Jasmine

by Maggie Wells

  The Uber driver was waiting for me curbside.

  “Coming in from Vegas?” he asked. I could see his eyes trained on me in the rearview mirror. “What’s in Vegas?”

  “Work,” I said. I hesitated and then I added, “and school.” That’s the first time I had answered the question by saying “work.” And I said work before school. I was pondering that, thinking about my priorities, and I didn’t hear his next question.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked.

  “I asked what kind of work you do in Vegas?” he asked. “You work in the casinos?”

  “I’m a dancer,” I said.

  “A showgirl?” His eyes lit up. “In a titty show?”

  I looked out the window but all I could see was my reflection and the dark circles under my tired eyes.

  “This is me,” I said. The driver pulled up in front of Mom’s house and jumped out to help me with my roller bag. Mom opened the door and stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Mom!” I started crying as I dragged my bag up the walk to the front door.

  Inside, she looked at me hard. “Jasmine, you do not look well,” Mom said.

  “I’m just tired, Mom,” I said. “I’m going to go crawl into bed and we can talk in the morning, okay?”

  The next morning, I woke up with a migraine. I buried my head in the pillows and tried to shut out the light.

  “What is up with your lazy ass?” Mom shouted through the door.

  “I don’t feel well,” I said. I moaned and rolled over.

  “Do I need to call the doctor?” Mom asked.

  “I think so,” I said.

  SIX

  “STEP ONTO THE SCALE,” NURSE DRAKE SAID. SHE SHIFTED the sliding weight back and forth for way too long. “One twenty-five,” she finally said.

  “What?” I gasped. I had never weighed more than one hundred and twenty pounds in my life, and before Christmas, with all the extra activity between rehearsals and performances, I had been down to one hundred and five.

  “What’s your normal weight?” Nurse Drake asked.

  “One ten, one fifteen,” I said.

  “Hmm,” she said. “When was your last period?”

  “I’m a dancer,” I said. “I’ve never been very regular.”

  “Did you leave a urine sample?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Hmm,” she said again. “Let’s hop up on the table and the doctor will see you in a moment.”

  I sat on the table in a paper robe, swinging my legs back and forth, back and forth, thinking. I had never had to watch my diet; if anything I saw food as fuel to keep me at my peak performance. What was I doing wrong? I was mulling this over in my head when I heard a tap on the door.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Arrington.” She was stylishly coiffed with designer glasses, spike heels and a tailored suit under her white coat. She settled into her chair and looked over my chart. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said. “I’m tired all the time. I’m putting on weight for no reason. I make my living as a dancer. I need to get back in shape, fast.”

  “You’re a dancer?” Dr. Arrington asked. “Ballet, Broadway—where do you work?”

  “I’m a showgirl in Las Vegas,” I said. “I work at Bally’s.”

  “Exciting!” she said. She flipped a couple pages on my chart and looked up over the rim of her glasses. “Ms. Walker? Did you know that you’re pregnant?”

  “What?” I gasped. “How can that be?”

  “Are you sexually active?” Dr. Arrington asked.

  “No!” I said. “I haven’t had a date in almost two years.”

  “Really?” Dr. Arrington asked. “No sexual activity?”

  I buried my face in my hands. Eddie! The Christmas party! Waking up naked in his bed? Please! How stupid could I be?

  Tears streamed down my face. “I think I was raped,” I said. “I went to a party at my boss’s house and I woke up naked in his bed and I don’t remember anything that happened that night.”

  Dr. Arrington took my hand. “I know this is a lot of information to process right now, but we have options here. There are rape crisis counselors on call, you can report the incident to the police; we can schedule you for an abortion. We’ve already tested you for STDs and I will call you with those results. Tell me what you want to do.”

  “I want to go home,” I said.

  “Of course,” Dr. Arrington said. “Let me give you my card. Here’s my cell. You can call me anytime.”

  How did I let this happen? How could I have been so stupid? Eddie always struck me as a predatory creep—why did I go to his party? Why did I accept a second drink? Why didn’t I just get out of the pool, grab my dress and run into the house?

  Mom took one look at my face and knew something was wrong. She waited until we were in the car.

  “What did the doctor say?” she asked.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” I said. “I can’t even believe it. I’m pregnant.”

  Mom let out a huge sigh. “How did this happen?” she asked. “Don’t answer that!”

  “Mom!” I said.

  “You haven’t told me,” she said. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No, Mom, I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I went to a party at Eddie’s house. The director? Eddie? I woke up the next morning in his bed. I’m not saying that he did it, but I don’t remember anything that happened that night.”

  “You got drunk at a party and your boss took advantage of you?” Mom asked. “I guess you got what you were asking for.”

  “Mom!”

  “You need to call that man,” Mom said. “He needs to step up, here. He’s not knocking up no daughter of mine!”

  Knocked up! This is a nightmare; please tell me that I’m dreaming. What about the show? What about my career? I can’t have a baby. This will ruin my whole life!

  “I’ll get an abortion,” I said. “I need to get back to school and work. I can’t do this.” I knew that wasn’t really an option. Mom was a devout Baptist and had dragged me to the protests her church organized at Planned Parenthood clinics for as long as I could remember. She would have disowned me.

