by Tawni Waters
As I was falling asleep, Mom came into my room. She was wearing blue pajamas. I will always remember that. She said, “How’s my monkey?” Which is stupid. I was seventeen, and she still talked to me like I was seven at bedtime. If she thought I would allow it, I bet she would have still been reading me bedtime stories. But that’s how Mom was. She was the epitome of the word “maternal.” I opened my eyes, said “fine,” and closed them again. Just like that, I shut out my last glimpse of her face. I didn’t open my eyes again, not even when she stopped at the door and said, “I love you, kid.”
That was the last time I heard her voice.
I didn’t say, “I love you too.” If I had, I could comfort myself with that. The last thing I ever said to her was “I love you,” I’d think as I was falling asleep at night. But it wasn’t. I was too tired. I didn’t answer her at all. The last full sentence I uttered, about a half hour before that, was, “Hey, Mom, where the hell are the Cheez-Its?” or something equally profound as I foraged in the pantry. I have pieced that much together. I was standing there, and I said something mildly snarky that conveyed my displeasure at how she had organized the kitchen.
Do ghosts float around thinking about the last things the living said to them? Do they wonder, “Why did she have to ask about Cheez-Its? Did my final moments have to be so inglorious?” I imagine that even for them, those last ten or so words they hear take on more resonance than all of the words they heard in their lives. Does my mom sit up on some ghost cloud wondering why the last words she heard before she shuffled off her mortal coil had to be about snack foods? Does she wonder why her daughter killed her? Does she think I’m an ungrateful bitch after all she did for me? I mean, she gave up everything for me, and I murdered her.
Intent or not, that’s what it was.
I said the last time I heard Mom’s voice is when she said, “I love you, kid.” But I can’t fool you, can I? You already know that wasn’t the last time I heard her voice. The last time I heard my mom, she was screaming.
Here’s the part I’ve never told you. When she died, she was screaming my name.
• • •
As I turn onto the freeway, all the rage I’ve been feeling since Mom died gathers in my belly and rushes into my hand on the throttle. I hate Mom for dying. I hate god for letting her. I hate myself for killing her. I still feel like I’m dying, but I don’t care anymore. I want to die. I squeeze hard, relishing the engine roaring in my ears and the pavement rushing along below me, getting off on the thought that one quick jerk of the handlebars is all that stands between me and certain death. It wouldn’t be such a terrible way to die. There are worse ways to go out. Just ask my mom. Oh, wait, you can’t. She’s dead.
One day when I was little, Mom and I drove up on this accident. A biker had lost control of his motorcycle and ended up bleeding out on the asphalt. Either he or his bike had flown for a while. The motorcycle lay in a crumpled heap twenty feet away from the body. I wondered if it was the man or the motorcycle that soared up over the pavement. If it was the man, what did he feel as he was flying? Ecstasy? Terror?
Whatever he felt, it didn’t last long because he was no longer with us. I just knew. He didn’t look like a person anymore. Something vital was gone.
Well, yeah. His life was gone. Isn’t that what vital means? The accident was horrifying, all that blood, and yet, even then, I knew the horror was for us, the living. The dead man felt nothing. At least I thought he didn’t. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was off floating on a cloud somewhere. Maybe he was standing by, invisible, staring in bewilderment at the hunk of bloody flesh that used to be his body. Maybe he was in hell.
Hell. Now there’s a particularly sinister version of afterlife entertainment. Whoever came up with that notion was a psychopath. I heard my mom burn for a split second. The sound of it was enough to torture me for the rest of my life. Any god who would burn someone over and over for all eternity is a god I’d rather not know. That’s all I have to say. Lucky for me, I don’t believe in god.
Still, speeding along, watching the trees whiz past, contemplating death, I pray anyway. “God, give me a sign.” I don’t know why I do it. You know how they say there are no atheists in foxholes? Maybe this—me barreling down the highway at seventy-two miles per hour with nothing but a steel horse standing between me and death—is my foxhole. And if it is, it’s deep. I started digging it when I lit that candle. I dug some more when I fucked Dean on that beach. I hit the bottom when I told Dean the baby wasn’t his.
