by Julie Hyzy
“I conceived on June fourth.”
Noreen laughed. “Pretty sure about that, are you? This thing says May twenty-fourth, and it’s usually pretty accurate.”
“June fourth. Trust me.” She hugged herself with her arms and shivered.
Noreen’s brow furrowed a bit. “Here, put this sheet over you to keep warm. The doctor will give you a due date, but it looks like late January, early February to me. She’ll be here in a moment.”
“She?” Looks like it wasn’t going to be Dr. Appleton after all.
“Dr. Guerzon. You’ll like her.” Noreen winked as she walked out the door, “She’s very petite.”
A petite dynamo, she should have said. Opening the door to the examining room wide as she entered, holding the neat little manila folder that held Annie’s medical history, Dr. Guerzon glanced up, booming, “Hello Annie,” in a light accent. About fifty years old, she was short and slim, with dark hair and Filipino features. She closed the folder and sat on the low-wheeled stool near the bed. Tilting her head in a friendly way, she said, “And how are you today?”
“All right, I guess.”
“You took a test at home?”
Annie nodded.
“Morning sickness?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You would have had it by now,” she said, smiling. “You’re very lucky.”
Lucky? Annie thought.
Dr. Guerzon asked what seemed like an endless round of questions before and during the actual exam. Finished, she pulled her latex gloves off her hands and pronounced, “You’re pregnant.”
Annie’s last chance for a reprieve was gone. She rubbed her eyebrows with both hands, keeping her composure. She’d held out the very slim hope that the home test had been wrong and the doctor would laugh and she’d be sent on her way, feeling a fool. But at least not a pregnant one.
Dr. Guerzon offered her arm to help Annie sit up. Her eyes seemed to flash downward at Annie’s left hand as she did so. “You’re not happy?”
Annie shook her head, feeling the doctor’s gaze take her in. Bright brown eyes, looking warmly alert, waited. Annie felt a bubble of emotion rise up and she fought it. She was through crying about this. It was time to deal with it.
“I’m getting divorced,” she said.
Dr. Guerzon canted her head. “And the baby’s father is . . ?”
Annie’s words rushed out, “No . . . no. It isn’t like that.” Her hands came up in alarm. “My husband is the father, but he . . . but I . . .” Annie took a deep breath, “I made a mistake. A very stupid mistake.”
Looking at folder in her hands, Dr. Guerzon played with one of her large pearl earrings. “You can terminate the pregnancy if you wish. It is still early.”
There was utter silence in the room for several long seconds.
Dr. Guerzon stood up, her eyes on the manila folder as she tapped it against the palm of her left hand, “I’ll send Noreen back with the name of someone who is very professional.” She looked up. “I wish you good luck, whatever you choose.”
Annie slid from the examining table and dressed quickly, trying to ignore the goose bumps on her arms. Her teeth chattered and she realized the room wasn’t cold enough to warrant that. Just as she was about to slide on her shoes, Noreen knocked discreetly at the door and came in.
“Hi,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She held out a prescription paper on which Dr. Guerzon had written a name, address, and phone number. “This is the information you wanted.”
Annie took the proffered paper, noticed the wedding ring on Noreen’s left hand. She wasn’t much older than herself. “Do you have kids?” she asked.
Noreen smiled, almost reluctantly, as she nodded, “Yeah, three girls.” Something in her eyes softened for a moment. “They’re everything to me.”
Outside, in her car, Annie waited till her vision cleared before shifting into drive. It seemed as though her eyes welled up at everything now. Hormones ravaged her body. There are choices in life, she told herself. Difficult ones. And we live with the consequences of our choices every day.
Traffic down Ninety-fifth Street crawled, as always. Annie leaned her elbow out the side window and rested her head as she contemplated her life. A white mini-van next to her beeped, the woman driving asking through pantomime if she could please cut in front. Annie waved her forward, then waited as she crept into the lane.
