Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  The head retracted a little bit and then came back out, retracted and came out more, and then Nurse Green said, “Let’s do it on this one, Mom. Big breath,” and she DID do it—the whole head came out! It kept coming and coming, and I couldn’t believe how big it was, and it had a FACE, a tiny reddish-purple face, with a perfect smooth nose and an outraged expression, like where the HELL am I? and a long lick of dark hair, and then THE REST OF IT CAME OUT, and it had an entire BODY, also reddish purple, with LONG LEGS and LONG ARMS and PERFECT TINY TOES AND FINGERS!

  Dr. Darbonne did not seem as shocked as I was to see a miniature human emerge into the air. She gave the baby a little twist, pulled it out like a cork, and said, “Is big sister calling the gender?” Miss Murphy nodded, and for a second I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, but then I pulled myself together and looked between its legs and saw A TINY VAGINA! I said, “It’s a girl!” Then I burst into tears myself, because I have a sister. A miniature sister who’s already shocked by the flawed world she has to live in. I thought of her whole life. All the terrible things that could happen to her. Someone excluding her, someone calling her a slut, someone hitting her. And the wonderful things too. Someday she’d kiss a boy, or a girl! She’d have sex for the first time! She’d dream about college! Maybe she’d be a mathematician or a senator or a human rights lawyer! Maybe she’d push out her own baby! Now she was on a table under some kind of heat lamp, screaming bloody murder, and I thought, Scream, scream. You’re right to scream. It’s the worst and most glorious world you can imagine, and you have to get in its face every day and scream, “I’M ME. I DEMAND JUSTICE. I WILL NOT BE QUIET!”

  Wednesday, July 11

  I didn’t even mention the following amazing facts I learned:

  1. The umbilical cord isn’t like a piece of cooked rotini, which is what I was imagining. It’s thick and tough. I should know, because I cut through one with scissors on Beatrice’s birthday. (Her name is Beatrice, BTW.)

  2. The placenta is amazing! It’s the size of a small throw pillow, and it’s dark red and I totally get why people want to eat it. It seems like a shame to throw out something so juicy. I picked up the tray it was resting on, showed it to Miss Murphy, and said, “You grew this!” and she said, “No wonder I was so exhausted all the time.”

  3. Babies (at least wonder babies like Beatrice) know how to breastfeed somehow, even though they were born two seconds ago and are trying to adjust to the fact that they’re no longer swimming in warm amniotic fluid but are instead shivering in slightly gross-smelling hospital air.

  4. If your vagina tears open while you’re pushing out your baby, the doctor will numb it and then sew it up with a needle and thread, smiling and chatting like it’s no big deal to stitch your private parts like a quilt.

  5. After you see a baby being born, you feel like you have your life permanently in perspective and will never again refresh your Instagram, watch a GIF, or agonize over filters. I’m not sure yet whether this feeling lasts.

  Thursday, July 12

  Dad didn’t make it until 2 p.m. on Saturday. He arrived out of breath, looking terrible, worse than me and Miss Murphy, which is really saying something, because she’d just had a baby, I hadn’t showered or slept in what felt like a week and was still wearing a bikini top that had come to feel like a permanent part of my body, and we’d been up all night. Beatrice was born at 2:04 a.m., Miss Murphy fell asleep at 4 a.m., I dozed off in a chair for a while, and then the hospital seemed to switch back on at 6 a.m., and none of us slept after that. I’d seen Miss Murphy’s boobs nonstop since the sun came up. I hadn’t thought to bring her a button-down shirt, and to breastfeed she had to struggle out of her hospital gown, so after a while she left it off. She told me the milk doesn’t come in for a while and asked me if I thought Beatrice was starving. I said, “Definitely not. Look at her, she’s barely cried at all.” I tried to sound confident even though I had no idea what I was talking about. Other things I’d done: Taken the elevator to buy muffins and coffee for us using Miss Murphy’s credit card. Refilled her pink plastic water jug in the nurses’ kitchen. Talked to her about the birth in great detail, over and over again. Texted Tris to tell him what had happened and ask him to take care of Snickers until I got back. Called Mrs. Franco to tell her why I’d have to miss work for the day (she was so excited and told me to take my time and come back whenever). Stared through the clear sides of Beatrice’s bassinet, trying to permanently imprint the memory of her sleeping face in my mind. Sat with Beatrice in the green plastic hospital chair after she woke up, looking into her eyes and saying, “I’m your sister. I love you, baby,” and trying not to drip tears on her cheeks. Watched her looking at me and listening to me. Her eyes are blue. Miss Murphy says they might change color, but I know they won’t.

