I reach for the sleeve and whirl her around. “I don’t care that it’s Dusty’s favorite color”—I grab her shoulders, shaking her—“I said, put it back!”
The phone rings, startling me.
Mom stares down at my hands. “Better get that,” she says, lifting her chin toward the kitchen.
I hurry toward the phone, in case it’s Tad. Except the person on the other end just breathes, so it’s probably an obscene caller. Or Dusty the Dustball, warming up for a big night.
By the time I hang up, Mom’s already making her escape. Keys jangle as she grabs the ring off the hook at the bottom of the stairs.
For the first time ever, I don’t chase after her, hollering, “Come back!” I don’t attempt to wrestle the keys from her hand. I’m so damn sick of worrying about her all the time. I’ve got a life of my own now, one completely unrelated to Leona Fitch.
Walking to the window, I watch Mom climb in her Charger and rev the gas. She backs out without checking behind her, cutting off a van with peace signs spray-painted along its sides. The van blasts its horn, screeching to a stop to avoid her while Mom, oblivious, keeps driving.
I stare at the empty driveway, at the dark puddle that means Mom’s car is leaking fluids again. Seeing the stain makes me think of Muralee’s bleeding, and the pads I bought for her at the drugstore. And that makes me think of the package I stole.
Reaching inside my handbag, I pull out the home pregnancy test, open the flap, and study the directions inside. All I have to do is mix my pee with the chemicals—except they don’t say pee, they say urine—then wait for the results.
I lock the deadbolt, breathe deep, and start for the bathroom.
Desiree
at eight months pregnant
i’m as big as a barn,
my back hurts like hell,
and it’s hard to sleep.
i lie in bed, belly up,
playing connect-the-dots
with the ceiling stains.
last night i found a butterfly,
the night before that a flower.
but tonight there’s nothing.
the dots just won’t connect.
outside the window,
the clover inn lights buzz and blink.
rigs thunder by on the highway.
jeremy mutters something in his sleep
and his arm goes thump across my chest.
in the darkness
i squeeze his hand,
until the ceiling dots
don’t matter anymore—
only jeremy and me and the baby,
the family i never had
but will now.
* * *
two weeks later,
on valentine’s day,
jeremy gives me a rose
and a card that plays
you are my sunshine.
after work
we order catfish takeout and
i balance my plate on my belly as
we watch wayne’s world on the vcr.
i’m sure jeremy would rather
be doing something romantic,
but i can barely move i’m so huge.
when jeremy gets up for another beer,
i put the video on pause,
swallow hard, ask him,
are you ever scared?
he reaches in the fridge. scared?
yeah. about taking care of a baby.
she could be here soon.
he taps his fingers, counting.
but it’s only been seven months.
my heart races. yeah, well,
s—sometimes babies come early.
especially, um, when they’re big.
as if i’m offering proof,
i wave my hand over my giant middle.
the catfish churns in my stomach.
you know, jeremy, if you want out
it’s still not too late to—
look, dez. i know this is going
to be hard for both of us—
he pops the tab on a beer,
staring down at the can
—but i’m not bailing on you.
that wouldn’t be right.
we’ll find a way to deal with this.
we’ll save our money and
get an apartment. he laughs.
everyone’ll want to come visit us
when they get tired of shoveling snow.
i picture carol ann and eric
sitting next to us
in lawn chairs in a real yard,
sipping drinks and eating munchies
while the baby splashes in a kiddie pool.
jeremy loops his arm
around my shoulder.
it’ll be okay, dez.
we’ll make it work.
i love you and i know
i’ll love our baby too.
there’s that word again.
our. the three letters
i keep avoiding.
