Eleven Weeks

by Lauren K. McKellar

  Deborah shoots a wistful look into the darkened house behind her. “Okay,” she whispers, and leads me in.

  We walk into the lounge room, and it really is like walking into a house for the mourning. The heavy curtains are pulled shut, casting the room in shadow. Someone—presumably Deb—has lit an incense candle, so the heady scent of lavender fills the room. It creeps down my throat, choking me, and I stop, swallow, and try to take shallow breaths. Now is not the time to throw up.

  On the couch is Kate. Scrunched up balls of tissue surround her, a pile of them on the floor, and a beige-coloured blanket covers her from the waist down. Her eyes are open, and she’s staring straight ahead, but she doesn’t make any move to signal she knows I’m in the room.

  It’s the single creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  I tiptoe over to her side, clear a space in the tissue debris and sit cross-legged on the floor next to her. “Kate?”

  Nothing. Her eyes look straight past me, straight through me, to something I can’t see.

  “I’m so sorry, hon.” I shake my head and lift my hand, combing a piece of her hair back behind her ear. It’s damp, and I wonder if it’s from excess crying or sweat. Probably both.

  “Your mum told me about Dave, too,” I whisper, glancing up to check that Deborah has left the room. “I’m going to take his balls, and mince them, and make them into little pies that I’ll force him to eat. And don’t even get me started on what I’m going to do to Michael.”

  Kate huffs out the tiniest of breaths, and it warms my face. It’s the only recognition I’ve had from her so far.

  “I know Lachlan was special, Kate. I know you liked him—liked him a lot.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “But I know you’re going to pull through this.” I reach up and take her hand, wrapping my fingers between hers. “The thing is, you’re strong, Kate. You’re the strongest person I know.

  “There is nothing I can say to you that’s going to take this pain away. Nothing. But I know that in time, it will get a little more bearable. Not a lot, but enough. Enough for you to smile again. To laugh.

  “And I have no idea why this shitty stuff is happening to you, but it’s going to get better. And I’ll be there to help you through it. Me … and my baby.” I whisper the last words, and look at Kate’s face to see if it at least gets some recognition.

  She still stares blankly at something I can’t see.

  For twenty-nine minutes, she stares at space, and I gaze at her. Occasionally I stroke her hair back, or mutter a few words about how wonderful she is, how amazing she is, how strong she is, but it’s like she’s on another planet. It’s as if she has checked out of this world, and is existing solely in her own system.

  “’Bye, Kate.” I stand up and kiss her on the forehead, giving her hand one last squeeze before I let it go.

  I walk out of my best friend’s house, but I know Kate isn’t really there. And for a completely different reason, my heart breaks into tiny pieces again.

  I hop in my car, one sole destination in mind. How could he? How could he?

  I pull up out the front and get out of the crappy old vehicle, kicking the door shut with my foot. It gives a sharp thud and I feel a tiny bit more satisfied.

  I rap on the front door, and thank God, he opens it. I have no idea what I’d say to his parents right now.

  “Stacey.” Michael’s eyes are wide.

  “You jerk!” I give his shoulders a small shove, and he stumbles back.

  “What the hell?” He holds his hands up in defence.

  “You let that dickhead write a song about her?” I spit, giving him another shove for good measure. Michael looks over his shoulder, as if checking to see how much peace I’ve disturbed in the house. He puts his hand on my forearm and gently guides me back toward the door.

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  He shuts the door behind us and steps in front of me. We walk down the street in silence. Well, he walks. I half stomp, then do a few skips to keep up. He has seriously long legs.

  When we reach the park at the end of his street, he walks over to the swing set and sits down. I take the one beside him, wrapping my arms around the chain-link ropes.

  “I didn’t know about the song,” Michael says. He kicks some of the sand in the pit below us and it billows around his black shoes, spotting them with white.

  “You’re in the band,” I snort.

  “He recorded it without me! I think he knew I’d … well, you know, I wouldn’t be happy with it.”

