by Kim Bailey
“Mr. Anderson,” my professor calls from the front of the room, as the class is dismissed. “Can I see you a moment?”
Gathering the books I didn’t bother opening today, I wade slowly through the sea of exiting students. I’m the lone fish swimming upstream.
Two girls in a lively conversation block my final steps. Neither of them move out of my way as I approach, they don’t even acknowledge my existence. They’re both animated and passionately involved in their conversation about the role of religion in the 21st century. Was that part of the syllabus? I’ve no clue, but these girls seem deeply invested. They’ve blocked out the world, engrossed in a friendly argument they each seem intent on winning.
I used to have passion like that.
It’s how I felt about skateboarding. Every time I’d hop on my deck, or stand at the top of a ramp, I’d feel a thrill—the drive to win.
But I’ve lost that. Not the ability—at least not all—but the obsessive determination to do something with it.
I’ve lost my passion.
The last time I felt anything close to it was with a drunk girl in a bar, debating the existence of love. We kissed, and I forgot the world around us.
Squeezing past the arguing girls, I tiredly stride to my expectant teacher.
“Hello, Caleb,” she greets. “How are your parents?”
Why does everyone in this town know everyone else?
“They’re good, thanks.”
“And you? How have you been feeling?”
And there it is; the unsolicited concern. No matter where I go, people seem to know who I am—know what I am. They all know I’m a survivor. I can’t escape it. I’m almost six years cancer free, but it still feels like there’s a noose around my neck. It’s not always choking, but it’s always there, just the same.
“Fine, thank you.” My jaw begins to ache from clenching.
“I hope you’re not finding your course load too overwhelming.”
“Not at all,” I lie, frustrated with this conversation.
Frustrated with it all.
“Second year can be difficult, Caleb. I’m here to help you succeed, however I’m also obligated to remind you there are only two days remaining to withdraw.”
“Withdraw? You mean drop the class?”
“Caleb, you’ve not completed the assignments, and you’re not participating in class. I don’t think you even looked up from your desk today. Still, I believe with some effort you can achieve the credit. It won’t be easy. However, special considerations can be made and extra help is available. I’d hate to see you give up after everything you’ve overcome to be here.”
“I understand and I appreciate your concern. Thanks for the heads up.”
That’s it. I don’t wait to hear any more of her inspiring lecture. I know what comes next and I’m not interested in hearing about her hopes for my future. I’m certainly not interested in receiving any special considerations.
I can’t take any more of people’s good intentions.
If I’d missed two years of school because I’d gone to jail, would she be so eager to help me? Not likely. Hell, I’ve met kids who repeated two years of school and didn’t get the offered help that I have.
It irritates me.
Why do people feel so sorry for me? They didn’t know me when I was sick. They only have second hand information about my illness. Yet, they look at me like I’m someone special. All because I’m still alive.
My conversation with Zadie rushes forward—what she said about being tired of the pity—I feel it. Deep in my bones. I’m so sick of being a goddamn charity case. Sick and tired of feeling like I’ll never escape it.
Walking out of the hall, I decide that I’m done for the day. I’m not sure why I’ve continued coming to school. Why’d I even come back here? I barely passed first year. What made me think second would be any better? I’ve been down this path, I know where it ends and I’ve no interest in going there.
Maybe I really am done—for more than just the day.
Maybe I’m just done.
Leaving my car in the student parking lot, I drop off my bag and head across campus on foot.
The late summer sun is brilliant. The days may be getting shorter but they don’t seem to be getting any cooler. Everywhere I look, people roam the campus grounds. They take advantage of the heat while they still can. Before it’s too late and they’re forced to give up their shorts and sandals.
For once, I don’t want anything to do with them. It’s the strangest I’ve ever felt. The drudgery has morphed into something else. It’s a full-fledged feeling of displacement.
I’m not supposed to be here.
There’s somewhere else I’d rather be. I’ve already been there, I’ve already felt what it’s like to be in the right place, with the right people. And I know this isn’t it.