Nothing happens. No lightning bolts. No epiphanies. No visions. Just me pretending I’m Mario Andretti, thinking death might not be such a bad idea. But then, another thought comes into my head. A baby may be growing in me. If I drive this motorcycle over the edge of a cliff, two lives might be lost. I know it’s stupid. It’s just an embryo. But when I think about it, I feel way less alone.
Warmth rushes through me, like that day on the beach with Dean. I think I might love the maybe-baby sleeping inside me. I start to cry again, and I slow down. Way down. A sign up ahead says EXIT HERE. I do. I don’t know why. I guess it’s because I asked for a sign from god, and I think it’s possible god took me literally.
I turn into the town at the end of the exit, and it’s small. Just a gas station, a convenience store, and some trailers, as far as I can tell. I pull up in front of the store and turn off my bike. A man in a cowboy hat walks by. “Nice ride,” he says.
“Thanks.” I yank off my helmet and wipe my face, hoping I don’t look as shitty as I feel, and that if I do, the store isn’t packed.
It’s not. Inside, I’m the only customer. Rows of dusty food line the shelves. I don’t think this place gets much business. I wander the aisles, picking up packets of beef jerky, bags of chips, and bottles of water. I eye these items nonchalantly and then put them back, knowing damn well I didn’t come here for food. I meander until I find the aisle I’m looking for. Tampons. Diapers. Baby wipes. And pregnancy tests. I pick one up. “Quick response,” it says. Do I want a quick response? Am I ready for that? Do I want to know at all?
I glance over at the counter guy. He’s talking on his cell phone with his back to me. I imagine walking up to him and laying the test on the counter. It would be bad enough if it were a girl, but a guy? No way, man. I put the test back on the shelf and take a few steps toward the door. I stop, realizing that if I don’t do this now, I may never do it. I may wait until I am as big as a house to admit I’m pregnant. And by then, my options for dealing with the pregnancy will be limited. If I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant. Pretending I’m not isn’t going to make it go away, any more than pretending Mom isn’t dead will make her come back. I walk back to the shelf, pick up the test, and glance at the guy. He’s still on his phone.
My phone dings. I take it out. Dean has texted. Harley, we need to talk.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. Then I drop the test in too. The bell over the door chimes as I walk out.
Six
Speed seems to be my demon today. I’m possessed by it. Now that I have the pregnancy test, I want to get it over with as quickly as possible. I should probably go back to the room, tell Dean the truth, and let him hold my hand while I take the test. But I can’t. I’m not sure he’d believe the baby is his anyway. He almost certainly hates me. I can barely handle my own emotions. I don’t need his piled on top of them. So instead of driving back to Dean, I race farther down the freeway—not as fast as before—until I come to the next exit. I pull off.
This town is similar to the last one—a few houses, a convenience store, a shabby motel. Which of these locations might be ideal for finding out whether or not I’m pregnant? I could break into one of the houses. I’ve already shoplifted. Might as well continue my career as a criminal. “Well, that escalated quickly,” I imagine Dean saying, and I laugh in spite of myself. But I’m way too tired to bust out some unsuspecting homeowner’s window. I sett
le for the motel. The proverbial two birds with one stone. I can take the test and then take a nap.
The girl at the counter is young, my age, maybe a year or two older. Her hair is black at the roots, blond at the ends. She drinks her Diet Coke and pointedly ignores me even though I’m two feet away and the only other person in the room.
“Hi,” I finally say.
“Hi.” She says it like a cuss word. She’s clearly not happy to have a customer.
“Sorry to intrude,” I say, matching her tone. “You have any rooms?”
She rolls her eyes as if I have an IQ lower than plankton. “Uh, yeah. You think we get many guests?” She waves her hand around, as if to say, “You see those fake flowers, that dirty watercooler, those lousy yellow couches? You really think people want to look at this shit?”
I am rarely daunted by rudeness. For some reason, this girl’s rudeness gets to me. I feel myself tearing up, which makes me want to smack myself in the face with the buffalo sculpture on the counter. Before Mom died, I never cried in public. Never. What the hell is wrong with me?
