Sher scowls.
“I’ll do mine today,” I say. The doctor, finally satisfied that he’s embarrassed us enough, shakes our hands and exits the room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME GO to the clinic when I wanted to,” Sher says on the way back to my apartment. I grip the steering wheel on a turn. I should feel absolutely trapped, that Sher is waffling on the paternity test, but for some reason, my chest relaxed the moment the doctor agreed that she was pregnant.
“That option is off the table,” I say.
“They could still do it…” she says, but her voice gets stringy and she presses her mouth on the back of her hand, looking out the window, while the tears roll down her face. I’m tired of seeing her cry. I wish it would rile up some anger in me, but all it does is give me this dark anxiety, like I’m watching a tornado rip the roof off a friend’s house. Instead, it makes me feel helpless. That’s it.
“I wouldn’t let them do that,” I say. “I think the paternity tests are…”
“I’m not getting needles stuck through my stomach or up my hobbit hole.”
“Uh, yeah,” I chuckle. “You’re right. The tests are either too risky or a couple thousand bucks. If you’re not willing to do the blood test, than I our only option right now is the Wait-And-See.”
Her voice is small. “This isn’t fair.”
“No, it’s not.” I say. I turn into my apartment parking lot and cut the engine. I should be more upset that she refused to do the paternity test. I could’ve pushed her to let me pay for it and I’m sure she would’ve given in. But what’s worse is that I don’t know if I could stand to find out that this baby isn’t mine anymore.
***
I carry Sher’s ruined gym bag in for her. I collapse on the couch, putting my feet up on the coffee table, exhausted. Sher flits from the recliner cushion that she realizes is still damp from the ice, but she doesn’t mention it. She gets a towel and presses it to the cushion to soak up the moisture. When she’s done, she leaves the living room and I flip on the TV.
She reappears, her hair tied back, and rifles the kitchen cupboards for garbage bags. She disappears, dragging one behind her and I hear her moving stuff around in my room. During a commercial, she walks across the hall into the bathroom. I hear the squeak of the cupboard in there too and then she’s in the hall, opening the linen closet. She finds the limited supply of cleaners I have stashed there and takes them back into the bathroom. I hear the water run, I hear her wringing out a rag at intervals.
“What are you doing?” I ask when she emerges again.
“Cleaning. Don’t you own a mop?”
“No.”
“Gross,” she says.
“Why are you cleaning?”
“It’s what I do when I’m…” Instead of finishing, she just shrugs.
“I can go get a mop, if you want,” I say, flipping the channel on the TV. “But you’re not a maid. You don’t have to clean the place.”
“I’m not going to stay in a pig hole,” she says.
“Pig hole?”
“Whatever. You need a mop, a pair of rubber gloves, and a new toilet brush. And you don’t have a trash can in the bathroom. Oh, forget it. I’ll just make you a list.” She goes into the kitchen and rifles the drawers. She comes back with a junk mail envelope and a Sharpie marker. “You need pens and a note pad with a magnet, to hang on the fridge too.”
“Alright,” I say. The second I turn off the TV, I hear someone in the hall, shouting Sher’s name. I look back at her, but she looks just as surprised. I go to the door and swing it open. No one’s standing on the welcome mat. I step into the hall.
The bull-ringed, black-clothed smear of douchebag from Sher’s apartment is pacing down the hall, still shouting her name. Sher steps out from behind me.
“Trent?” she says and he swings around, his hair drifting over his face. The earrings he’s got hammered into his forehead, sparkle beneath the hair. He pushes his fried bangs out of his eyes without a smile and slumps toward us, stopping far enough from me that he probably thinks he has a decent shot at getting away if I charge him.
Sher stays behind me, but asks, “What are you doing here?”
“I gotta talk to you,” he tells her. He throws a sneer in my direction. “Alone.”
“Okay,” she says. I don’t move. Sher finally lays her soft fingertips on my arm. “I have to talk to him, Landon. Give us a few minutes.”