* * *
a week after valentine’s day,
i start with the contractions
charlotte warned me i’d have
right before the baby comes.
they’re like really bad
time-of-the-month cramps,
she’d told me.
bull.
shit.
they’re a million times worse.
the pain is un-fucking-believable.
i take my poetry book to work
so if there are any slow moments
i can try to keep my brain occupied,
but it’s busier than usual and
ariel sits on the counter
untouched.
as i’m writing up a breakfast order
for a couple with a smart-ass kid
who can’t keep his finger
out of his nose,
a wetness oozes out of me,
dribbling down both legs.
charlotte looks up from
the spuds she’s mashing,
hurries to my side,
grabs my tablet.
your water broke, sweetie.
i gotcha covered.
she tosses ned
his key ring and hollers,
get ’em to the hospital fast!
jeremy ushers me toward the door,
looking every bit as scared as i am.
inside ned’s truck
pain rips through my middle.
i grip the dashboard.
fuuuuuuuuuuuuccckkkk!
jeremy clutches my hand.
ned guns the gas pedal hard.
* * *
six hours later
the pain is a nightmare
i’ve already begun to forget.
in my hospital room
i hold her.
my baby.
a girl, just like i predicted.
jeremy stands beside my bed,
studying us like we’re
another species.
a nurse comes in,
smiles at him.
would daddy like to hold her next?
an assumption.
fine with me.
jeremy’s arms bend at odd angles.
he looks so worried he’ll drop her.
soon he relaxes,
kisses her forehead.
hey, pretty girl.
that’s one lucky baby,
getting what i never had—
a daddy’s arms encircling her.
not that jeremy’s really her daddy.
but he sure is acting the part.
he glances from the baby to me.
she’s got your nose, dez.
back at her.
and your cheeks.
at me.
and your dark hair.
he walks to the mirror,
studies himself,
then the baby again.
who’d she get the blue eyes from?
my heart hammers my ribs.
i—uh—well—
t
he nurse reappears.
most babies are born with blue eyes.
they’ll turn later—
she looks at jeremy then me—
especially with brown-eyed parents.
talk about perfect timing.
* * *
as we come through the diner door
charlotte claps flour off her hands
and rushes toward us.
oh, ain’t she beautiful?
what’d you name her?
i notice my poetry book
sitting right where i left it,
a sign i chose
the right name.
ariel.
well, ariel—
charlotte tickles my baby’s tummy—
welcome to the sunshine state!
* * *
charlotte loans us the crib
from her baby-raising days,
which jeremy sets up next to our bed.
i unpack charlotte’s present—a nylon bag
stuffed with diapers,
wipes,
onesies.
in our kitchenette
she makes jeremy a kmart list.
shaking his head, he reads it.
diaper-rash cream,
petroleum jelly,
baby oil.
where the hell do i find this stuff?
she takes his shoulders,
directing him toward the door.
just ask a friendly sales associate.
now hightail it.
ariel has a workin’ mama,
so we’ve got formula to make.
i watch as charlotte
lines baby bottles across
the counter in our kitchenette.
you got a mama somewhere, desiree?
her shadow,
i copy every move.
yeah, in new york,
but it’s complicated.
she doesn’t even know
she has a granddaughter.
mumbling, i add,
she barely knew she had a daughter.
charlotte puts a saucepan of water on to boil.
i never got along with my ma either.
damn shame, ain’t it?
it’s like having a hole
in your heart that never heals.
i nod, agreeing with her.
together
we mix formula,
divide the formula into the bottles,
load the bottles in the fridge.
when we’re through
i’m tired as hell,
hoping i can
squeeze in a nap.
charlotte starts toward the door,
gotta run, honey.
a league of bowlers
made a reservation for noon.
they’re bossy as hell.
must be those big balls.
from her crib,
my baby starts to cry.
life before ariel is over.
gone. for good.
her tears trump mine now.
in the doorway
charlotte turns and winks.
time to try out that formula.
* * *
i don’t know how
people with babies
manage to function.
ariel wakes us several times a night.
i check her diaper then hold her
while jeremy nukes the formula
if it’s time for her to eat again.
one night i wear the floor out
walking ariel from one end
of our room to the other—
back and forth,
back and forth,
rubbing her back
in small, patient circles.
shhhh, shhhh, shhhh.
but after an hour
she’s still crying.
i walk to the window,
staring out at the parking lot.
biting my lip, i start to cry too.
but then i feel jeremy behind me,
see his arms spread wide like wings,
closing around us,
making us one.