When I reach the building on the other side of campus, I don’t hesitate. I stride right into the registrar’s office. Ignoring the sign telling me the office is closed, I bypass the empty waiting area and walk straight up to the desk.
The registrar stands away from the desk, her back to me. Her shoulders are tight, so is the knot of her perfectly coiffed blond hair. I watch as her red tipped fingers tap in irritation across the top of the photocopier.
“I need to withdraw,” I tell the back of her head.
She turns, and I see nothing but contempt. Until she realizes it’s me. “Oh, Caleb... no!” my sister, Celeste, cries, the disdain replaced with overbearing concern.
“Hey, Cece.” I smile, despite the hard glare she’s trapped me in. “I think university dropout has a nice ring to it, don’t you?”
“You can’t. I refuse to allow it.” Her retort is weak—almost defeated sounding—and her eyes aren’t darkened with their normal hostility.
“It’s not up to you. Either you help me with it now, or I come back later when the other woman’s here. What’s her name? The one you don’t like? I’m sure she’ll be happy to help me.”
“I don’t like any of them,” she grumbles.
“Will you do this for me, please?”
Cece’s a hard edge. I thought she might change when she divorced her husband and moved here from Toronto. But small-town life in North Bay doesn’t seem to suit her either. She’s still angry and mean. I’ve never understood why she’s this way—she just is what she is—but I do know she’s got a soft spot. It’s a big squishy center that only I seem able to touch.
“You ask like it’s a simple thing, like I can just look the other way while you throw away your future. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call Mom and Dad right now.”
“Because I’m suffocating, Cece. You know I am, and you know my future doesn’t hinge on a Liberal Arts degree.”
The stone statue of her face doesn’t change but I can see the shine of unshed tears gathering in her eyes. “I know,” she agrees. “We’re the ones who’re smothering you, aren’t we?”
“No, I promise, it’s not you. It’s me.” She quirks her perfectly manicured eyebrow at me, making me laugh. “Jesus, it sounds like I’m breaking up with you.”
This is the moment her coworker—the one she doesn’t like—decides to return to the office. Her steps are hesitant as she stares us down. She obviously caught the tail end of our conversation.
Celeste plants her red clawed hands on her round hips, and assaults her coworker with a look of disgust. “Oh, for God’s sake, Janice! He’s my baby brother and he was making a joke. Get your mind back on your own shit—you’ve got enough of it.”
Poor Janice looks properly scolded as she scurries off to a desk on the other side of the room. I wonder if she chose to sit that far away from my sister on purpose.
“Fine,” Cece tells me. “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you. You’re a life-saver.”
“No, that’s Eric’s title. I’m just hoping to make the life he saved a little happier.” She smiles at me, and for once it’s not forced. “One of us has to
be happy, and you know it’s never going to be me.”
“I’m feeling better already.”
“Good. I’ll file the paperwork. You need to take your delinquent ass home and tell our parents about this decision. But don’t you dare tell them it was me,” she warns. Then raising her voice says, “You can tell Mom and Dad it was Janice who helped you drop out of school.”
With a malicious smile—the kind I’m used to seeing from her—she shoos me out of her office. I think she’s happiest when she’s making other people miserable.
As I head back toward my car, I realize I’m smiling too. For the first time in three weeks, it feels like I’ve truly got something worth smiling about.
Something real. Something other than the memory of a kiss.
***
Zadie
TWO FUZZY PINK LINES assault my vision. The longer I stare, the fuzzier they become. No, wait... that’s just my eyes losing focus.
Blink.
They’re still there. Squinting changes nothing. No matter how hard I concentrate, two pink lines still stare back at me. The symbol created by their intersection is concrete.
Plus. Positive. Baby on fucking board.
I’ve done the math in my head, on my fingers, once on my toes, and I’ve looked at the calendar on my phone, repeatedly. I still can’t wrap my head around it.
