by A. R. Hadley
A fucking mess.
After wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she flushed the toilet and stared at the walls in a daze, resting her back against the side of the tub, tasting the sour on her palate and thinking of Cal.
Was he kissing someone else, like me?
She turned her head and grimaced, a metallic taste on her tongue. What she’d told her father earlier was true. She did trust Cal. He wouldn't kiss someone else. She was the fool.
Did Cal trust her? Could he? What had she done with that trust? Gone on a date with a wandering-Irish-strands-of-hair-in-his-eyeballs-lonely-rambling man. Why had she done that? Time apart didn't mean date or kiss or screw. Why couldn’t she allow Cal to send her a simple damn text message?
Funny … allow him. Who would’ve thought Cal needed her permission?
Maybe she held the cards. If only it were as simple as a game of poker. Ace high. Wild card. Risk.
But nothing was simple.
She accepted Cal despite herself, or she accepted herself, maybe. A little. Did she really accept him? Completely? She still had the bit of resentment between her teeth.
What she wouldn't have done for Cal's hand on her butt cheek right about now. His harsh but steadfast palm would’ve removed the stain of capital-W wrong and the questions. His hand and its blunt mastery of her illogical musings would’ve released her mind from prison, given her reasons and answers, stopped time, made a lie truth, stripped away bullshit with sting, and left only pleasure in its fabulous wake.
She regretted telling Cal not to message her anymore. She could’ve used a song right about now, one of his, more than a pink ass cheek.
After starting the shower, she removed her clothing, hoping to wash it off — the blemish, the guilt, the tears, the nausea, the sour, the hurt, and the pain.
But before she stepped into the tub, she grabbed her phone and booted up one of Prescott's infamous songs. She could stand to listen to it. She had to.
Originally a favorite of his, he had said, when done by Billie Holiday. He’d sent her two versions last week before the texting ban — Holiday's and Eddie Vedder's — explaining the differences, of course. A toss up, but Annie preferred Vedder's. Ukulele Songs. Track four. Play...
The man's unique voice echoed in the bathroom hauntingly, proclaiming love. Steam fogged the glass, wet the wallpaper. Annie stood under the balm of the streaming shower head and only heard Cal.
His voice.
His sentiment.
His love.
It was … greater than she could know.
too early
too late
reap what you sow
live
harvest the rows
no regret
no fear
no waiting
only now
sky
sun
clouds
your eyes
creating words
your lips
making silent promises
me
us
making life
I have every intention of keeping
Procrastination
the putting off (intentionally and habitually) of doing something that should be done
Annie sat at the Allen’s table in the nook, nauseous and exhausted, drinking hot tea on a Friday morning.
It wasn't unusual — not that week, anyway.
She’d felt sick and sleepy every day since she’d been back in Miami, and at first, she’d assumed it was because of the anxiety she felt in preparing to move away.
First impressions were often wrong.
She brought the mug of chamomile to her mouth and bit the rim while skimming over details and counting days inside her mind. Because that was when it finally dawned on her how strange it was for her stomach to be tied up — incredibly tied up — for how many days in a row?
Numbering the days of nausea — still cradling the mug and nibbling its rim — she realized for the first time her period was, in fact, severely late.
Well, it was always late.
Never on time.
Always irregular.
But this time, the atypical made her heart skip several beats. It had been too many days, right? How many? Count. Count. Count. Goddamnit. Her breasts had hurt for, what? Two weeks.
Tiredness, sore breasts, and a sick stomach.
Annie shifted from the mug and from Maggie as she became aware she was visibly changing — ironically, like a chameleon — because she could see her face reflected in the glass. Turning several colors before turning pale, eyes becoming stark, almost blank, she stared out into fog. Maggie was a blur.
Annie became completely immobilized, yet she managed to bring the mug away from her lips toward the table like a puppet being controlled by a master.
Lifeless, Annie set the mug down only by means of the jerk from the master's string, and then she let go of the handle.
The muscles in her body went limp. The only muscle working was her heart. It beat faster, and her brain … it marched on vehemently, racing.
"Are you okay? Is the tea helping to settle your stomach?" Maggie asked, trying to meet Annie's eyes from across the table.
Annie continued to stare out into the distance, thinking about the last time she was with Cal. The only time they were together that he did not wear a condom.
The. Only. Time.
The night he’d pinned her against the wall in the alley, mad with passion. How could she be pregnant? She shouldn’t have been ovulating. Goddammit. Not that she’d ever been an expert at tracking her cycle.
But come on.
One time.
One fucking time she’d had sex without a condom — in her entire life. This could not be happening. Besides, she’d talked to Cal. She’d reassured him. They’d discussed it — children. God. Right. Children. Cal had said he never wanted to be a father. He’d said one day Annie would want children.
Did she want children?
Out of all the things he’d said to her that day, all she could focus on was the one thing he’d not said to her, yet she trusted all the ways he’d said the three words to her anyway, remembering the way he’d made her feel those words over and over and over.
Don't you know how I feel about you every time I touch you?
She knew how he felt. Just like she knew she was pregnant.