“I’ll be right inside,” I say, pinning the Emo sheep with a glare. He slouches, blowing out a puff of satisfaction that he’s getting his way and I’m not. When I turn to walk back in, I lean down and tell Sher, “Leave the door a jar.”
It takes a minute, after I’m safely inside, for the little stain to shuffle toward her. I sit on the arm of the couch, leaning toward the door, to listen.
“No, I’m not standing by that door. Over here. We can sit on the steps,” he says. I grin. At least he’s thinking of escape routes. Sher’s feet shuffle the couple of steps, but they’re still close enough that I can hear every word.
“What are you doing here?” Sher asks.
“I came to talk about how you said you’re pregnant,” he says. She makes a small noise of acknowledgement and he drops his voice. “Well, you gotta get rid of it.”
I stand, but hold myself in place. It takes everything not to rip open the door and drop-kick the little black sheep off the steps.
“I thought about it,” she says. My strength drains with her words and I drop back down onto the arm of the couch.
“You can’t just think about it. You gotta go do it.” Even his voice shrieks weasel. “I don’t want the thing.”
“I know.”
“Well, then you gotta get rid of it,” he grumbles. “You’re not hooking me for child support and shit.”
I curl my hands into fists, but then Sher’s voice raises up sharply, like it’s own hook punch.
“Did I ever ask you for anything?” she snaps.
“You’re gonna. All you bitches do that. Once you pop it out, you’ll be bugging me all the time for money. I’m telling you right now, I’m not gonna be your charity case.”
“That would be me, dumb ass,” Sher says. “I’d be the charity case. I’m the one with the…oh, forget it.”
“Whatever,” I almost hear the shrug in the smug little punk’s voice. “Just go get rid of it.”
“I don’t know if I want to anymore,” she says. I inhale. The air is like food. I didn’t even know I’d been holding my breath.
“It’s not just up to you,” he says. I hear paper crinkle.
“What’s in the envelope?” she says and I crane my head a little more to hear.
“It’s abortion money, what do you think?”
There’s a rustle of paper and then Sher says flatly, “There’s only fifty bucks in here, Trent. What do you think I’m going to do with fifty bucks?”
“It’ll buy a nice coat hanger.”
“You’re sick.”
“Look, we only did it once and you know I’m trying to get the money together to drop a record. I’m not letting all of this baby shit screw it up. Fifty’s all I can give you.”
“Oh yeah, your big rap career,” Sher snorts. “I want your pussy, you kin be my pussy…you write the shittiest lyrics ever!”
“At least I’m doing something with my life,” the gothic pincushion says. I stand. Put my hand on the door knob. “The only talent you’ve got is a pussy. And even that sucks, Sher.”
I open the door just as her foot comes up and kicks him right in the face. Hellraiser Junior is in the perfect position for it too, standing two steps down from Sher, who is at the top of the landing. She flips the kick right against his chin and he grabs the railing as he crashes backward against it. I’m ready to send him down the rest of the steps like a basketball, but Sher’s already on him. She’s got him by his hair and he starts squealing as she jerks him away from the railing.
“Get out of here, Trent! Take your fucking money with you!” She shoves him and he falls sideways, grabbing for the handrail again as he thumps down two steps. He gets to his feet and Sher throws the envelope at him, but he shakes his head, his glare darting up to me. He swoops down and grabs the envelope, throwing it back at Sher. It flutters down onto the step below her.
“I’m done, you dumb bitch,” he says. “I don’t care what you do with the money. I paid my part. I’m off the hook. Don’t come looking for anymore outta me.”
“Get out of here…now,” I growl. Sher scoops up the envelope and I sidestep her, to come down the stairs after the little black hole. But Trent takes his opportunity. He turns and jackrabbits down the stairs and across the parking lot. He’s out of sight before Sher can look back.
“Useless little…” I begin, but Sher rushes up past me, into the apartment. With his gone, her armor has fallen and I hear the sniffles in her wake. I follow her back into the apartment, slamming the door on the world and locking it behind us.