* * *
charlotte’s sister, shirley,
agrees to watch ariel
for fifty bucks a week
which—on a busy weekend—
i can cover in a single night’s tips.
at the end of my first day back
i nab an empty jar
from the recycling,
take it to our room,
drop six quarters inside.
jeremy lifts it off the dresser.
what are the quarters for?
three damns,
two shits,
and an asshole.
he screws his face up. huh?
i want to clean up my act for ariel,
i explain. every time i swear,
i have to feed a quarter to the jar.
he strips off his work shirt.
shoot, how’ll we pay for diapers?
i swat him—you little shit!—
and drop another quarter in the jar.
* * *
each morning i check ariel’s eyes,
praying they’ve turned brown
while we slept.
but always, always,
they’re bluer than the day before.
i imagine telling jeremy the truth,
that ariel isn’t really his daughter.
i wrap my tongue around the words:
there’s something i have to tell you…
but then he’ll bend to kiss ariel’s nose
or plant a raspberry on her belly
and i’ll say i love you instead.
* * *
the northern lady returns,
wearing a charcoal gray suit,
and takes a booth near a window.
a girl with pimples
and long, mud-colored hair
sits across from her.
when i walk over,
the lady smiles up at me.
you had your baby!
what were you blessed with?
embarrassed by the attention,
i feel my face go red. a girl.
the lady looks from pimple-face to me.
i’m sorry. i’d introduce you two,
but i don’t even know your name.
desiree, i tell her.
desiree, she repeats.
from desiderata.
latin for wanted child.
yeah, right, i think but don’t say.
desiree, northern lady goes on,
this is emily merrick.
she’s in tenth grade
at gainseville high.
i force a smile.
we exchange hellos.
i’m interviewing emily
for my next book,
the lady explains.
my mouth falls open.
you mean you already wrote one?
pimple-face flashes her tinsel teeth.
three of them. her most famous is called
watch your back, and it’s about
how cruel girls are to one another.
it won, like, a zillion awards.
already, i hate emily merrick,
who gets to go to high school and
have lunch with northern lady
while i sling hash and wait tables
for two bucks and twenty cents an hour.
what’s your name? i ask northern lady,
hoping emily merrick
won’t answer that question too.
dr. stemple.
she reaches in her binder,
hands me a business card.
i study the raised print.
wow. i’m from new york too.
johnson city, outside binghamton.
you probably never heard of it.
oh, yes, i have! she answers.
i graduated from high school in elmira,
about an hour from there.
i teach college in poughkeepsie now,
but went to the university of florida
so i come back often for research.
pointing to the card, she tells me,
call if you’re ever in the area.
i smile, say, i will,
and tuck the card in my apron.
* * *
outside our room
i sit next to jeremy,
feeding ariel,
while he calls
his parents on the pay phone.
i hear his mom answer.
hello? hello? who’s this?
jeremy just breathes.
i’m worried she’ll think
he’s a perv and hang up.
instead she yells—so loud
ariel’s eyelids blink open—
jeremy, honey, is that you?
shaking, he hangs up fast.
i stand, take his hand,
lead him back to our room.
after putting ariel in her crib
i lie next to him on our bed.
he’s my baby now too,
so i rock him back and forth,
rubbing his head, saying, there, there,
until his crying slows, then stops.
* * *
the next afternoon,
just before a storm blows through,
dr. stemple arrives for lunch again,
except she orders a dr. pepper
instead of hot tea with lemon
and a sandwich instead of salad.
her clothes are different too—
slacks and a dark silk blouse.
classes start again next week,
she tells me. i’m flying back
to poughkeepsie tonight.
i was hoping we could talk.
can you spare a few minutes?
aside from a trucker,
finishing his liver and onions,
the place is dead.
when i drop down across from her,
dr. stemple sets a gift bag in front of me.
a blush creeps across my face. for me?
she nods so i plow through the tissue,
lift out three books by
three lady authors.
adrienne rich,
anne sexton,
nikki giovanni.
i flip through the pages.
they’re books of poetry.
dr. stemple smiles.
you seemed to enjoy sylvia plath,
so i thought you might
like to sample more.
i’m stunned speechless.
i feel my eyes well up.
desiree, you’re a courageous
and ambitious young woman.
when i was your age,
a woman either worked
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