Eleven Weeks

by Lauren K. McKellar

  Scott, Sean, Steve, and Shae are all still staring at me, as if I’ve grown a second head instead of housing a second human.

  “Nope.” I shrug.

  Dad’s knife screeches against the plate. Mum slurps as she takes a sip of her vodka and lemonade.

  “I’m thinking of keeping it.”

  More silence.

  “This is not the life we had planned out for you, Stacey,” Dad hisses. “We taught you better than this.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, studying the food in front of me. The gravy on the chicken is mixing with the potato mash, till it all looks like a mush stew.

  “I’m very disappointed in you.” Dad shakes his head. My heart sinks to my feet. And here I was thinking things couldn’t get any worse.

  “Now, dear, it’s hardly like she was going to be a scholar, or a career person,” Mum chides. She reaches across the table for my hand, and I offer it. “This is our Stacey. She’s never been one for all that.”

  I blink.

  “Yeah! I mean, she’d be an okay model? Or maybe a good supermarket assistant, but that’s about it,” Shae adds, flashing me her career-winning smile.

  “What the hell’s wrong with working in a shop?”

  “Nothing.” Shae shrugs, but I see the knife in her hands. I know it is aimed for my back.

  “Exactly, dear,” Mum says. She gives my hand a squeeze. “You just—I’m sure you’ll make a great mum, better at that than any other thing you could have done.”

  I’d thought being told off by Dad was the worst low I could feel.

  No. No, it turns out that being told I’d lived up to my career high by my mother and sister was the absolute lowest I could sink.

  When did they stop believing in me? I think back to the last few years of my life. There’s no clear-cut, defining incident—just a whole heap of small indiscretions. Stacey, suspended for smoking a cigarette. Stacey, kissing a guy behind the school hall and getting busted. Stacey, failing math and geography, for the second year in a row.

  Stacey, the least important Allison child.

  I stare off into the distance, beyond Mum, beyond Shae, beyond anyone in my stupid family. Is that what I’m doing with this? Taking the easy way out? Being safe, not even trying for the things I could potentially be because I’ll fail?

  Because I’ll fail.

  I close my eyes, the hot sun beating down on them. There’s still time. If I wanted to.

  But how can I kill this mini-human when other humans out there are dying every day?

  Lachlan.

  Is it fair that I kill this child when Lachlan didn’t have a choice in whether he stayed or left?

  The voices in my head reach a chorus so loud I feel like screaming to shut them up. What the hell is the right answer here? How do I make things right?

  I flash my eyes open, ready to speak, to explode, to try and talk to my family about how I really feel—

  And then I see him.

  Him.

  “Oh! There’s Evan now.” Shae smiles, and pushes back her chair to stand.

  I don’t have time to see who she is talking about, because I’m too busy jumping from my seat and lunging at the man walking to a table opposite ours.

  I’m by his side in less than three seconds, and I shove him, shove at his shoulders hard.

  He looks like no one I’ve ever met, but someone I know well, as ridiculous as it seems. His eyes, his lips, his jaw, his hips … they’re all pieces of a jigsaw puzzle I’ve been trying to fit together in my mind.

  Without a shadow of a doubt, this man is the father of my child.

  “How could you?” I scream, shoving him again. He steps back into the chair behind him, eyes wide. There’s no shock there, though. Recognition, alarm, sure. But not shock. He isn’t surprised to see me.

  “Stacey.” He grabs my fists and pulls them to my sides. I struggle for a second and then let him. “Stacey, let’s step to the side and have a chat, shall we?”

  It’s then that I notice the woman standing next to him, her hands protectively held over the shoulders of a young boy, maybe two or three years old. He has blond hair like hers, but those eyes … they’re the exact same green as the man in front of me.

  Flash. Me, tripping over the red shiny thing by the front door.

  A toy truck.

  He’s a father.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s obviously got sperm that possesses super-impregnating powers.

