grab my bag, heading for the door. “I have to go.”

  Chet’s voice follows me. “You change your mind, Lains—you know where I live.”

  That I do—and another perk to living in Lakeside is I can totally avoid him.

  ~ ~ ~

  I walk in the door, toss my bag on the kitchen counter, and rest my hat on Myrtle—the mannequin head I got free from Chevy’s department store when they were redesigning their woman’s section. Her featureless face is a little freaky, but as long as you have her turned to look out the window, she makes a great hat-rest.

  After Judith breaks the initial baby news to my parents, I’ll put on my big girl panties and follow-up with them this weekend—over a hot cup of herbal tea that will go down nicely with all the uncomfortable awkwardness.

  But for now, I have bigger fish to fry and more of a doozy of a conversation to have.

  I head up to Jason’s room and tap on the half-open door.

  “Come in.”

  He’s on his mattress on the floor, his back against the wall and his laptop in front of him.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey.”

  I plop down next to him on the mattress, watching on the screen as Jason plays online Soduko.

  “School starts on Monday.”

  His lightning-fast fingers tap at the keyboard, filling in the rows and columns of little boxes with numbers.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay with clothes? We could hit the mall later if you need anything.”

  “I’m okay with clothes. Last year’s backpack is still in good condition, so I’m all set.”

  My recycling quirks have rubbed off on Jay.

  And maybe it’s because I had him young or I’m a single mom, but Jason and I have always had a good, open dialogue. We talk about things my parents never discussed with me. Drugs, sex, alcohol, vaping, porn—I want him to know he can come to me if he has problems or questions, and I believe the most dangerous threat to a teenager is curiosity. If we don’t talk to them about the things that could hurt them, they’re going to investigate for themselves.

  That being said, telling your fourteen-year-old you got knocked up by a one-night stand—by a guy’s whose last name you don’t even know—is not going to be fun.

  “I have to talk to you about something, Jay. A big-talk.”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Is this gonna be like the “big-talk” about the clitoris? And you told me I should research all I could about it and that I’d thank you one day? ’Cause . . . that was awkward.”

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “This one is gonna be so much worse.”

  “Wow.” He puts the game on pause, closes his laptop, and sets it aside. “Okay.”

  I swallow roughly, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “So, a few months ago, when I signed the papers for the webshow, I went out with Aunt Erin and Jack to celebrate. And that night . . . I met a man.”

  When I pause, Jason looks at me—waiting—his expression a nudging, wordless, “Okay, and . . . ?”

  “And he was a really great guy—funny, sweet, talented. I liked him a lot, right away, and he liked me too. He treated me well, and we . . .”

  Jason picks up on where I’m headed. His features pinch with a hint of hesitance and a slight tinge of disgust. “You hooked up?”

  I nod. “We did. We hooked up.”

  We hooked up a lot.

  “Sometimes, adults can spend the night together, and connect in a moment, enjoy each other, and make a wonderful memory. And that’s all it’s supposed to be—it doesn’t always have to lead to a relationship.”

  “O-kay . . . why are you telling me this?”

  Here we go. Time to drop the baby-bomb.

  “I’m telling you because we used protection—it’s really important to me that you understand we used protection. But . . . protection doesn’t always work. That’s why you shouldn’t have sex until you’re prepared for all the emotional and physical consequences that may result. Because, even though we used protection . . . it didn’t work. And I’m pregnant.”

  My son’s eyes widen, and bulge.

  “You’re pregnant? Like—with a baby?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “With a baby. That’s usually how it works.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So . . . you’re having a baby? For real? I’m going to be a big brother?”

  I put my hand over his. “Yes, I am. And yes, you are.”

  “Wow.” Jason scratches his head behind his ear. “Is this guy—is he going to help you? Am I going to meet him? Is he going to be around to help with the baby?”

  “Well . . . that’s the thing . . . he doesn’t know. I’m working on finding him but I haven’t been able to do that yet.”

  “Oh.”

  God, this must be weird for him. It’s weird for me.

  “Are you . . . feeling okay?” He glances down at my flat stomach. “Is the baby okay?”

  “I’m tired, a little nauseous. I w
ent to the doctor today and she said the baby and I are both healthy as horses. Then she prescribed me prenatal vitamins which are the size of horse pills—so it all makes sense now. But yeah, I’m good. I’m good with the whole situation. It’s not going to change anything with the show. We’re still going to be living here for the next year, now there’ll just be a little extra content.”

  I’ve already taken notes on future videos I can do on a healthy diet during pregnancy, preventing stretch marks, designing the nursery.

  Jason’s quiet for several moments, then he looks at me with the adaptability and agility that only children possess.

  “Okay. Cool.”

  I lean toward him. “Are you all right with this? You can tell me if you’re not. If you have questions or feelings—you can talk to me.”

  He nods. “I know. And I’m fine. I mean, that’s life, right? It happens and we roll with it. That’s what we do.”

  And it seems my recycling quirks aren’t the only part of me that’s rubbed off on Jason.

  “I think it’ll be fun to have a baby around. A little brother or sister that I can show things to. It’s going to be great, Mom. Don’t worry,” he adds.

  The smile that stretches across my face is big and relieved—and so, so grateful. My throat clogs and my eyes go damp, because my son is amazing.

  I lean my head against his shoulder, my voice soft. “You know you’re, like, the best kid ever, right?”

  He shrugs. “I do okay.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Late that night, in my pajamas, I climb onto my own mattress, with my computer on my lap and “Ophelia” by the Lumineers playing low on my phone. The walls are bare in the master bedroom, my boxes and suitcases of clothes line the walls, but still—the house feels warm and safe around me. It already feels like home.

  I look for Dean online again. I even try searching “Dean, the sexy drummer in New Jersey” but it just sends me to a bunch of “singles in your area now” websites. So, I open up the video camera on my computer—focusing on my makeup free face, the freckles across my nose bare for all to see. I press record and talk in low, hushed tones.