  I swallow. I guess it’s a believable story. “Wait, don’t songs take months to get recorded? Wouldn’t that mean he did this while we were still in school?”

  “Nah.” Michael shakes his head. “Coal have a producer with them on the road, so they’ve been doing a lot of sessions. Anyway, I found out from Lee—the lead singer of—”

  “I know who Lee Collins is,” I snap. Who doesn’t know who Lee Collins is?

  “That they used his bass player to do the song, not me,” Michael says. His looks down, his long black lashes fanning over his cheeks. There’s a sorrow in his eyes I’ve not seen before.

  “Are you … okay?” I ask for the second time today. How would it feel, having something you worked so hard on stripped away from you?

  He stares at the tiny grains of sand. Crystal-white, glinting in the sun. “I’m … going to do the final American leg of the tour. Maybe talk to Lee again, see if they still are looking for a new bass guitarist. Hell, theirs is obviously playing around.”

  I give him one of those little shoulder punches. “You definitely should, you know. You’re a talented guy. Coal would be lucky to have you.”

  He gives me the briefest of smiles.

  “Seriously, you should. And then you can help me castrate Dave. Of all the dickhead things to do …”

  “At least she has Lachlan.”

  I swallow. “He … he died.”

  “You’ve gotta be …” The silence stretches out. “Shit.”

  “I saw her this morning. She’s not in a good way.”

  “He seemed like such a good dude. How did he …?”

  “Bike accident. Lost control and ran into a tree.” Tears prick my eyes not for the first time that day, and Michael reaches over and touches my shoulder this time. But he doesn’t pull away. He leaves his hand there, burning into my skin. It feels good, too good, and for one tiny, infinitesimal moment, I think everything is going to be okay.

  “So … we need to talk.”

  Has anyone ever said those words and then followed with good news? I take a deep breath, let it fill my lungs, and then whoosh it all out.

  “You’re having a baby,” he whispers. His hand is still on my shoulder. That’s a good sign, right?

  “Yep.” I nod.

  “Whose?” His eyes are like those of a beggar.

  “Um … some guy …” I trail off. Guilt teases at the pit of my stomach once more. Or maybe it’s the dreaded morning sickness again. Who knows?

  “You don’t know?”

  His hand is no longer on my arm.

  Shit.

  “It was that night … at the party you guys played. I was drunk, I don’t remember what happened … I just remember waking up.”

  “The day I found you on the street?” Michael’s jaw drops. “You said you stayed at a girlfriend’s.”

  “I lied.” With every word, the space between Michael and I grows. The air is thicker. The gap harder to cross.

  “This … this is the puppy you were texting me about, isn’t it?”

  I push back on the swing-set, letting the chains cartwheel forward. Sometimes, one word can be the hardest thing part to say. “Yes.”

  This time it’s Michael who sucks in the breath then lets it release, a noise so loud I swear it echoes through the park. He runs his hands through his hair, shaking his head.

  “So you’re pregnant with another man’s baby, and you’re thinking you might … keep—”

  “I k
now it sounds crazy, but it just feels like—I’m so freaking alone, Michael. I don’t have a career, like you; I’m working in a call centre for a pet psychic, for crying out loud! Even Kate—I know she’s my best friend, but she has a career. And I see the way she looks at me, the way everyone does, like I’m just some dumb bitch who is good for some sort of stripper job or working on the dole.” I explode. “I don’t want that. I want someone to love me, and think I’m something … something more.” My shoulders shake, my chest heaving. Tears pour from my eyes in an ugly cry that would make someone watching The Fault In Our Stars look pretty. “I just want …” Then the sobs choke me and I can’t speak anymore.

  My swing slows and Michael’s arms are around me. He embraces me, holding me close to his chest, and I let it out, let it all out. How did my life become this? Used, spit out, and unwanted …

  When my ugly-cry evolves into an occasional shuddering breath, Michael pulls back. I immediately shove my face into my hands, hiding it.

