by Paula Cox
He reaches up and takes the money, nodding shortly. “Always is,” he says, tucking it into the folds of his ragged sleeping bag. “Just gotta get on, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, man, you’re right. Yeah. Have a good one.”
He laughs sarcastically. “A good one—you too, boss.”
I head back toward the truck, telling myself that I do not care, killing my emotion: stomping it down into the deep dark place inside of me where a heart used to be.
Chapter Twelve
Allison
July turns to August, and then August to early September, and I spend my time much as usual. In the evenings, I read my romance novels, or, too exhausted for that, I collapse into bed after a long day and close my eyes and fall instantly into oblivion. Work takes up most of my time. I work at the shelters, the helplines, and of course my own office, working much more than I usually do. Part of me understands that this is because I need to get Rust out of my mind, but I don’t let that part of me have a voice. I am just working; that is all. There is no reason to attach any significance to it.
A big part of my job during this next month is checking on Joseph at the rehab facility. The first time I go there—it’s the kind of neat little building that could be any kind of nursing facility, but has a certain sterility to its appearance that means it will never look like anything else—he is in a state. His strawberry blond hair is twisted and messy, even messier than mine, and his lips are chapped and the bags under his eyes ever deeper than the first time I met him, back at the library. The second time, about a week later, he’s washed and there’s a little more life in his face, and after a few weeks he seems to becoming a proper person again, even offering me a smile. It’s strange to think that this kid, after he’s recovered, is going to fall into a life of bikes and oil and guns and danger, but I try not to think about that.
I interview him a few times, too, to make sure that he’s happy about where he’s headed, and to ensure that he’s recovering in his mind as well as in his body. Getting an addict clean isn’t as difficult as many people might think. It’s only a question of weaning their body away from it so that they no longer need it, and making sure their body stays healthy through that process. The difficult part is changing an addict’s behavior so that they are able to make different choices. Many, many people turn to drugs or alcohol as answers to serious anxiety or incredible depression. Helping them get those things under control is what will help them stay sober for a longer time. Help them stop craving the romanticized version of the drug…a pang hits me as I realize I am not describing Joseph, but myself, and Rust. Rust is my drug, and my mind and my body calls out for him. Constantly, just as it did before we had sex. No, it’s worse now, because now I know exactly what it’s like to fuck him. Incredible, the best sex I ever had. I can’t even lie to myself anymore; it was amazing. But still…that’s in the past, I have to remind myself. That’s over.
Joseph and I meet in a small office in the facility, a desk and two chairs facing each other, a small water cooler, and a Mona Lisa print hanging from the wall. I sit behind the desk, notepad laid out before me, and Joseph sits opposite me, a shy smile on his face. The office is an interior room so there’s no natural light, only the glow of the electric bulb.
I barely have a chance to ask him how he’s getting along when he blurts out, “Rust has been coming to see me.” As he speaks, he grips the edge of the chair on which he sits. He does so with less nervousness than when he was fresh off the drugs, but there’s a remnant there, and now instead of glancing around the room he stares at a fixed point on the desk. But then, for the first time since we’ve been meeting, he drags his gaze up and looks me in the face. “He’s really helping me.”
“I…” Rust, here. Nobody mentioned anything. I think about walking into the church on a routine meeting, and then bumping into Rust, literally walking into his stone-hard chest. I think about the wave of pleasure which would come over me as his body imprinted mine once again; the pleasure of remembered orgasms, of relived euphoria. And then I thrust that all down and make my face professional. “Oh, well, that’s awfully nice of him to show an interest,” I say.
Joseph nods. “Yeah, Miss Lee, yeah, it’s pretty nice of him. I don’t want to be dramatic or anything but I really appreciate him coming by because my dad was never very nice to me, you know…he was a bit of a scumbag really, an alcoholic, and he was…well, it’s easier to forget when you’re high, you know? But Rust isn’t like that. Sure, he’s an enforcer and yeah he’s tough and all. But I think he’s a decent guy, too.”
I nod, letting him speak. Though he isn’t as closed off as he once was, this is by far the most words he’s ever said in a row during one of our sessions.
Joseph closes his eyes, lets out a long breath. “Did you know I pulled a knife on The Damned? Their leader, Shackle, and some others. Yeah, I pulled a knife on them, but then Rust grabbed me and he explained to me why I needed to calm down, and something about it got through to me. I don’t think he’s just some simple violent guy. I really think he can be a nice guy, too.”
I nod again, but now I’m getting the feeling Joseph is saying all this for a reason. I wonder if Rust put him up to it, but somehow I doubt that. Surely, if Rust wanted to talk to me, he’d just come and talk to me. He knows where I work; he knows I come by the facility every so often. Frankly, Joseph isn’t the first person I’ve helped find a place here, and it’s unlikely he’ll be the last. If he really wants to get ahold of me, he could leave a note with Joseph. No, I’m sure Joseph is doing this on his own. I don’t understand why, though. I wonder if this is a taster of how a divorced parent feels, being convinced by their kid that their ex-spouse isn’t so bad after all, and I almost laugh. Rust and I are nowhere even half-close to that.