  When Dad came in, haggard and gray and already in tears even before he saw Beatrice, I mostly felt furious. How dare he miss the birth, and how dare he pick up Beatrice when he hadn’t even seen her emerging into the world, and how dare he hug Miss Murphy and sob, “I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself”? He had no idea what had happened, and it didn’t matter how carefully we explained it. He’d never understand.

  Miss Murphy wasn’t mad at him, though. She asked him right away if Julian was OK, and Dad said his burns were only minor and he’d gone to rehab willingly enough. “We’ll see if it sticks this time,” Dad said. Then he said, “I could kill him for making me miss this,” and I thought, No one MADE you miss it, and pointedly didn’t ask him what was going on with Uncle Julian, even though it was obviously a good story. I didn’t want to give him the idea that whatever he’d been doing in New Orleans was worthy of a moment’s attention compared to the ongoing mind-blowing miracle of my little sister’s existence.

  Then Beatrice started crying, and Miss Murphy looked around him at me and said, “Chloe, which one did I stop on last time?” and I said, “Left, because I remember the sun was shining on her hair.” I could tell Dad was lost, and it gave me mean satisfaction that Miss Murphy was talking to me over his head, like we were the two adults in the room. Then she said, “Charlie, Chloe saved my life last night, and I’m not exaggerating,” and he said, “Tell me all about it,” and she did.

  Friday, July 13

  At 4 p.m., Miss Murphy’s dad arrived (thick gray hair, tan face, tough-looking). Dad and I talked to him for a while and then went to pick up food for everyone. Miss Murphy wanted sushi, so we left the hospital to find some. As soon as we got out the front doors, I saw the Jeep, which had two orange envelopes tucked under one of the windshield wipers.

  “Aha,” said Dad, when I pointed out the tickets. “I guess we should move the car, huh?” That was it. No hard time about what I’d been thinking, parking illegally. He hadn’t even blinked when Miss Murphy told him I drove her in, even though of course he knows I flunked my test and shouldn’t be trusted to drive anyone anywhere. Seeing Miss Murphy through labor and getting her to the hospital had given me protected status, at least for a few hours. I decided to take advantage of it.

  We crossed the street and got in the Jeep. “Uh, Dad,” I said as he started it up. “I had a party at Mom’s last night.”

  “OK.”

  “With alcohol and probably weed and stuff, although I didn’t get stoned or anything.”

  “OK.”

  “I’m not sure what happened after I left. Maybe something bad.”

  “Your mother must have seen the evidence by this time. Haven’t you heard from her?”

  “That’s the other thing. She’s in Saint Thomas for the month.”

  “What? She left you on your own?”

  “It seemed simpler not to tell you.”

  As a line of defense, this made no sense, but he didn’t point that out.

  “She’s unbelievable,” he muttered, which for him is like calling my mother a war criminal.

  The sun was shining gold. Outside the Jeep, people walked around wearing shorts and holding hands as if ev
erything was normal and Miss Murphy hadn’t had a baby a few hours ago.

  “I was thinking,” I said. “If you can stop grounding me, maybe I could move back in for the month. Or maybe I could even move back for real. Miss Murphy might need help with Beatrice.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Only if you want me to,” I said.

  “I would love for you to come home,” he said. “I never wanted you to leave.” He wasn’t crying, but I could tell he was struggling not to. It didn’t seem like the right moment to extract a promise that he’ll quit imprisoning me in my bedroom. I kind of wanted to tell him how I feel—that I still hate him for being so disgusted with me, but I love him and I’ve missed him—but instead I said, “Snickers will be relieved,” and then pointed out a good parking spot.