How is it possible that I’ve been a walking, talking, human incubator for the last four weeks and not known? Although, looking back, it should have been obvious. I have all the standard symptoms. The mood swings. The lethargy. The sensitive, aching boobs.
And to think, if Chante hadn’t stuck the test kit in my hand, I’d have carried on in blissful ignorance. How many periods would I have missed before it registered? How much weight could I have gained before I realized it wasn’t just the carbs?
Oh God! I may have just narrowly avoided becoming one of those women who give birth on a public toilet. Raging diarrhea? Nope. Surprise! It’s a baby.
My hands are shaking so hard, the stupid pink plus sign looks like a moving target. My whole body’s vibrating with nervous energy. Despite the wobble in my legs, I manage to walk calmly to my living room. Chante’s there waiting. She sits with her feet propped, watching television.
“Well? You knocked up, or what?” she quips between bites of her apple.
“How did you know? You knew,” I accuse, waiving the positive pee stick at her. “But how did you know?” I shake my head in disbelief. I’m still not certain I trust it, even with the evidence staring me in the face.
“I could just tell.”
“But I couldn’t tell, how could you?”
“You, my friend, were in what we professionals like to call, really big denial. Sorry, but I couldn’t stand the excuses any longer.” Singing, she tells me, “Time to face the music.” Like that’s going to help me come to terms with this any easier.
“But, I don’t want to face the music. I don’t think I like this song.” I cross my arms and pout, like I’m a toddler about to have a temper-tantrum. Is this a normal reaction to pregnancy?
“I know, babe, but I’m here to sing it with you, and I can call some back-up dancers if you want.” Her sincerity rings through, despite her sarcasm.
“Yes. Wait, I’m confused. You mean cry, right? Because the only back-up dancers I want are Ben and Jerry, and you have a terrible singing voice. I don’t need any more trauma.”
“I do not! But if it makes you feel better, you can sing, cry, or curse. Oh! We could write a nasty letter to Trojan and then make a voodoo doll of Sean. Whatever it takes.” She pats the spot on the couch beside her, silently urging me to take a seat.
But I can’t seem to stop my nervous pacing, not when her words act as an unwanted reminder of the last time Sean and I had sex. The memory of him pinning me to the bed, his brutal aggression, my sticky thighs. “There was no condom,” I say, like it’s a fucking revelation. That awful moment—my shameful silence, unable to stand up for myself, to say no—and this is the result.
“Birth control?” she asks.
Fuck. “No,” I whisper, unable to find enough air to form words. It feels like there’s a vacuum sucking all the oxygen from the room. Are the walls closing in?
My eyes well up, blurring my vision. It makes no difference, I’m already afflicted with blinding stupidity. How did I not see this coming? How many times can I hit my head up against the same wall before I learn my lesson that it hurts? The wall hasn’t changed its appearance, it’s still the same shade of perfect, store bought prettiness. The wall didn’t change its name, it didn’t try to hide the fact that it was still the same fucking wall. Nope. I am just a naive idiot who can’t see the wall until she walks face first into it.
I feel like the biggest moron on the planet and I have no one to blame but myself.
“Well then, chocolate and ice cream sound about right. I can throw in a fried pickle or something—I hear pregnant chicks dig that sort of thing.”
Thank God for best friends. She understands my need to make light of this. She knows to crack stupid jokes before I fall apart into uncontrollable sobbing.
“I don’t like this,” I tell her, because I’ve no words to describe what I’m feeling. It’s like I’m losing control. Like this can’t possibly be real. How can this be real? “Chante, I’ve barely got my life on track, barely know how to take care of myself. And Sean? Fuck, I just got rid of him. I thought it was going to be permanent this time—I don’t want to let him infiltrate my life all over again.”
“He’s not going to.” Her stern doctor tone morphs her face to a serious mask. “This baby, no matter what you decide to do about it, has nothing to do with him. You will decide what’s right for you and he will live with the consequences.”