  “What are you doing?” He grabs my wrists and tries to pull them gently down. He’s possibly going to join one of the most famous bands on the planet. I’m possibly about to show him just how ugly I can be.

  No, wait.

  I did that five minutes ago, when I told him the truth about the baby’s conception.

  “I’m hideous. I just cried.” I gulp. “I probably have panda eyes, a red nose, and snot all over my face.”

  My hands fall from my face and I scrunch my eyes shut, feeling as exposed as I’ve ever been. Even as I think it, I know how dumb that is. How superficial can you get?

  “Stacey, you’re more than just some dumb blonde,” he says. I slowly release my eyelids, and he’s right there, so close to me that I can see the faint ghosts of freckles dotting his nose. The kind that the hint of an Australian summer can bring.

  “I’m not—” Swallow. “I’m not saying I think that’s all I am, but I just … sometimes I feel so alone, you know? Would having someone to love who loved me back really be that bad?”

  This time, the silence that stretches between us feels like it lasts a long time.

  “I …” He shakes his head. “Stacey, I like you a lot.”

  I look into his eyes, those eyes I’ve seen so many times but only really felt eight weeks ago. “I like you, too.” They’re the most honest words I’ve spoken to him in a long time.

  “I want to make this work but—it’s gonna be hard, you know? You’ve just kept a massive secret from me, and we’ve been talking almost every second day. How can I trust you when you do something like that?”

  “I didn’t want to lie.” I shake my head. “I was just—protecting you.”

  “Protecting me from something that would directly affect our relationship? From something that would make me feel … make me feel …” His eyes glisten.

  I lean closer and press my lips against his. They’re firm and unmoving, but I kiss anyway, my own tears falling down my cheeks to mingle the taste of his sweet lips with my salt.

  Finally, after what seems like hours, his lips move, and we press against each other, his mouth opening to me. My tongue slides in and his hands run up my back, over my neck, and lace themselves in my hair, his touch firm and deliciously sensual. His chest is hard against mine and I want him, want him so badly.

  No, this is different.

  I need him.

  Need him so much.

  His hands fall from my hair and he gently pushes me away, but I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to.

  When I do, this will be over.

  I know it. He knows it.

  “So, what do you think?” he asks in a quiet voice, so quiet that the overture of native birds squawking in the background almost hides the sound.

  “I think I like you”—I love you?—“but this isn’t going to work. You’re going on tour, I have a baby—someone else’s—”

  “I don’t need the reminder.” Half his lips rise in a smile.

  “I just can’t see this”—I gesture between us—“being a thing.” And it’s true. Even if he could move past the pregnancy itself, how could he be my boyfriend when I only saw him once a month? And if he joined Coal, he’d have to move to America, and I’d never see him, and all he’d see were girls who were skinny and hot while I turned into this whale back in his small-town home.

  But even as I’ve said it, I hear a little voice in my brain. It’s on repeat, echoing the same two words over and over again. Convince me. Convince me.

  He blinks and steps back. His face turns from warm to stone in an instant.

  “This is exactly the problem,” he hisses.

  “Wh … what?” I blink. Where did this anger come from?

  “Since we met, I’ve had a crush on you.” His hands ball into fists at his sides. “I’ve told you how I’ve felt since we turned sixteen, and don’t you dare use the ‘I was dating someone else’ excuse, because you know I would have done anything to make this work. But not once—not once have you taken this seriously!”

  “I am taking this seriously! How can you be with me when you might be moving overseas and having sexy fans throwing themselves at you?” I tighten my grip on the swing-set chains.

  “Because I’ve loved you for two and a half years, Stacey.”

  Love … loved?

  “Because I believe in us, and I believe we can make it work. But you—just like you have every time I’ve tried to tell you how I feel—you play it off, like it’s not sincere, like it’s too hard—like I’m a fucking joke to you.” He throws his hands from his hair to his sides. His eyes flash, dark and sinister.