***
The envelope is wadded up on the table. Sher is lying on my bed, crying.
Again.
None of this is all her fault, but she’s always the one crying. I can’t stand it.
Curled away from the door, I lie down beside her without a word. I curve my body all around her, feeling her bones shake against mine. I move her hair off her face and leave small kisses on the back of her head. I cover her arms with mine and tell her it’ll be okay in whispers.
It makes her cry even harder.
My eyes wander across the bed, to the window on the other side. All I can see outside is the gray, evening sky as it spreads out and prepares to bed down, for the night.
What I see for Sher and I is that we’re down to two options now. I either give her the rest of the money she needs for the abortion or I commit to having a baby. Finding out whether or not the baby is mine won’t change the options. I’m not even sure that it should determine which one I choose.
We lay there a long time. Sher stops quivering and her breathing drops off to a pattern that is both heavy and consistent. My arms grow stiff beneath her and the heat radiating off her makes me sweat. I lay there anyway. I listen to her breathe, trying to make my lungs work in time with hers. When we’re both breathing in sync, the absolute calm that Sher’s presence brings me, returns. This one moment, in my bed beside her, is whole. Warm and safe and invincible, it feels like a beginning. And if I were able to lay beside her like this every day of my life, I think the end would feel as complete.
I eventually fall asleep, beside the tingling warmth of her. In the morning, when I wake, she is still there. Tucked under my arm, close to my ribs, safe and warm and complete.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I EASE OUT OF BED AND Sher stirs, but that’s about it. She sleeps like a brick and I’m feeling as relaxed as if I’ve been tenderized by one. I get out my paper and pencil and write a note to the baby.
Dear Baby,
Anyone would be lucky to have you as theirs. You have always been wanted, even if you weren’t planned. If you don’t know anything else, know this: your mom loves you more than anything, and I do too. You are perfect already. I want you to know that.
I dance around the whole paternity thing and finally slip the letter into the folder I keep in the closet. I can’t get my mind off what happened last night and when Sher wakes up, I just want her to forget all about Trent and his lousy fifty bucks.
One night of sleep has made everything seem easy and ridiculously clear. What I need to do is start filling up her bucket checklist, so she can get on with being a mom. It puts me in the position of being someone’s dad, whether that someone is related to me or not, but this morning, the worries about paternity seem a little fuzzy in contrast to doing what feels right.
I know exactly what I want to do. I sneak into the bathroom. I fill a glass with water and grab a washcloth. This could get messy.
Opening my gym bag soundlessly is next to impossible, since every tooth on the zipper shouts in the silence of the room. I finally unzip it like I’m ripping off a Band-Aid. It’s fine. Sher doesn’t even miss a snore.
I retrieve the foil packet I had stowed in the front pocket a couple days ago, after I had first gone to the store to get her pancake ingredients. I creep back into bed, trying not to rustle the foil too much. Ripping open the pouch goes the same as unzipping the gym bag, and I end up doing it fast. Sher still doesn’t move.
I shake out the contents and draw the covers back, so Sher’s arm is exposed. This will be the critical part.
Dabbing the washcloth into the water, I place the little paper square, with the lick-and-stick tattoo on it, against her arm. I hold the edge of the moist washcloth on top and hope that there is not enough of a sensation of water to make her pee the bed.
But Sher sleeps like she’s made of concrete. I decorate her bicep with a princess crown and a banner that has Mother splashed across it. I continue down her arm to make a collage of ice cream cones, ponies, and stars, which she messes up when she rolls over unexpectedly. But it turns out to be a blessing. She reveals her belly.
Still in her clothes from last night, her top is bunched up and her pants are slung low. The little bubble of her belly is right out there, begging to be inked.
I plaster a monkey, a chick and a bunny on her, none of which are very badass tattoos, but since two fold over and stick unexpectedly, it ends up looking more like she’s got a deformed monkey riding a chick with a bunny ear growing out of it’s butt. That makes it a little more badass, and I’m satisfied with my work.