Instinct.
And she could not be pregnant. Not now. Not at twenty-five, ready to travel the world. She was just irregular … like always. Suck it up. Mask on your face. Breathe.
"Annie," Maggie said louder than before. "Are you okay?"
"What day is it?"
Maggie stared at Annie like she had two heads. "It's Friday, sweetie.”
"No, what is the date?"
Annie stood, turned around, and looked out the window. The sun was absent behind the dark, nearly black clouds filling the sky as far as the eye could see. The impending storm matched Annie’s mood. The impending storm — with its clouds, eerie stillness, and necessity — matched her mind. The clouds took over her entire not-not-not-pregnant being. Her eyes became slits, staring out at nature.
Maggie glanced down at the date on the newspaper. “It’s the twelfth."
Annie inhaled. Her hands began to shake, and her knees turned to jelly. She’d been gone almost three weeks. And she honestly couldn’t remember her last period. Had it been the night they’d had dinner here? The four of them.
Hold it together.
Lock your legs.
Mask. On.
Heart off sleeve.
She wouldn’t tell Maggie her inner assumption, and at that point, it was just a guess. Right? A guess. Except her intuition rarely failed her.
"I'm sorry. I just realized I have some shopping to do." Annie faced her friend and tried to smile but instead twitched. “I just remembered Tab’s anniversary is coming up.”
Had Maggie bought the little white lie? Although her statement wasn’t a complete fabrication. Tabit
ha’s anniversary actually was coming up soon.
Annie hoped she’d wiped her emotions clean off her sleeve, without a trace. She hoped she wouldn't panic. Taking air deep into the pockets of her lungs, she took several breaths. She hadn’t had a panic attack since that evening at Cal's. A record she wouldn’t break now.
"Today?" Maggie said. "Let me take you. I have some things to pick up too.”
Annie managed an, “Okay,” even though she really wanted to politely say, “No, thank you.”
Lunch and shopping and a pregnancy test. Another normal day.
The sky inferred it wasn't just another normal day. Annie remained for a moment at the large window in the nook. She heard the rain fall before she saw it. It seemed to drop faster than she could process thoughts, spilling from the melancholy sky in sheets.
She peered out toward the sea, mesmerized. The ocean was obscure amidst the haze of rain and gusts. The wind blew fast and hard, replacing the haunting stillness of a moment ago. The pressure beat against the windows, tapped the glass, and whipped violently through the trees. The sounds of the storm and the crack of thunder couldn’t drown out her thoughts or fears.
I'm pregnant. I know I’m pregnant.
Her inner voice was a whimper in her ear as the lightning struck and thunder cracked. She had no doubt in her mind. Flash. Snap. Crack. She was pregnant.
Shopping complete, test bought discreetly — the rain had come and gone, but the sky remained gray — Annie told Maggie she was going upstairs to rest.
And so, she went upstairs to do anything but rest.
Once in her bedroom, Annie paused and looked around. The room looked the way it had when she’d first arrived in Miami. Devoid of self, picture frames leaning against the walls and in the closet. Except now the photographs had come down from the gallery's walls.
Nothing was up.
Was everything different? Would pregnancy make her different? Had Miami changed her? Her father had asked that question.
As Annie slipped off her shoes, she pulled at the nothing at her neck the way a man loosens his tie in haste. Placing her purse on the bed, she unzipped the main pocket and stared down at its contents like she was looking at a coffin. Her heartbeat slowed, and it clawed its way up into her throat and tapped the veins. Thump, thump, thump.
Palm over her neck, stroking, grabbing, and pinching at the skin, she couldn't get the necktie loose enough.
A pregnancy. A baby. No. Not a baby. Work. Not a baby. Photography. Carmel. Her life. Her plans. What plans? There were no plans. I'm not Cal. I don't master plan. I don't play chess.
Nine months of a new plan. Eighteen years of a plan.
Annie kept looking at the purse, staring at the test on top, continuing to think yet drawing blanks, ready to burst into flames. By the time she finally pulled out the box, her entire body had begun to shake with adrenaline and nerves. She would combust. Actually fucking combust.
In the bathroom, Annie carefully read the directions: Two lines equaled pregnant. One line equaled not pregnant.
She took note of the time on her cell phone — 2:56 — sat on the toilet, wet the test strip, and waited. 2:57. 2:58. Annie stood, buttoned, washed. She wouldn't even glance at that damn stick until the time on the phone allowed her. Instead, she glanced in the mirror, peering really.
She didn’t see herself. She didn’t see her reflection.
Annie saw an unknown woman gazing back at her from inside the mirror. A deviant, irresponsible girl who should’ve taken a morning-after pill. She wouldn't have taken it anyway. What did that mean? She wasn't ready to ask questions. Looking away from the eyes of the unknown, she waited, her palms pressed on the counter. Her toe knuckles bent and creased, and beads of sweat gathered under her arms.
Annie waited, suffocating.
She waited.
Waited.