Lifting her foot from the brake, Annie’s glance swept over the back of the white van in front of her. A diamond-shaped “Baby on Board” sign wiggled from its suction cup perch in the back window. Annie gave a humorless chuckle. “It’s a sign!” she said aloud, rolling her eyes heavenward. “I get it; I’m pregnant.”
As the van pulled further forward, Annie caught sight of the bumper sticker pasted brightly below the plates. She bit her lip as she read it.
She’s not a choice. She’s a person.
* * * * *
Annie hit “rewind” on her answering machine to listen to the message again.
“Hello, Annie Callaghan? This is Gina DeChristopher. We met coupla nights ago night at Millie’s Ice Cream Parlour. You remember?”
Annie frowned; how could she forget?
“Well, anyway, my boys have been pestering me to have their rooms painted in something real cool, like that castle thing you were doing, but maybe dinosaurs. Could you do somethin’ like that? Give me a call.”
Having found some scrap paper and a pen while the message replayed, Annie found herself copying down the phone number that Gina DeChristopher provided. Not that she would want to work with those two boys underfoot. But still.
She padded around her kitchen, seeking food, and thinking about the night of orange paint.
Empty refrigerator. Annie knew she’d have to go grocery shopping soon, particularly because she was hungry so often, and in unpredictable spurts. She would be fine, content, not even thinking about food. Then, without warning she’d need to eat something immediately. Often she found herself grabbing cookies, stuffing three or four into her mouth within the space of a minute. With the intense hunger satiated, she’d then be able to forage for something healthier.
Only once, late at night, too tired to move, had she ignored the hunger cravings, and had paid dearly, her head hung over the bathroom bowl until all she came up with was empty heaves. She wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
Pulling out a sleeve of Oreos and a mug of milk to dunk them in, Annie sat at the kitchen table and looked out the window. The little white prescription paper with the scribbled note on it sat on her left. She resisted looking at it, instead concentrating on the neighbor’s tree that she could see over her garage in the back, the storm clouds beginning to recede behind it.
She dunked the first cookie, the one that always tasted best, up to nearly her fingertips, and swished it around. Soggy things usually didn’t turn her on, but milk-drenched Oreos were in a class by themselves. And she felt soggy today. The cookie melted in her mouth, and she savored the unique flavor and texture combination with a sigh.
This was the house she grew up in. That was the tree she saw everyday since she was old enough to remember. It had to be over fifty years old. And it would probably be here fifty years from now. She’d never found out what kind of tree it was, maple maybe; it hadn’t mattered. What had mattered was that she and Karla had picnics in its shade, and had played with the little pale green whirlybirds that fluttered down every year. And had grudgingly raked the crispy leaves that landed in their yard, then jumped into piles they created.
Her parents had provided a wonderful childhood.
And now here she sat, with two phone numbers in front of her. She could call one, or both, or neither. But they were her decisions.
And Gary should be told.
She looked down into the dunking mug. All the cookies were gone and little brown crumbs had floated to the top. She never could make herself drink the leftover milk. And despite the fact that it was a w
aste, her mother had never forced her. “We all have our little quirks,” Annie remembered her saying, “and when you know something is right for you, you hold onto it. It’s what makes you who you are.”
She looked up again at the neighbor’s tree.
She looked at the two papers.
With a sigh, Annie moved toward the phone, and as she passed the wastebasket, she crumpled up one of the papers and tossed it in. She knew what was right for her.
The phone rang four times before a machine picked up.
“Hello,” she said at the tone, “This is Annie Callaghan . . .”
Chapter Six
“Can we go somewhere . . . else?” Annie’s eyes swept the apartment. “We need to talk.”