  When visiting hours ended, Dad drove me to the condo. On the way I asked him what had happened in New Orleans. At first he said “family emergency” in a vague voice. Normally I would have badgered him for details, but I was too exhausted to follow up and sat there in silence. Eventually, without me doing anything at all, he told me the story. He’d gone down there after getting a call from a hospital administrator who said Uncle Julian had been admitted with second-degree burns. Miss Murphy insisted Dad travel to help him, which hadn’t even crossed Dad’s mind. At first he refused, but she said she was positive she wouldn’t go into labor for weeks—Dr. Darbonne had basically told her she’d have to be induced—and he couldn’t ignore his only brother in his hour of need. So he went, and it turned out Julian had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand and set fire to his couch. Dad was with Julian’s doctor when Miss Murphy was trying to get in touch with him. The next morning he checked Julian into rehab and got on a plane.

  “It’s good that he’s in rehab,” I said.

  Dad shrugged. “Not for the first time,” he said.

  “Alcoholism is a disease!” I said. They’ve been drilling that into us in health class since about fifth grade.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “I remind myself of that, but it’s hard to stay patient with him. At least he went without a fight this time. We’ll see how it goes.”

  This was the most honest Dad had ever been with me about Uncle Julian, and I wanted to hear more, but I was struggling to keep my eyes open. It was Saturday night, and I hadn’t really slept since Friday morning. Was it possible that the party had taken place only the day before? It seemed like a week had gone by.

  We arrived. The building looked normal. It wasn’t a burned-out husk, which was what I’d half expected. The door to Mom’s unit was unlocked, since I’d left with the only spare set of keys. Dad pushed it open and I followed him in, already wincing. But it was fine! Empty. Quiet. The TV was still sitting on the console. No Snickers, but I knew he was with Tristan. I walked from room to room, looking for damage. Nothing! The bathroom was sparkling. There were no cans or bottles anywhere. The beds were made, and when I pulled back the covers, I didn’t see any suspicious stains. The sheets even smelled like laundry detergent. I found one purple blotch on the couch, but that was it.

  Chloe: Did you clean the condo?????

  Hannah: We couldn’t leave it like it was.

  Chloe: How bad was it?

  Elliott: A bunch of people threw up

  Tristan: Also there were empties, broken glass, cigarette butts, stains on the couch, etc.

  Chloe: Oh my god

  I’m so sorry

  Thank you guys so much

  They texted back “sure” and “no problem.” Were they mad at me? Probably. I’d been terrorizing them for months now. I had to apologize in person. I texted again, very politely, inviting them to come over once Miss Murphy was back home. They all said yes.

  The plan was for Dad to pick up Snickers at Tristan’s house while I showered and changed. Then Dad would come to get me and drive me to his house, where we’d spend the night before heading back to see Miss Murphy as soon as visiting hours started on Sunday the eighth. I wanted to call Grady as soon as Dad left, and that was still my intention when I sat down on my bed to pull off my cowboy boots. The next thing I knew, it was noon the next day and I was waking up still wearing my damn American flag bikini top.

  Saturday, July 14

  If you want the best physical experience of your life (aside from sex, obviously), try showering after 36 hours of wearing the same clothes, panic-sweating, and gutting it out in a hospital that smells like the inside of bodies. I felt like a new person after sleeping and getting clean. I had a text from Dad: “You’re not answering the door. Assuming you conked out. I’m bringing Marian home in a few hours. See you at the house tonight?” I texted back the thumbs-up, got dressed as fast as I could, and rode my bike to Grady’s house. I’d imagined falling to my knees to beg for forgiveness as soon as he opened the door, so it was anticlimactic to get there, ring the bell, wait and wait, and finally accept the fact that no one was home.

  He was probably at work. I biked to the pool slowly. Yes, I was desperate to see him and talk to him, but I hadn’t imagined doing it in front of an audience.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that Reese might be on the schedule, but she was the first person I saw once I opened the gate. She was standing at the water fountain refilling her purple Nalgene bottle. She glanced up, probably wondering who was coming in. When she saw it was me, her expression shut down like she’d pulled a shade over it. I went right up to her.