  “Oh no you will not!” Mom said. “I did not raise you to kill an unborn child. That man has money. You’re going to call him and tell him to pay up.”

  “But what about the show?” I sobbed. I want to be a dancer. This can’t be happening!

  “Forget about the damn show,” Mom said. “They are going to fire your ass anyway. Soon as they find out.”

  So I called Eddie and got his voice mail. I left a message. Seventeen times. The week went by.

  “He’s not answering, and he’s not returning my calls,” I said.

  “Maybe he’ll be in Vegas when you get back?” Mom suggested.

  “Maybe.” I said. “What if he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me or the baby?”

  “We’ll get a paternity test,” Mom said. “We’ll force him to stand up and be a man.”

  But of course, Eddie wasn’t there when I got back. I tried to jump back into my school and work routine but I was definitely not on my game. I couldn’t keep up with the music and kept flubbing my pivots. Therefore, it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Geri pulled me aside a week later and told me that she had to let me go.

  “I’m sorry, doll,” she said. “Eddie built this show around you, you know. Give us a call when you’re feeling better and we’ll see what we can do.”

  SEVEN

  UP UNTIL THE MINUTE THAT GERI FIRED ME, I THINK I WAS in denial. I didn’t remember anything from that night, wanting to believe it had never really happened. And because she left the door open to return when I “felt better,” I didn’t believe my career was over, either. Somehow I convinced myself that I could do it all—be a successful dancer and a mother. A lot of the dancers in the show had kids, why not me?

  So that’s wh
at happened. The next few months were a blur. I want to tell you that I loved being pregnant, that I was glowing and felt at one with the universe and my womanhood. Bullshit! I was fucking miserable. First it was the headaches, then the vomiting, and then the backaches and shortness of breath. I was uncomfortable and cranky all of the time. I had a theory about this. Those earth-mother types who celebrate pregnancy and ripen with every stage—those bitches aren’t for real. I obsessed over ads that featured girls in bikinis. I desperately wanted to have a waist again. And most of all, I wanted this thing out of me. Like an alien invasion it had taken over my body, my hormones and even my brain. I wanted my life back!

  To make matters worse, money was tight. I ran through my savings and I couldn’t apply for financial aid again until August, so things got pretty lean by May.

  “I’m sorry to ask again,” I said to Mom on the phone.

  “Money is tight here too, you know,” Mom said. “The transit union hasn’t renewed our contract but okay, I’ll make a transfer. And school is out soon, right? Can you come home for the summer? It must be hotter than Hades there.”

  “No, Mom. I’ll find a job,” I said. “I’ve been applying online. I have a few interviews this week—bookkeeper, admin, waitress—that kind of thing. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

  The first interview was at the Peppermill Diner. It was an original—from the seventies—and big with the tourist/convention crowd. They hired a lot of ex-showgirls—that was part of the mystique. Katrina had gotten me the interview with Perry, the assistant manager.

  I picked up a little number from A Pea in the Pod. It was flattering and didn’t scream maternity. I thought that I could pass for pleasantly plump.

  I checked in with the hostess and told her I had an interview with Perry. She told me to wait in a booth. I practiced my story in my head. I used to be a showgirl, but I quit to focus on school full-time. I’m hard working, a self-starter—what were the other buzzwords that they wanted to hear?

  Perry turned out to be a short, round Jewish guy with a full head of fluffy, silver hair. At first he was all smiles but then he channeled his inner prosecutor.

  “Jasmine, is it?” He looked at my application. “You look a little young to be an ex-showgirl. My girls,” he gestured around the room. “They’re over forty, maybe fifty. What gives?”

  “No, I am,” I stammered. “I was in Bacchanal—you know the show at Bally’s? But, I’m also going to school and I decided to focus on finishing up school. The long hours were too much for me—but I’ll go back once I graduate.”

  “So, you’re a short-timer, then?” he asked. “I get you for a year? And then you quit?”

  “Two years,” I said. “I have two years of school to go. I can commit to working here for two years.”

  How had this conversation gone so awry? He had painted me into a corner. I think I said I would waitress for two years and then dance for ten years and return to waitressing? What, you can’t be an ex-showgirl who only danced for six months?

  “Look,” I said. “I really need this job, and I’ll work hard and I’m reliable and a self-starter. Give me a shot. If, after a month, I’m not the best waitress in here, you can fire me. I’ll work my ass off, I promise you.”

  After a long pause, he finally spoke. “Jasmine, I have to be honest with you. The tourists, they come here to see my girls. The service might not be the best; the food is just so-so. You see these girls—they’re not young, but they keep their bodies in shape. It’s a fantasyland. I’m not sure you’re a fit.”

  He’d been so careful to sidestep the words fat or pregnant. Not that I’d sue him anyway, but his meaning was obvious.

  As soon as I got to my car, the tears flowed. I couldn’t even get a crappy waitressing job?