“Sure,” Gary said, with a shrug. His wrinkled brown T-shirt hung slack over ripped khaki shorts. He held his hands up against his chest as he surveyed himself. “Probably need to change clothes, huh?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“Hey, Annie.” Pete’s voice came from an enormous white leather recliner across the room. Slouched so low his stockinged feet dangled over the edge of the footrest, he was barely visible. Looking like he hadn’t showered in days, he leaned forward from his cushioned comfort in interest. He was shirtless, and when he smiled at her, his mouth hung open, sloppy and wet like a dog’s.
Annie resisted the urge to step back outside to wait, glancing at her watch. She shook her head. What a change from the solitude she’d enjoyed just hours ago.
That morning had dawned in golden-cloud splendor. Annie had watched the sun rise from the steps of her back porch, a hot mug of coffee warming her hands. She’d enjoyed the early hour chill, as the sky shifted in a slow-motion ballet, from gray to pink to yellow. Wearing the oversized blue sweatshirt from her sister, her arms pulled tightly into her sides, she’d felt immense comfort and a tingling of hope.
It was Saturday. She and Sam had agreed that weekend crowds were too difficult to manage around, so now every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were free. It made perfect sense, and yet Annie found herself wishing she could be there every day. She’d sighed at the smell of the green grass, fresh with sparkling dew. Two empty days lay ahead of her. The big decisions were behind her.
But Annie had known there was one more thing she still needed to do.
And so, once the coffee mug had been drained and the sky transformed to its dazzling blue, she’d made the call and arranged to meet with Gary.
Her first thought, as she’d pulled up to the four level apartment complex, was that it might have lived a prior life as a flea-bag motel. Three long identical brick buildings ran perpendicular to the road, with dark green metal staircases at each end that looked recently painted. Parked in the littered lot, over weeds that had pushed through the cracked macadam, were large, expensive cars and SUVs. Each one shiny and clean, they stood in stark contrast to the beaten and tired appearance of the apartment building complex. Her little Escort was dwarfed and outclassed.
Annie had gingerly made her way up the stairs to Gary and Pete’s apartment, avoiding dark puddles and broken beer bottles. Each of the apartments had a metal front door and, next to it, a set of sliding glass doors that served double duty as picture window. Not one looked inviting. All were hazy with grime and covered from the inside. Some with taped-up newspaper to protect the residents’ privacy, a little room left open for light. Some with ripped and faded curtains. As Annie made her way to apartment 451, she realized that Uncle Lou’s house probably looked just as bad from the outside, so she was in no position to judge.
She hoped to get this over with quickly. She’d planned to have their talk in the apartment if they could, for expediency’s sake. Within seconds of arriving, however, she couldn’t wait to leave.
“Why dontcha sit down?” Pete asked.
A pastel bed sheet had been thrown over the sofa, barely covering the many rips and tears in the upholstery. Assorted odd-color stains on the sheet kept Annie from getting too close. “I’m fine,” she said, thinking that the room needed airing out. Despite the fact that it was a clear, sunny day, the front drapes were pulled shut and the room was dark. An air-conditioner hummed from a side window, but the combined smells of sweat and feet as they wafted warmly through the room were too much for the small unit and Annie felt something lurch upward in her throat.
She inched closer to the flow of cool air, taking in its metallic breeze. She’d be all right. Just hurry, she thought.
Gary poked his head out of a room near the back, “You want to go for lunch?”
“Sure,” she said, thinking that if she stayed in this room much longer she’d never eat again.
“It’ll have to be your treat, I’m a little short this week.”
“Whatever.”
From his relaxed perch in the huge chair, Pete spoke up. “There’s a great place down the block, all Cajun food. Cheap too.”
“Great, thanks,” Annie said, looking around.
The chair Pete sat in was pristine, the white, spotless leather looking out of place in the dingy room. Holding a remote control aloft, he poked at it repeatedly, glancing down at it, then up, then down again between pokes. Annie listened to the buzz and half-spoken words that blasted from the big-screen television as he changed channels and adjusted the sound for the dozenth time since she’d walked in.