  “Michael, I’m sorry …” I wrack my brain for more words, but there’s nothing left. There is so much I am sorry for. Sorry for making him hate me. Sorry for not trying to see beyond the surface sooner; for not understanding that he really did care, not until it was far too late.

  Sorry for making a mistake.

  Sorry that this baby isn’t his.

  Still, I keep my lips pressed together. There’s nothing more I can say.

  “Sorry?” He laughs, and it’s bitter, and hollow, and it’s so loud it makes me cringe. “Sorry you got yourself knocked up?” He steps in closer, so he’s right in my face, staring hard into me. “Or sorry that for as long as I’ve tried to be your boyfriend, as long as there’s been this connection between us—and don’t you dare lie about this now—you haven’t thought I was good enough?”

  And with that, he turns, his heel kicking up a cloud of sand as he stalks away.

  My swing comes to a stop.

  So does my heart.

  Dear Small Human,

  Today, I love you more than I have yet. I know that feeling will be amplified a million times when you’re in my arms, and you know what? It’s going to be worth it. Everything will be okay because we’ll be together.

  I’ll give you the world, tiny one.

  Everything I can, and everything I am.

  Love,

  Mum xx

  January 8

  MICHAEL’S WORDS play over and over in my head, all night, and halfway through the next day. I keep replaying the scene, doing things differently, saying things differently.

  I cry, like I’m a dripping tap, the stupid tears falling down my face.

  And I question.

  I question every little thing I’ve ever done to Michael, everything I’ve ever said. When did I start liking him? Loving him?

  I think back to that time at the beach, after he found me on the street. Was it then?

  Or was it back in school, when we were sixteen, and I caught him writing my name on the wall outside the school hall, trapped in a love heart with his own initials? I’d blushed. So had he.

  Was it then?

  I shake my head. It doesn’t matter when it was; all that matters is how soon I can erase those memories from my mind. He doesn’t want me now. He made that much clear yesterday. And it never would have worked between us, anyway.

  I turn to my bed
side table and open the jar of tablets the doctor gave me, dry-swallowing two of the folic acid supplements. They stick in my throat on the way down, and I almost vomit them back up. Thankfully, I don’t. Please tell me this means the morning sickness is settling.

  “Stacey! Time to go,” Mum’s voice rings out from downstairs, and I rub at my eyes. I feel so tired, like my lids weigh a ton. When did it start feeling like this?

  I pull on some shoes and join her where she waits in the car, Dad in the front seat. It’s Family Lunch at the Mall day. Also known as The Day Stacey Finally Comes Clean About Being Pregnant. I feel like I’m already so damn low, there isn’t much further I can fall. May as well just get it done.

  We arrive at the café and secure one of the tables in the outside seating area. Dad takes one head, and Mum takes the other, as we wait for my three brothers and one sister to join us.

  After ordering, the games begin.

  “I got a raise this week,” Steve says, through a mouthful of complimentary peanuts. “An extra five grand a year.”

  “Shut up! I got a raise too,” Shae says, smiling brightly. “Evan really likes me. An extra ten, though—sorry, Steve.” She smirks, and he tilts his head to the side and raises his glass.

  “To Shae,” he says, and as one, everyone else at the table lifts their own respective drinks and toasts in her honour.

  “Anyone else have any news to report?” Dad asks.

  “I got a distinction in my latest uni assignment,” Steve says.

  “The house we have down the coast just got a fresh appraisal,” Sean says. “Worth an extra fifty grand.”

  “Wow.” Dad nods. “Impressive. I propose a toast. To—”

  “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

  Silence. Six heads swivel to face me.

  What have I done?

  “Can someone please pass the water?” I say, studying the white tablecloth in front of me.

  “That’s … nice,” Mum finally says, choking on the final word

  “Do we know the father?” Dad asks, head to the side. Like it’s an everyday topic of conversation. Like this isn’t the most bad-arse thing anyone in our family has ever done.