The five minutes were an eternity. Relativity played an ugly game. And then it was over. 3:01. She looked down at the skinny, plastic stick as it rested comfortably against toilet tissue on the counter. Lines visible. She picked up the tube and held it closer, confirming her eyes hadn’t deceived her. But there was no mistaking it. There were two pink lines in the window.
Two lines. Not one.
Pregnant.
Annie was pregnant with a baby she wasn't ready for by a man who’d said he could never be a father — by a man who wasn't man enough to tell her he loved her — out loud.
Terrified, she set the stick on the counter and shook uncontrollably. Violently. Shaking more than in the kitchen. Shaking more than in the bedroom or on the toilet. Annie shook. Shit, she might puke.
Taking one last look at the two lines — one solid pink and the other faint but present, definitely present, two lines — she crumpled up all the evidence while trembling and uttering quiet, broken sounds. The incoherent noises swallowed the dam of her held back tears. But she stuffed it all deep down into her bathroom trash can — the fucking test and the panic.
The anxiety wouldn't fit in the cylinder. A square peg in a round hole.
She heaved, beginning to hyperventilate.
No. No. No. No panic attack.
Annie sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and leaned forward, arching her heels up and curling her toes against the ground. Elbows resting on her knees, she put her hands in her hair and concentrated on breathing.
She pulled on the strands harshly, grabbing them just so she could feel something, anything but the numb. Since when did she despise numb?
Annie sat there on the edge of the toilet, on the edge of not-not-not-pregnant reason, and remained there until she was so weary, she simply had to lay down.
Late Saturday afternoon, Annie shared the table in the nook with John and Maggie. The light from the setting sun was on the opposite side of the house, the ocean calm, and the room was wonderfully cozy as usual.
The chandelier above them hung low over the table, light on, its shadow casting shapes all along the only wall in the room without a window. Annie glanced intermittently at the dancing gray spots it created as they discussed their plans for the evening.
Her last evening in Miami.
Annie was leaving at noon the next day, and it was going to be a farewell meal for the three friends. It was still early as far as eating dinner was concerned but not for enjoying a snack. Maggie had melted a wedge of brie.
The cheese sat on a plate, oozing from the inside, slightly bronzed, with apricot preserves and oval crackers at its side. The heavenly ensemble was already almost gone. A bottle of red wine sat beside the cheese. It, too, was almost gone.
Comfortable, talking, laughing, and munching, Annie watched the speckled wall and glanced often at the ocean she couldn’t bear to leave. She tried to conceal the dread. She ignored the sting in the pit of her stomach, the fucking wasp sting, and smiled.
She was doing a marvelous job.
Emotions wrapped.
Pregnancy a secret.
Eating crackers and cheese and smiling.
It was the finest performance she’d ever given. Tabitha would’ve been proud. The feat was interrupted by the ring of John's phone, an old-fashioned telephone ring. Two times it sounded before he swiped the screen, his expression changing as he obviously recognized the caller. Apparently, John couldn't hide his feelings.
Fuck. Cal might find out. Not that she was pregnant — he wasn't that perceptive, but Cal would realize she was in Miami and had broken her promise.
Promise me you will come back to Miami. The promise meant she was to see him. It had been unspoken but understood, the way most things were between them.
The moment John said, “Hello,” Annie’s face fell. Cheese and wine and apricots and Maggie's smile couldn't stop it.
"No," John said into the phone. "We’re going out. It's not good."
John shook his head and paused while Maggie and Annie stayed quiet, hanging onto every word of the one-sided conversation.
"What happened?" John paused. "I don
't think that's a good idea." Half second. "I told you. We’re getting ready to go out."
God, why is Cal drilling him? Such a bastard.
"Yes. With Maggie,” John said. “What the hell is going on?"
If Annie thought John's face had changed before, she’d been wrong, because John’s face now transformed into something indescribable.
Annie knew the look: shock.
"What?" Annie blurted without thinking, then covered her mouth.
John nodded. "Yes." A blip of a second passed. "A couple of days." Seconds. "Fine." John took the device away from his ear and punched a button on the screen, ending the call.
The chair Annie sat in started to tip backward from the force with which she stood.
John caught it and said, "Wait."
Clutching her stomach, Annie turned and went past the staircase, toward the kitchen counter. She had no time for talking or explaining. No time for looking into anyone's eyes.
"You told him?" Annie called out, her back to them both.
"He asked." John stood at the bottom of the staircase, voice like a lullaby. "I'm not going to lie."
"Let's go out now," Maggie interjected.
John gave her the eye, an evil one.
A thick lock of hair was on the end of Annie's finger, twisted and looping without her consent. A baby was in her uterus without her consent. A man was on his way over — she knew it — without her consent.
She couldn't tell him.
Not tonight.
Why had he called?
Why had John answered?
What was the reason for John's horrified face, and the fine?
Annie's heart sank straight to her intestines. The pounding in her throat started. Maybe she was coming down with something. It hurt to swallow. Rubbing her damp palms on her jeans, she looked around the kitchen for relief but found nothing.
Fridge. Stove. Dishwasher.
Nothing.
She couldn't see Cal's face. No, absolutely not. She couldn't smell him. Couldn't be within reach of him.