Joseph squints at me, the skin around his eyes lining, wrinkling. I feel a jolt in my chest as I look at this teenager with the too-old eyes. I don’t normally get emotional like this. I long ago learnt that if you get emotional every time a case has a note of tragedy, you’ll spend your entire life getting emotional. But no, I’m wrong, I realize. It isn’t in my chest. It’s a tightness in my belly. And it isn’t a pang of emotion. It feels like sickness. I swallow it down, keep my face calm, steady.
“Rust rescued me from a really shitty situation,” Joseph goes on. “If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve stabbed one of those men, and then where would I be? I’m not an idiot, Miss Lee. People at school used to call me Joseph No-Brain, but I don’t think I’m an idiot. Just because I’m not good at reading or whatever…Look, what I’m trying to say is that Rust has mentioned you a couple of times. He tries to make it like he doesn’t care, but I think the main reason he comes by here is to see how you’re doing. I don’t know what happened with you two, Miss Lee, and I know it’s not my business. But—Are you alright, Miss Lee?”
Yes, I am fine, I say, with a professional dignity to my voice, head held high, lofty and worthy of respect.
That is what I wish was happening; what is really happening is that I am charging past Joseph, the sickness in my belly now like the sloshing of waves against the hull of a boat, smashing over and over. I charge to the door, shove it open with my shoulder, and then run down the hallway to the bathroom. I just barely manage to get to the bathroom before I throw up. I shudder over the bowl and vomit painfully, belly contorting, head aching, throat pulsing. I think I’m better and I’m about to stand up when it hits me again. I gasp, finally kneeling down, and push my hair back out of my face as I heave again. I think I’m done a second time when I make the mistake of looking down into the bowl. This time, I dry-heave, and then sit on the floor of the cubicle with my knees pulled up in front of me, panting, trying not to taste the inside of my own mouth. I flush the toilet and try not to smell the wave of sweet-sick.
I sit here for a long time, doing the usual self-checking a person does after spontaneous sickness. Did I eat something bad? I had a chicken salad last night, everything seemed fr
esh, and this morning I had yogurt for breakfast. Maybe the yogurt was bad? But I bought it on the way to work, it was well within its sell-by date, and it tasted fine. I haven’t drunk alcohol in a long time, since I met with Rust, actually. Maybe I’ve caught a bug, but from whom? Nobody at the library is sick, and none of my clients are sick. But that doesn’t mean some floating germ hasn’t landed on me from some unknown person, does it?
I shake my head, unsure, rising unsteadily to my feet. Then I go to the sink and splash water on my face. I stare at myself, at my flushed skin, and my wide startled-looking eyes. Rust is right, I reflect, as I stare at my eyes. I do look a little like a deer sometimes, as though there are constantly headlights shining on me. I laugh at the thought, and then splash more water on my face. Rust—little deer—little deer—Rust. Something’s niggling at me, at the corner of my mind, something which should be obvious but for some reason is not, something which should jump out at me but which is not. I close my eyes, thumb my closed eyelids, rubbing them, as if I can rub through them and rub my brain into action.
But when I open my eyes, I’m none the wiser.
Dabbing my face with a paper towel, I return to Joseph.
“I’m sorry about that,” I mutter, walking to the desk with as much dignity as I can, which is laughable after what just happened. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Are you okay, Miss Lee?” Joseph asks.
I nod. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
But I don’t sound fine, and judging by the way Joseph looks at me, I must not look fine, either.
I barely manage to get through the rest of the interview without puking, when Joseph says something that at first seems out of place: “I remember when I was still living at home, before I went to the street, and my older sister got pregnant. She was sick for an entire day way before she started to show. None of us knew what the matter with her was, but…” He raises and eyebrow, and then glances down in embarrassment.
“Joseph, I can assure you—”
I stop, gasping, as I realize that no, I cannot assure him anything.
Because I haven’t had my period this month.
Chapter Thirteen
Allison
I call Marjorie when I get out of the church, walking to my car through a light end-summer drizzle, the rain welcome and cool on my flushed skin. When I tell Marjorie I need to go home early, she snaps, “And why’s that?” I make sure not to respond straightaway, because the way I’m feeling I’m afraid I might snap back. I take a breath, and only then do I respond.
“I threw up while visiting a client here at the rehab. I think I might’ve caught a twenty-four-hour bug or something, and I don’t want to infect everyone at the library.”
“Take the afternoon,” Marjorie says, “and if you’re not at work tomorrow, you better have a note.” She laughs gruffly, and then mutters something I can’t hear before hanging up.
I put my cell away, thinking about my job at the library, how odd and specific it is. It’s not as though there was a social work team there before I joined that can operate without me. It’s more like I am a freelancer without being a freelancer, on their payroll because it looks good to have a social worker at this new multimedia library-esque extravaganza. If I, for some reason, cannot come to work for any elongated period of time, what will happen to that position? I try and ignore this thought as I climb into my car, belly still churning, and drive toward the convenience store nearby my apartment building.