The girl’s face softens. “I’m sorry. It’s been a shitty day.”
“You’re telling me,” I say, swabbing at my face with the palms of my hands.
“Is it a guy?” she asks.
“Among other things.”
She nods knowingly. “Me too. I just found out my asshole boyfriend cheated on me. With my sister.” She slurps her Diet Coke to punctuate her announcement.
“Wow,” I offer, unnerved by her intimate confession. “That totally sucks.”
“I know.” She sets her soda on the counter angrily. “I swear, I’m gonna go all Lorena Bobbitt on his ass.”
“Lorena Bobbitt?” The name rings a bell, but I can’t remember who she is. “Is she a singer?”
The girl laughs. “No, she’s that lady who cut off her husband’s dick after he cheated on her. Threw it into the bushes.” She mimes lobbing an imaginary penis into the lobby. I am officially disturbed. When I don’t respond to her declaration of violent intentions, she presses on. “Is yours a cheater?”
“No,” I say. “I mean, he checked out a pizza girl, but he didn’t cheat with her.”
“You seriously broke up with a guy for checking out a pizza girl?” she asks.
“I’m kidding,” I say. For the first time, it occurs to me that I might be the asshole in this situation. I push the thought out of my head. Men are the assholes, not me. “It was more than that.”
“Why’d you break up then?”
Did we break up? He’s still back at the other hotel room waiting for me. “We weren’t really officially together,” I deflect. She looks at me and waits. Mercy’s stupid waiting trick. Does everyone in the world know this? True to form, I spill everything. “I mean, we were having sex, and I might be pregnant, but we weren’t together.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. Did I mention that I hate it when people call me sweetheart? It makes me feel like I’m in an ancient episode of Alice.
“Yeah.” I pull out the test and lay it on the counter. “I stopped here so I could take this.”
She picks up the test, turns it over, and reads the back. “If it’s positive, I’ll totally take you out for a drink after my shift.” She sets the test back on the counter.
I pause, stunned. “I’m too young to get into a bar, and besides, if it’s positive, I’m pregnant.” I pick up the test and tuck it into my pocket.
“I can totally get you a fake ID,” she offers. She’s clearly missing the point. “A friend of mine makes them on his computer. They’re good. They look real. I mean, you can’t use them in the bars that check them under those purple lights, but none of the bars around here have that shit.”
“Yeah.” I nod, wondering if I’ve crossed from an episode of Alice to an episode of Jerry Springer. “But even if I can get into a bar, I can’t drink. I’m pregnant.”
She blinks twice. I have time to observe her carefully painted eyelids. Blue sparkles. Her face finally registers comprehension. “Oh, shit!” She laughs. “If you drink, the baby will be a retard, right?”
Now I’m pissed. She called my maybe-baby a retard. “Something like that. Hey, can I get a room? I’m totally exhausted.”
“Sorry!” She giggles like she thinks she’s cute. She’s not. On a scale of one to ten, ten being “cute,” one being “I want to punch you in the goddamn face,” she’s a negative six. She forges on. “I’m such a space case.”
I refrain from offering an opinion on her intellect.
As she rings me up, she talks about her cousin who just had a baby. “She’s so screwed,” she says, shaking her head. “Didn’t even finish high school. Still lives with her mom. I feel bad for her. She never leaves the house, and she’s all depressed and shit. I try to get her to go out, but she can never find a sitter.”
I have a vision of myself sitting on Mercy’s couch when I’m twenty, rocking a screaming toddler. Hey, at least I already finished high school. I’ve got that going for me.
“One or two keys?” she asks.
“One,” I say.
“Oh, yeah! You’re alone.” She hands me a key. “Let me know if you change your mind about going out.”
I fight the urge to leap over the counter and strangle her.
• • •
The pregnancy test is hard to open, which irritates me because shouldn’t the makers know their customers will be dying of anticipation? Adding layers of impermeable cardboard and tinfoil to the already intolerable waiting game seems cruel. Obviously, though, the makers of pregnancy tests are sadistic monsters. It takes me a good minute to break into the packaging. It feels like a million years. Finally, I’m holding a thin stick in my hands. This seemingly insignificant bit of recyclable plastic holds my fate.