  He drops my wrists and walks toward the front of the café and like a mute, I follow. I hate that he has a family. I hate that his kid is looking at me like I’m crazy.

  I hate that that woman is looking at me like she knows.

  “Look, what do you—”

  “I’m pregnant,” I whisper. The word barely slips from my mouth.

  “It’s no—”

  “It’s yours,” I confirm.

  He tilts his head back to the sky, lacing his hands behind it and sighs. “I was only at that party for ten minutes. Seeing my cousin.” He pauses. “Bloody hell.”

  We stand there in silence for a few moments. I can feel the eyes of my family and his family trained on us, and part of me wants to crumble up and die. Why am I doing this to myself?

  “Look, how much do you need to make it go away?” he asks.

  “I … I don’t know that I want to,” I say. This time, when I speak of not killing it, it feels less like murder. More like suicide.

  “You have to.” His eyes bore into me. “Don’t you get it? Look, if it’s cash you’re after, I’ve got it. Not just to get rid of it, but for you, too.”

  “I don’t want … it’s not that.” I shake my head, words failing me.

  “How much? Two grand? Three?” He digs in his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He shoves a fifty into my hand. “I’ll get you more over time, over a few months, but just …” He glances back over his shoulder this time worry creases his brow. “… just please, don’t talk. Don’t be a dumb bitch and screw this up.”

  “You have a wife and a kid, buddy.” I poke him in the chest. “Don’t call me a dumb bitch.”

  “Okay, fine. A dumb slut. I was drunk, okay? You threw yourself at me. What was I supposed to do?” he asks.

  “That’s not how I remember it!” I say. Suddenly, the night pieces together in my mind. Me, leaving the stage after talking with Michael. Me, staggering over the grass out the front of the house, looking for a cab. Me, sitting in the gutter, my head resting in my hands, trying to work out what the hell I was going to do with my life.

  Him.

  Him putting his arm around me.

  Him wiping away my tears.

  I shiver. “You said you were going to take care of me.”

  “And I did.” He smirks, and tilts his head toward my stomach. “Didn’t I?”

  “Just stop.” Those stupid tears rush to my eyes again, and I swallow hard to keep control.

  “You were begging for my dick, just like the easy piece of nothing you are.” He opens his wallet again, and hands me another fifty. “Here.” He presses it into my hand. “Use it to get yourself checked for any STDs.” He smirks, and my stomach roils. “And if you dare come near me again—I mean, ever—your sister gets fired.”

  I blink.

  All the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fall into place.

  He is Evan.

  Shae looks at me from the table, and I can see it on her face. Her eyes are daggers, her mouth an O.

  She knows.

  I drop the money, and the sunshine-yellow bill falls from my hands.

  I turn.

  I run.

  I run out of the café, through the shopping centre, and out to the car park that spans an area so wide I swear it’s four football fields, at least.

  The heat is pounding down on my shoulders, the concrete beneath my feet scorching me with each step, even through my flip flops, as I bolt somewhere, anywhere, away from there.

  “Stacey!”

  I don�
��t turn around. I keep running, running.

  “Stacey,” she cries again.

  I slow to a stop and spin to face her, my hands on my knees, my breathing coming fast and hard.

  Shae walks up to me, centimetres from my face. “How could you?”

  “Shae, I didn’t know,” I say, shaking my head. Even as I do it, it seems weak.

  “Like you didn’t know when my best friend had a crush on you?” she asks. I wrack my brains for what she’s talking about.

  “Shae, I was twelve.” How can she seriously be mad about that? I hadn’t even realised at the time.

  “And how you didn’t notice when you always got the special treatment at home?” A glassy sheen washes over her eyes. Shit, our whole family has a case of the cries today.

  “You were allowed to do everything I had to work for,” she hisses. “I had to get good grades, stay in on school nights, eat my fucking vegetables.”

  I widen my eyes. I’ve never heard my sister swear. She’s perfect.