The churning in my stomach is comprised more of nerves than real sickness now, I sense. I don’t feel like I’m going to vomit again, but my belly keeps sloshing anyway, my thoughts propelling my nervousness. I think about my romance novels, about how one of my heroines might react. Would she drive to the store stoically, telling herself over and over that whatever happened, she would be strong? Or would she go crazy, become angry? I don’t know. All I know is that I am somewhere in between, numb but nervous, sick but somehow holding it together.
Most of all, I am angry with myself. An entire month passes—just over a month—and I don’t have my period. I don’t go to the store to restock my tampons. No PMS; no moodiness, no cramps. None of that happens, and yet I go about my life as though everything is normal, as though from the age of twelve this hasn’t been a regular occurrence in my life. The only excuse I have is that I’ve been busy at work, but what kind of excuse is that for missing something this glaring? Perhaps I subconsciously thought I was just late. I don’t know…even as I walk into the convenience store, under the fluorescent hospital-like lights, and pick up a box of pregnancy tests (why do these stupid things come in two packs. Aren’t they super accurate or something?) I tell myself I might not be pregnant. I might just be late. Because pregnancy would be impossible for me, completely impossible. My life is on track, and is carefully planned. Pregnancy is not part of the plan, at least not for years.
I pay for the tests, ignoring the knowing look of the clerk, and return to my car, heart thumping in my chest, thumping so hard I feel as though it is going to thump up my throat and choke me. I swallow, and I get the strange sensation that I am swallowing my heartbeat. “You’re just being dramatic,” I mutter to myself as I put the car in gear and drive toward my apartment. “You’re just being a drama queen.”
I park my car and almost run up to my apartment, stopping only to lean down and clutch my belly. My body is acting weirdly today. First there was that business mistaking stomach sickness for an emotional pang in my chest, and now nervousness is making me feel physically incapable of running. I shake my head, my vision hazy. Everything is happening too fast, without any warning. Everything feels like it’s spinning out of control. I tell myself to calm down, I haven’t even taken the test yet. But my heart keeps thumping and my belly keeps tightening.
Finally, I pace into my apartment, dropping my handbag on the floor and kicking the door closed behind me. I take the bag of pregnancy tests into the bathroom and almost trip over myself trying to pull my skirt and my tights down, shifting from side to side, propping one hand on the wall and kicking off one shoe by accident so that it lands in the shower. Then I sit down on the toilet too quickly, my ass cheeks aching. I curse, ripping the test from its packaging as though I am a child and it is Christmas morning. Yes, I reflect grimly, this is my present. What a present! I kick off my other shoe. It hits the wall with a loud bang.
I hold the stick in the bowl, my belly still tight, which in an unexpected way is quite helpful: it squeezes my bladder. I pee on the stick, and then set it on the tank behind me. I still need to pee, so why not; I do the second test, too. Why not just have a little more safety. They’ll both be negative, and then I’ll know, and I can stop worrying, and get back to my life. Then I clean myself and stand up and walk to the bathroom door, my back to the sticks. I know that turning around will make this real. As long as I stand here, looking at my living room, a few romance novels and notes piled up on the coffee table, my clothes from yesterday strewn across the floor from where I haven’t yet put them in the washing basket, the sunlight resting against my television, as long as I just stand here, I can pretend that none of this is real. The moment I turn around, I will not have that choice.
But I can’t avoid reality forever. I return to the toilet, but I don’t stare down, not yet. I look at myself in the mirror which hangs just above and to the side of the toilet. Twenty-five years old, but I look younger. At least, I think I do. Twenty-five years old. Is that too young, or too old? And how old is Rust? Thirty, perhaps a couple years older or younger? People have kids and families at that age, don’t they, but I don’t think me and Rust are people in the abstract.
I’m delaying the inevitable, I know, so I force myself to look down.
For a moment, time seems to pause as my mind tries to turn what I’m seeing into some tangible reality. During the next few minutes, I just stand here, staring, trying to turn the three sticks into something real. I’m rooted to the spot. I c
an’t move. I can only stare. Just stare at these sticks which, if I am to believe them, are going to change my life forever. Slowly, the sticks become real, and I face what they tell me: I am pregnant, they agree. I am pregnant with Rust’s child.
Gasping, I go into the living room and throw myself on the couch, burying my head in the cushions, my life spinning around and around in my head: my future life, in which my hard-won job at the library is going to be in danger, in which I am going to have to explain to everyone that the father is an enforcer I no longer know; a life as a single mother, and all the struggles that entails. Of course, there is the other option. The other option …something about that makes me queasy, but surely it would be for the best? Surely it would make more sense for a woman like me?
Dammit, why didn’t we use a condom? Why did I think “not having a boyfriend” was a good enough reason to let my prescription for the pill lapse?
I can’t stay on the couch for long. I feel too restless. I go into the kitchen and start chopping bananas and apples, listening to the thud-thud of the knife against the chopping board and focusing on the piling up of the fruit chunks; and then I focus on the noise of the blender, of the banana and apple and yogurt and milk all mixing together. But after the smoothie’s done and the dishes are washed and set to dry on the draining board, I’m still pregnant. Nothing has changed.