Remember when I said I thought I loved my maybe-baby? I’m not so sure anymore. Suddenly, I’m sick with fear. I tell myself that if there is no maybe-baby inside me, I will go out and celebrate with Glitter Eyelids from the front desk. Why not? I’ll be up for a drink. Hell, I’ll be up for ten.
I read the instructions. All I have to do is pee on the stick, and then, the test will give me a pink plus sign if I’m a pregnant, a blue negative sign if I’m not. I sit on the toilet and hold the stick in a stream of my urine. I piss on my hand, of course, because it seems to be that kind of day. Week. Month. Year. Life.
Shaking, I set the test on the counter, wash my hands, and look in the mirror. My mom was as nontraditional as moms get, but I still can’t wrap my head around the scrawny-ass biker chick in the mirror being a mother. I think about the prospect of trading my motorcycle for a Honda with a car seat in back. My head starts to spin. I lift my long hair and curl it under so it resembles a short bob, trying to picture myself with a soccer mom haircut. I can’t. I glance over at the test. My stomach clenches. It’s already changing.
Pink.
My eyes burn. I pick up the stick and stare at it. “No, no, no! Blue, blue, blue!” It doesn’t listen. The plus sign gets pinker.
I drop the stick in the sink and lean my head against the cool mirror. As I pull away, I look at myself again. It’s official. Soccer mom cut or no, I’m pregnant.
My phone dings. Dean again. I need to know what’s going on.
I stare at the screen. Why can’t he leave me alone for two minutes?
Fuck. Off. I type.
I press Send. Then I wander out of the bathroom and fall onto the queen-size bed, still clutching the pregnancy test. The bed is softer than the one I shared with Dean. It doesn’t smell like cigarettes. There are no ghosts.
When I was a little girl, I had this trick. When things got hard, I’d sleep so I wouldn’t have to feel anything. If I got an F on a test, I’d sleep. If my dog died, I’d sleep. If the kids at school made fun of me, I’d sleep. Sleep was my drug, my saving
grace. Since Mom died, I haven’t been able to do that. Sleep eludes me. But now, my old trick comes back to me like I never forgot how to do it in the first place. I close my eyes, force myself not to think, and before I know it, I’m lost in sweet, black nothing.
Seven
When I wake up, it’s dark. I don’t know where I am. Then everything comes rushing back. The fight with Dean. The positive pregnancy test. I fumble for the light switch and flip it on. The test sits next to me on the bed. I pick it up. The pink plus sign is still there mocking me.
The clock says 11:14. Panicking, I jump up. How the hell did I sleep for that long? Sleep has melted my rage and now all I feel is horror and regret. I have to get back to Dean and fix this. I pull out my phone. The last text I sent stares at me from its little green bubble.
Fuck. Off.
Oh, god. Shoving the test into my pocket, I grab my backpack and head for the door. As I walk through the lobby, Glitter Eyelids looks up. “Oh, shit,” she says. “Positive?”
I guess I’m doing a stellar job of playing it cool. “Don’t you ever go home?” I ask.
She smiles, seemingly unaware that my question wasn’t well intentioned. Apparently, her sarcasm meter is broken. “I’m working a double.”
Like I give a crap. I shove the door open.
“If you want to go for a drink, I’m off at midnight,” she calls after me.
“I’m good!” I step out into the muggy heat.
As I walk through the parking lot, the night is alive with noise. Crickets, cars, and somewhere far away, a storm. I hate it when the world echoes my mood, as if it’s creating a sound track for my bullshit life. Like I need thunder rolling in the distance to enhance the dread in my gut.
I start my bike and pull back onto the freeway. A voice inside me tells me to text Dean and let him know I’m okay. The voice sounds a lot like Mom. Say you’re sorry, and tell him he’s the only one, I can almost hear her whisper. If it is Mom, I don’t know what she’s thinking. I was never very good at talking about my feelings. I don’t think I ever apologized to her once, even when we argued and I called her a bitch.