  “And you just had it all fed to you, on a plate. Unless you didn’t want to eat it.” Shae shakes her head, confusing her metaphors. “And now you’ve slept with my freaking boss, and are having his baby?”

  “I didn’t know …” I raise my hand, but I have nothing.

  “You know what?” She puts one hand on her hip. “You really are a dumb slut. You’re easy, you’re blonde, you’re stupid—of course you’re pregnant! Really, the only surprise here is that you did actually complete your leaving exams.”

  She turns on her heel and flounces off. I swear, steam comes from her feet every time they touch the ground, and only partially due to the extreme heat wave we’re experiencing.

  I crumble to the ground. My limbs feel like jelly. She truly hates me, to the very core. Everything is ruined. Why the hell did I do this? How did I let my life get this bad? This … alone?

  The sun beats down and my shirt sticks to my body. My hair feels like it’s glued to my head, and I lick my lips on repeat, the air drying them almost before I can replenish.

  I rub my eyes, and I’m crying a-freaking-gain. It’s the ugly howling sobs from before, only this time I’m on the floor of a parking lot, with families walking past. Mothers shepherd their children closer to them, urging them not to look as their kids ask why the weird lady is crying. Cars skirt to the left to avoid running me over. My chest is shaking, my breath coming in short sharp gasps. It’s hard to breathe. How did the air get so thick? How did everything get so effed up?

  Michael.

  I want Michael.

  I want him, but even he won’t make me feel better this time. He doesn’t want me. Doesn’t need me.

  I cry harder, till there are no tears, just stupid ugly sobs.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  He never said he doesn’t want me.

  I straighten my posture just a little.

  He said I never tried, never took him seriously, always dismissed him … Granted, he didn’t say he was thrilled with the whole baby thing … but he never said he didn’t want me.

  I blink, force my eyes open wide. The harsh sun beats down and I squint again, trying to focus. Would that even make a difference? Did he just want me to fight?

  I grab my phone from my pocket and dial his number. It rings, and rings, and rings and finally, on the eighth tone, he picks up.

  “Stacey.” It’s a word, and it’s not full of hope.

  “Michael, I need to see you. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the station. Our train leaves in fifteen minutes, Stace.” His voice is slightly softer now, and it’s all the encouragement I need.

  “Wait there! I’m coming.” I hit end, and I push myself to my feet. I’m so coming.

  I start to sprint. I wish I’d brought my own car, but thankfully, the station is only about a—well, I would have said a twenty-minute jog from the café, but I’m hoping like hell it’s only fifteen.

  I pump my legs up and down, my elbows swinging at right angles by my waist. I get to the parking lot fence, place one hand on the beam and clear it, running again straight away.

  The pavement by the side of the main road is hot, and the exhaust fumes of the cars speeding by clog my lungs, making it hard to breathe. It’s stifling, but I keep going. I keep running. Because I have to.

  Because I have to tell Michael.

  I have to fight.

  I pound the pavement, a stitch in my side sending stabbing pains against my ribs. For a split second I hope it doesn’t hurt the baby, and then I keep going anyway. Because no, I don’t want to kill this small cell of a human inside of me.

  But yes, I do want to tell Michael how I feel.

  Because I’m not just this baby. And I’m not just some bimbo. I’m more than this.

  And I want him.

  I turn and take a shortcut. The sky has turned a dark purple and a few lights sprinkle the sky above me.

  I’m running.

  I’m running still, only this time, my feet aren’t so much pounding the pavement as making it. It’s a little-known bush track near my street, I think the one where Kate said Lachlan kissed her for the first time.

  And there it is again.

  Lachlan.

  Lachlan is dead.

  I raise my knees higher, pump my arms faster, make the sweat pour from my body more continuously. Fuck life. Fuck the Evans.

  Fuck everything.

  And fuck how Michael, a guy I’ve wanted for so long, who I’d put in an out-of-reach box for so long, just suddenly expose his feelings for me when I couldn’t reach him? He’s a good thing in my life; how did I ruin this?