Now he muted the volume and sat looking at her, his eyes large blinking from behind his thick dark-rimmed glasses. What he probably meant as a smile came across as a leer.
Annie shifted her weight, “Nice chair,” she said.
“You like it?” Pete said, that eagerness in his voice again. “Watch this, it’s one of those massaging chairs.”
With that, he pulled out a second remote, hit a few buttons, and noiselessly, the recliner started to pulsate. Even though he wasn’t a heavy guy, Pete’s flabby, hairless stomach echoed and amplified the chair’s movements, the fat on his abdomen looking like frantic Jell-O. The demonstration went on for a few minutes while Pete explained all the different options in a voice that vibrated as he spoke. He started to stand up, grinning at her, “Hey babe, wanna go for a ride?”
Annie backed up, “No. No thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He grinned again and laid his head back, sighing. “This is the life, Annie.” She flinched when he said her name. His big eyes shifted her direction, looking frog-like beneath the Coke-bottle lenses. “You should get one of these.”
“I probably couldn’t afford it,” she said, knowing her sarcasm would be lost yet again.
“Sure you could. If I got it for you.” He pulled his head up again and winked. “This one kinda fell off a truck.”
Gary walked back in the room, buttoning the front of his shirt. “All set.”
* * * * *
Annie drove to a franchised restaurant that had just opened a few weeks earlier and they followed the hostess to a table near the back. It still smelled new, as if the lacquer on the light pine walls hadn’t yet dried. Annie frowned at the preponderance of orange in the décor. It reminded her of the overeager little artists and their painting spree.
“Since when do you like hot wings?” Gary asked, after they ordered. “You never liked anything spicy.”
Annie motioned indifference. “Just have a taste for them I guess.”
“I’m sure glad you’re picking up the tab today. You’re never gonna be able to eat everything you ordered.”
“Yeah, I probably will. That’s actually what I want to talk to you about.”
The waitress, a twenty-something blonde waif wearing an eyebrow ring and heavy black eyeliner, came back to drop off their drinks, having introduced herself earlier as “Candi, with an i.” Leaning downward, she transferred Gary’s Coke to the table from her unsteady tray, mistakenly setting it down in front of Annie. She pushed it forward too fast, causing some of the brown pop to slosh over the side. “Sorry,” she said, not moving to clean it up. “I’ll get you a few more napkins to take care of that . .
. okay?”
Annie slid the Coke across the table. “I had the iced tea.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Candi said, placing the second drink in front of her.
“Can I have lemon, please?” Annie asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Annie wiped at the spill with her napkin, placing it, crumpled, at the end of the table to be picked up.
Gary’s eyes followed Candi as she moved away from the table. “Nice place here.”
“You haven’t changed much,” she said.
“Hey, can’t I appreciate the scenery a little? After all, you’re the one who wants the divorce, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
When Candi appeared with the buffalo wings, Annie asked, “Can I have that lemon, please? And more napkins?”
Candi let the platter hit the table with a thunk, flashed a smile of apology, and grabbed two empty plates from the table behind her. “Here you go. Will there be anything else for now?”
“The lemon? Napkins?”
Candi snapped her fingers. “Oh, yeah.”
Before Annie could broach the subject at hand, Gary started talking about Pete, trying to make it sound, it seemed, as if the two roommates were having the time of their lives. She considered asking him about how he came to be arrested, but as he blathered she realized that she’d never get a straight answer. Truth was, she really didn’t want to hear the song and dance he’d invariably come up with. She’d listened to his fabrications too many times to allow herself to be dragged in again, now. Her goal this morning had been to spend as little time with Gary as possible; she needed to get this over with so that when lunch was done, they could each go their separate ways. At least that was the plan.
Deciding, as he rambled, that Candi was not about to show up anytime soon, Annie got up and took four napkins from beneath silverware at a nearby unoccupied table. She resigned herself to just deal with lemon-less iced tea.