  Interview number two was for a receptionist position at a shipping company. I wore the same outfit but this time with conservative pumps and minimal makeup. The office was in one of those low-slung office parks that are just a series of corrugated steel garage doors. Navis Pack & Ship was located in Bay 43B. The whole situation looked pretty dubious and I felt way overdressed, but I was desperate for a job.

  The garage door was open, so I poked my head inside.

  “Hello?” I called out. “I’m looking for Marge?”

  A burly man in coveralls stepped out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Who are you?”

  “I’m here for the admin position?” I said, uncertain.

  “Marge stepped out,” he said. “She’ll be back soon. Do you want to sit down?”

  I followed him inside the garage bay to a tiny, glassed-in office. “You can wait in here.”

  The office was airless. There was an A/C unit in the wall that made a loud groaning noise but didn’t seem to blow any cold air. I started to sweat. I tried to imagine coming to work here every morning in shorts and a baggy T-shirt to sit at this little desk and process orders and invoices.

  Just then, Marge walked in. “Jasmine, right?” She held out her hand. “Hi, Doll!” she said. She arranged herself behind the desk.

  “So here’s the gist of it,” she said. “You need to open the mail and make copies of everything. Enter everything into the system and file them in the filing cabinet behind you. Answer the phone—and if any orders come in, you need to fill out the paperwork and enter the information into the computer. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “It sounds pretty easy.”

  “It’s a very fast-paced environment,” Marge said. “Do you think you can handle it? Doing three things at once?”

  “That sounds exciting,” I said. And it did. Maybe I had underestimated this gig.

  “So,” Marge said. “I’m not supposed to technically ask this question but, are you pregnant? Because you look like you’re pregnant. I’m only asking because we’re looking for someone long-term and if you need to leave for maternity reasons, maybe you’re not such a good fit.”

  Here we go again, I thought. These crappy minimum wage jobs—are they seriously looking for someone to make a long-term commitment?

  “Ms. Marge,” I said. “I really want this job. Can you give me a chance to prove myself?”

  But she had already made up her mind. I guess the line of applicants was longer than I thought.

  “Thank you for your time,” Marge said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Interview number three was for a bookkeeper at a busy dental practice. This time I brought my transcript and had highlighted my As in accounting. I checked in with the receptionist.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Patterson,” I said.

  “Have a seat, dear. She’ll be back from lunch in a few minutes.”

  The waiting room was crowded and noisy. A man and his wife were bickering over a misplaced insurance card. A brother and sister were playing tug-of-war with a coloring book. She hit him and he screamed, “Mom!” I found an empty spot—the chair was hard and uncomfortable. I suddenly needed to pee.

  The waiting room door swung open and a pregnant woman walked in. She entered the inner office and greeted the receptionist, who then gestured in my direction.

  Please God, don’t let that be Mrs. Patterson, I thought. But of course it was. And wouldn’t you know it Mrs. Patterson was looking for someone to fill in during her maternity leave. Except she was due one month before I was, so there you have it. Bad luck, bad timing, whatever you wanted to call it—I felt like the whole universe was stacked against me.

  I sat in my car in the parking lot and pounded the steering wheel. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I drove slowly home, feeling completely defeated. Just as I was pulling into the parking lot, I saw the sign at the car wash next door.

  “Help Wanted: Cashier.”

  I went upstairs and changed into cut-offs and a baggy T-shirt. Now I just looked like a fat black chick, and sure enough, Mr. Fong hired me. He also happened to be my landlord. It turns out he owned every business on the block.

  EIGHT

  BY JUNE THE AVERAG
E TEMPERATURE WAS NINETY degrees. It would soar to one hundred and five in July. The A/C inside the car wash mini-mart could barely keep up with the customers coming and going; a bell above the door tinkled every time someone entered or exited. It drove me nuts. But at least I had a stool behind the counter. The hours were seven to seven. I waddled home at the end of the day, stripped off my uniform, and plunged into the pool. Sometimes I would float on my back for hours, until the stars came out. My belly was a growing island in the fading light.

  I dialed Mom.

  “You’re out of money already?” Those were her first words.

  “No, Mom,” I said. “Geez! I found a job.”

  “You got the bookkeeping gig?” she asked.

  “Car wash cashier,” I replied. “Hey, it’s not so bad. It’s right next door to my apartment. I’m clearing five hundred dollars a week and I’m not spending any money on commuting.”

  “How are you going to stay in school and care for a baby? Explain that to me.” She had made me promise to enroll in school as a condition of moving to Las Vegas. I had wanted so badly to make it as a dancer. I wanted to prove to her that I could make it on my own.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I’ll figure something out. How did you manage to have me when you were working full-time?” I asked.

  “Your grandma took over,” she said. “That’s what you need to do. Come home and your grandma can watch the baby. You can go to school in New Jersey.”

  I reassured her that everything would be okay. I wanted to believe it was true, but I had made such a mess of everything.

  The baby. I needed a name. Dr. Finch had told me it was a girl. I spent a lot of time behind the car wash register surfing Facebook on my phone. I typed in a search for “baby names” and came across a page called Nine Months. It was a bunch of pregnant teens, some as young as fifteen! Out of curiosity, I scrolled through the feed.