  I. Let. It. Happen.

  Shit.

  Oh, shit. Oh shit. Shit, Double shit, how did I not see this before? I let him go. I said goodbye. I thought I was freeing him, but maybe … How do you know?

  How do you know anything?

  I run. I run faster than I’ve ever run before. Branches scratch my arms, roots trip my feet, and tears streak my cheeks and blur my vision, until I’m this stumbling, crying, beaten-up mess. How have I become this?

  The surface if the ground changes, and somewhere deep inside me, I register that I’m running on road. Bitumen, grass, dirt … What does it matter? All I know is that I need to make it to the station before Michael gets on that train.

  My clammy arms stick to my ribs as I try and pick up my pace, but I pump all the more faster. I can do this. I got this.

  I’ve got sixty seconds left to avoid making the biggest mistake of my life.

  I don’t see the car. I don’t hear the horn, nor the screeching of tyres.

  All I see is white. Then an image of my baby, of what I’d imagine it looks like now.

  Then Michael.

  Then black.

  FLASH.

  I’m in a car, lying on stretcher. The wail of a siren roars above me and a woman is there, holding my hand, telling me to breathe.

  I do.

  She smiles.

  Flash

  I’m being pushed into a room lit way too bright with those hideous fluorescents that make everyone look ugly. People gather around me, and the woman from the ambulance is saying all sorts of words that freak the hell out of me, such as X-ray, and MRI, and suspected internal bleeding.

  I flail my hand around until I finally find hers and grasp and tug on it, till she lowers down, close to my face.

  “I’m pregnant,” I whisper. We make eye contact, and I think hers are bleeding for me. “Please … please make sure it’s okay.”

  Because after everything, after all this, I still don’t want to kill it.

  But I know I can be more. I can have Michael, too. If he’ll let me.

  “What time is it?” I widen my eyes. A machine next to me starts beeping, faster, louder.

  “It’s ten past six, dear,” the nurse says. “Now be a good girl and close your eyes.”

  I fight. I fight so hard to keep them open. I blink, and I push my lids up, but they weigh a ton,
and my hands have turned to stone.

  I’m too late. Now Michael will never know.

  “The baby?”

  “We need an ultrasound, transvaginal now!”

  It’s …

  Black.

  I CRIED.

  January 12

  People talk to me. They say things like me being lucky, fortunate, that my injuries are surface.

  They don’t dig deeper.

  They don’t see the depth of the wound in my body that is eating me alive.

  “It’s for the best,” Mum says. She and dad have come to visit me, each time with these sad eyes that could speak volumes. They don’t, though. They rarely say a word. They pat my hair. They hold my hand. I wish they could hold me closer, try to heal my pain, but they stopped caring for me that way a long time ago.

  Still, they come, and when Mum squeezes my arm I remind myself to thank my lucky stars that she’s still here.

  If only she could squeeze the hurt right out of me.

  January 28

  I CRY, and I cry, and I don’t stop. I cry for a whole week. I cry when I’m awake. When I sleep, if I sleep … I wake up, tears still fresh on my cheeks.

  And I’m alone. I have no Michael. No family.

  No baby.

  I lost my small human.

  Everywhere I look, there’s a reminder of it. It’s in my search history on my computer. In the stupid supplements are still sitting in my top desk drawer.

  It’s in my hair, the hair I cut so I could try and make a new life as Stacey, the achiever. Stacey, the good freaking mum.

  Ha! What a laugh that turned out to be.

  “Stacey?” Mum pokes her head inside my room. The light hits her hair, giving her a halo effect. It’s the middle of the day, but my room is dark. The curtains stay shut now. I don’t need the light.

  “This came for you.” She places a small package addressed to me at the end of my bed and leaves the room, clicking the door shut behind her as she goes.

  I reach over and open the package, wincing as the pain from my fractured ribs shoots through my body.

  It’s a shiny plastic thing, about the size of half a pillow, and I press against it, the shapes squishing against my fingers.