Wannabe More

by Billie Dale

  “When did my life become a Maury Povich episode?”

  “It works all the way around. You don’t have to keep hiding in the woods like the Unabomber and people in town will swallow this gossip like good moonshine. Win. Win.”

  I shake my head, pulling deep breaths through my nose. “Your sister is not the only one who is baking with broken yeast. Is it a shared twin trait? Do you know how hard this is?”

  “What? You’re the one who must push a bowling ball out of your body and deal with all the uncomfortableness associated with pregnancy. I’ll be in the background like Johnny Bench, waiting to be fielded when the haters grab their pitchforks.”

  “For the rest of my life I’ll be this kid’s mom. Dirty diapers, sleepless nights, skinned knees, broken hearts, first lost tooth, great accomplishments, graduations, marriage, kids...I’m signing my name on the dotted line for every good and bad moment associated with parenthood. But, Hendrix, gluing your name to this—” I meet his indigo eyes. “—Are you prepared to never have sex again? How about when the liberal townspeople turn all Deliverance because you won’t marry the mother of your child? I’m prepared to be the pariah, are you? And now this atomic lie compounds the issues when the time comes to unbox all the bullshit to Mazric.”

  His smarmy satisfied smirk, one of his many annoying trademarks, disintegrates. “Why would I give up sex?”

  “You think you’ll just hop over to the one bar in town and snag you a shag? They’ll come at you with torches and disdain the second you turn on your smolder. And then no matter how much we want to keep the separation; this child will grow up here and keeping you in the uncle slot will come into question when her classmates spill the beans.”

  “Wait...” Carrie interrupts. “When are you telling Mazric?”

  Thirty-Nine

  SAMANTHA

  AH SHIT. I FORGOT SHE was still here. Telling him the truth is daunting and I can’t go there now. I’ll spend the rest of my life loving this piece of him with everything I am, and hope it’ll make me a better human being.

  Ya know, instead of the boil on life’s ass I feel like now.

  “So, we’ll move. Go all Beverly Hillbillies and load it up, but instead of sunny Cali we’ll ship ourselves to New York. Bevy of babes for me, who don’t give a shit if I’m a dad, and no asshole small town minds casting judgment on you.”

  My hand twitches to smack the cheese off his face. Hendrix Carmichael’s devil may care attitude adds new irritation where already too much exists.

  Carrie Lynn slaps the table. “You will not take my grandchild and leave.”

  The budding tension headache explodes through my gray matter; dotting white lights blind my vision. A cigarette, glass of wine, hell I’d consider the numbing quality of weed if it’d allow me a minute of relief. I can’t even drink a fueled cup of coffee according to the books I’ve read. The fetus tapping Morris code in the space between my hips reminds me any mind clouding products are not good for him or her. I shove away from the table. Wavering from the fireworks display partying in my noggin, I stagger to the counter plating up a large slab of chocolate cake.

  I can’t take a vacation from my stress but I sure can eat through it.

  “We’re not going anywhere. But, Carrie, I will not be the reason Mazric refuses to visit. If me living next door hinders your relationship, I’m gone. Hendrix.” A heavy sigh rains over his name while I shovel a huge bite between my lips.

  His hand grabs my wrist, halting my fork, “We can do this, Samantha. Yes, there will be issues and struggles. The backwoods hicks think I’m gay anyway, at least now they’ll believe I’m bi,” he chuckles but his eyes don’t sparkle with humor. He’s sterner and more serious. “No one knows what the future holds. Let’s revisit and figure specifics when an umbilical alien isn’t influencing your emotions. You keep living among the treefolk and I’ll set myself up at the plantation. You need a support system and someone outside the blood ties. A voice of reason. Me.”

  “Fine. I’m tired.” Appetite lost, I toss my paper plate in the trash, stuff my fork in the dishwasher, and sulk to the door.

  “Sammy Lee,” Carrie calls, pausing my push on the screen, “My son is stubborn. He needs time and I promise my persistence will mend what’s broken between him and me. If seeing him means I save up and fly there, then so be it. Better if he’s not here, anyway. But I will not keep this from him. The minute I believe he’s settled and secure, I will tell him the truth.”