Then I get another idea. I’m an expert at slipping her pants off while she’s sleeping, so I do. I drop them over the edge of the bed and she shifts her legs suddenly. Halleluiah. The fleshy inner part of her thigh is like a blank canvas, just begging to be covered. Since no one is going to see it, I get creative. I altar my last monkey tattoo, positioning his arm so it looks like he’s swinging out from under the leg of her panties. I give the monkey the bulging eyes I cut from the goofy dragon tattoo, so he’s staring up at Sher’s bits. And that’s the moment I start thinking again and realize that when Sher goes to the doctor for her next check up, everyone will be able to see my handiwork.
When I try to suppress my laugh, it comes out as a tortured sneeze, which is what finally wakes her up.
“What are you doing?” she asks, glancing down at me. I am still nestled between her legs, with my cup of water, a pile of empty paper squares, and a damp washcloth. She sits up and looks down at the same time. Her mouth drops open a little.
“What the hell?” she says. She rubs the pervy monkey, swinging on the inside of her thigh and then gets a glimpse of color and yanks up her top to gape at her belly. Still confused from sleeping, she points at her own stomach. “What did you do?”
“You wanted to get a tattoo. So I got some for you.” I hold up the foil packet and read what’s stamped on it. “Funny Bunny and Friends, temporary tattoos.”
“Bunny?” she asks, squinting at me, still trying to make sense of it all.
“Yeah, well, the bunny…” I point to the monkey conglomerate, with the bunny ear shooting from its colon. She stares a while and I finally explain it simply with, “It’s not my fault. You moved.”
She giggles. “What about you?”
“No. I’m not a tat kind of a guy.”
“Yes you are,” she giggles, reaching for the packet. “If you did this to me, then I get to decorate you.”
“But I’ve got to go to work in a few days.”
“Then I’ll only put on one. They come off, right?”
“It says they’re temporary.”
“Then I’ll just put on one,” she says, climbing on top of me. I find it hard to object, to concentrate on anything, when she plants her knees on either side of my hips. That is, until she slaps a tattoo square down on my face.
“Not on my face!” I tell her. She squeezes my arms at my sides with h
er knees. “I can’t go to work like this!”
“Kind of like how you gave me this ginormous hickey?” she squeals. “It’s temporary! Quit being a baby! Stop moving or you’re going to mess it all up!”
I finally give in and let her do what she wants. They’re temporary anyway. When she finally rolls off me in a fit of giggles, I get up and go to the bathroom to look at the damage in the mirror.
She’s adhered a fuzzy spider, with googly eyes and wearing flailing roller skates, to my cheek.
“Very funny,” I tell her. I grab a wash cloth and run it under the tap. I rub over the spider, but the picture doesn’t even fade. I glop some soap on the rag and wipe at my cheek again. The spider stays put.
“It’s not coming off with soap,” I tell her. “What does it say to use on the package?”
I hear the foil rustle and a few seconds later, Sher’s giggling. When she sounds like she might be starting to hyperventilate, I turn off the water and return to the bedroom. She’s rolled onto her back, laughing so hysterically that there are tears running down her face, as she stomps the bed with one foot. The monkey on her thigh jumps like he’s laughing at me too.
“What?” I say. There’s a certain amount of dread that fills me, watching her laugh so hard. “What does it say?”
I take the foil packet from her. The way she’s going, I won’t get an answer out of her until next week. I read the directions twice, sure I missed something. I didn’t.
“It has to wear off?” I shout. “Are you kidding me? These are supposed to be temporary!”
“They are,” Sher chokes out between laughs. “Temporary, until they wear off!”
I groan. I am glad I am not going back to the office today.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHER SLEEPS ALL THE TIME and she sleeps hard. And since I’m home with her, I have to say that the naps are nice. We fall asleep on the bed, with the afternoon sunshine warming the sheets.
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