She sounds convincing—and I so badly want to be convinced. The thought of Sean coming back into my life, for any reason, spikes my blood pressure.
He’s a filthy, lying, no good... father of my unborn child.
There’s no question about the paternity. From the very first back-alley interlude, there’s been no one else. Right now, I kind of wish I was the tramp I’ve joked at being—anything to make it possible the baby belongs to someone else.
My breathing feels short and ragged. My whole body shakes.
“Zadie! Are you hyperventilating?” Chante scowls at me. “Get your ass over here and sit down.”
Huffing out a frustrated groan, I do as I’m told, plopping down on the seat beside her, forcing my body to calm.
“Listen to me.” Her hand grasps my shoulder, making me pay attention. “Sean is not coming back.” Her assurance should bolster me, instead I’m laden with doubt.
There’s a sick part of me that feels she needs a man to confirm her worth. It’s a leftover taught by my mother. My childhood experience showed me, without a man, I’m likely nothing. I know it’s not true. I want to wipe the lesson out of my memory. Yet, it’s still there, whispering softly in my ear, forcing me to second guess and doubt.
“But shouldn’t I want him to come back?” I ask pitifully. “Chante, I’m having his baby! What kind of mother am I going to be if I can’t even stand the thought of my child’s father?”
“You’re going to be the best damn mother. If you want it, you’ll make it happen.” Her grip on my shoulder loosens as she strokes reassuring circles there instead.
“How? I don’t know what being a good parent looks like. You know I grew up with two very bad examples.”
“Please, give me a break.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t want to hear any more of this woe-is-me crap. You’re not going to make the mistakes your parents did, and you’re not going to let Sean turn you inside-out again. You can do this.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m good. It’s good. It’ll be good, right?” I’m not convincing anyone, certainly not my limbs, which feel like rubber.
“Calm your tits, babe. Everything will be good.” Her voice falters and her hand spasms oddly, befor
e pulling away.
Why is she faltering? Chante is the queen of speak your mind, she never stumbles over what to say. Or how to say it.
Fear and anxiety roll the contents of my belly—or maybe that’s morning sickness taking hold. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You’ll be good,” she reasserts. “But, there’s something else we should talk about.” She hesitates again, and it puts me farther on edge. “Now might not be the best time.”
“Seriously? What could possibly be worse than me being knocked up by my deadbeat ex-boyfriend?” A multitude of horrible thoughts stream through my mind. Sucking in a gasp, I exclaim, “Please, tell me you’re not dying!”
“What? You’re crazy. No! No, nothing that serious, don’t worry.” Her laughter is stiff and fake. “It’s not that big a deal. It can wait.”
“Good,” I tell her, even though I don’t believe her. “I’d like to deal with one life-changer at a time, please.”
Staring back at the disgusting pink lines of the test stick, I wonder what my next step should be. I want to spill all my secret fears to Chante. The fear of not being as capable as I seem. The fear that my habitual bad choices will make it impossible for me to raise a child on my own. The fear of being alone. I want her to continue soothing me, reassuring me, but I’m wary.
Her stuttered responses make me feel like she’s hiding something. Something big. Something a hell of a lot more important than she’s letting on. Maybe it’s my altered hormones, but suddenly, I don’t trust my best friend. Not fully.
And that feeling’s worse than the pregnancy shock.
“I don’t know if I’m equipped to handle this,” I admit.
“Babe, you can do anything. You’re strong. You’re smart. You’ve got this.”
Coming from Chante, who’s the strongest, smartest woman I know, it’s a huge compliment. Trust issues aside, she’s the only person I have in my life who’s capable, not to mention willing, to help me. Yet, it’s still not enough to satisfy the voice in the back of my mind, belittling me for being so stupid, again.
I’m just going to have to learn to deal.
I’ve made it through a childhood of drama. I survived having my young heart shattered, learning to rebound with flair. And I still manage to wake up with a smile each day. My life’s not perfect, but I’m making my way. I’ve battled on, even if Sean did throw me off course for a little while.