  “Reese,” I said. She looked back at her bottle, watching the water approach the top. I kept talking anyway. “I’m so sorry about the party. I was awful. I have no excuse. And I’m sorry about all the other horrible things I did this year.”

  She took her thumb off the fountain button and turned to look at me. “Don’t even worry about it!” she said brightly. “So not a big deal. I was double-booked for Friday night anyway.”

  I studied her. Was she still scared of me? “I don’t want to be popular anymore,” I said. “You can have it back. Or Noelle. Whoever. Anyone but me.”

  Her eyes widened. “Um, OK,” she said, laughing. Her tone of voice said, You’re being a weirdo. We weren’t supposed to talk openly like this. A little lighter of courage sparked inside me. I’d stepped down, but things were still different than they used to be, and she couldn’t change that.

  “I hope you won’t spread any more rumors about me,” I said. “Or about anyone at school. I might have to come out of retirement if that happens.”

  “I would never do that,” she said, frowning. Believing your own lies: that’s the key. As soon as you let the truth about yourself creep into your mind, the whole thing crumbles.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said, and walked away from her.

  Grady wasn’t there. I kept looking back and forth between the two lifeguard chairs, like he was going to appear on one of them.

  “Where’s Grady?” I asked Quentin, who was observing the shallow end.

  “Canada, I think?” he said. “He quit.”

  “Quit what?”

  “Lifeguarding.”

  “WHAT?”

  Quentin raised his eyebrows like I was being hysterical. “Calm down,” he said. “It’s not like he died. His mom wanted to visit her sister, and he decided to spend the rest of the summer up there. Or something like that. I don’t know. Text him. He’ll tell you.”

  Sunday, July 15

  I did text him.

  Chloe: Grady I’m so sorry about everything

  You were right

  I was wrong

  No response. After an hour of waiting, I texted Elliott, who confirmed that Grady really is in Canada and will be until the beginning of August. Elliott wasn’t sure whether or not Grady could use his phone, so I have to keep wondering whether he isn’t seeing my messages or is seeing them and ignoring them because he hates me.

  Monday, July 16

  I’m so far behind in these entries, but there’s a lot to cover. It’s taking me hours to get through it all, and my hand keeps
cramping. If I ever try to reread this when I’m a grown-up, I’m sure my grown-up self will be so confused. Sorry, future self.

  I’m only up to July 8, a Sunday. Miss Murphy got home at 6 p.m. I was waiting at the house, and I had water boiling. As soon as I heard the car, I started the pasta. I’d already made a salad. Dad walked in the door first, carrying Beatrice in a gray car seat. I couldn’t believe the sight of her little pink face in there. A tiny baby, only one day old! Carried through the air like it was no big deal! She should have had a parade of worshippers bowing before her all the way home. She was like a being from another planet.

  When she saw me, Miss Murphy started crying. “You made dinner,” she choked out.

  “It’s just rotini!” I said.

  “I’m a mess,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’ve been sobbing since I woke up this morning.”

  We hugged for approximately 20 minutes. It turns out watching your dad’s girlfriend give birth is a great shortcut to a good relationship. Maybe it won’t last, but right now I feel closer to her than anyone else I’ve ever met.

  Tuesday, July 17

  On Monday, I saw my friends in the morning, before we had to go to work. It had only been three days since the party, but it felt like several years had passed. I was petrified. Were they going to kick me out of their group? Maybe they’d gotten together and agreed that they couldn’t forgive me, and they were coming over to break the bad news in person.

  They didn’t seem angry when they arrived. Maybe a little stiff, though. Then Miss Murphy came downstairs with Beatrice, which bought me some time, because everyone gathered around to admire her. Tris was the only one who would pick her up. Elliott and Hannah were too scared, even though Miss Murphy told them not to worry. When Beatrice started crying, I took everyone out on the deck so Miss Murphy could breastfeed in peace.