  My lips coil under the bite of my teeth, forming a tight thin line. Refusing to meet her eyes I respond with a slow nod as I leave.

  Forty

  MAZRIC

  HENDRIX AND SAM. HENDRIX Carmichael and my Sammy Lee.

  These same words blaze a path through my brain daily. Mocking me first thing in the morning and taunting me at night when I try to sleep. Then in the dark, between the place where logic meets accusation, the guilt and disbelief edge out of the shadows swallowing me. But if they were lying, then what’s the truth? Forcing that down my throat vanishes these thoughts because the lie is easier to believe and the rage offers solace.

  Booze, tons of it. Warm willing coeds, too many to count. Working my body past its breaking point and perfecting my game. Distractions a plenty, to excess, if I’m honest. Nothing erases the red cloud hovering in my periphery or mends my chunk of missing soul.

  I’m a sappy joy sucking void of pathetic.

  She ripped my heart out and took a shit on it four months ago. Made my home uncomfortable, stole my mom and took my friends. Go ahead; say it. I know you’re thinking it.

  Drama queen in mid-bitch fit. Poor baby, grow up.

  And a hearty middle finger to you too. Well no, I know and I’m working on it.

  Mom’s a thorn in my side with daily calls, texts, she even emailed me a detailed apology letter with vague proclamations about one day it all making sense. She knocked on my door Christmas Eve and threatened to camp in the hall if I didn’t let her in. I held out until I heard her comment on someone’s junk with the responding baritone pickup line.

  We talked, agreeing to disagree on all things Sammy Lee Gentry. Carrie Lynn Vortex is impossible to stay mad at and she is my ma. She mended my skinned knees, taught me to ride a bike, baked pineapple cookies, and was there for every major event in my life. A mother is the one person in your life who loves you without condition. Your first friend, the constant who keeps you grounded and helps you soar.

  Sammy didn’t have that in her life so she turned to the next best thing. The woman who she admired and counted on. I can’t fault Mom for being there when Sam needed her, even if it hurt me. Thanks to her Sammy has a superb example of how to be a great mother.

  I made real resolutions, but a few sobbing voice mails from Sam reopened the wounds. Hungover and raging, I went rampaging through the workout facility. The sound system met an untimely end when “Wannabe” by Spice Girls came on. My tirade didn’t impress Coach and he put me on probation, issuing the wake-up call I needed. Amid one of my many blackout drunk debacles I shared my woe-is-me tale about the song. The guys meant it as a joke. I didn’t see the humor.

  I opened this box of misery to chase a dream, and it’s time to find the hope at the bottom.

  One final party, one last drinking binge.

  No matter what happens tonight; tomorrow I close the lid and do what I came here to do.

  Clear my path to the NBA after I gain a degree.

  Forty-One

  SAMANTHA

  SWOLLEN ANKLES, FREAKISH bouts of crying, which lead to laughing, awful gas if I eat Mexican food—which is what I crave the most—and I haven’t seen my feet in a month. I could author a book on the joys of teen pregnancy in an ironic, sarcastic, don’t do it way. I don’t mean authentic ironic but more of an Alanis Morissette way.

  As in if it’s going good wait a minute and it’ll change. Karma will screw you to the wall and leave you wishing for a huge dose of fukitol.

  Yes, I’m sardon
ic, jaded, and disgusted. Those nice, sexy curves I just acquired lost the good fight to my new incubator body. Rub coco butter to prevent stretch marks, they say. Might work on a fit and trim yoga body but my red, angry scars spider more than a Rand McNally map.

  My tits each have their own zip code and my innie is now an outie. I swear to Jesus even my nose got fatter. No joke. A new bulbous blob catches in my sight like the wart on a witch. The baby sucks all the nutrients I inhale, leaving me tired, pale, and if you didn’t catch it, whiny.

  One shining spot is I turned the disgust into determination and finished my two-year degree in seven months. Which might also explain why I’m exhausted. My mind needed a distraction and what better to preoccupy than an overload of college courses. Can’t drink, can’t party, can’t be a sixteen-year-old with the hot boyfriend and even hotter car. Nope, I’m a cautionary tale of unprotected sex.

  And I own that shit. Yes, I screwed up, literally and figuratively. Yes, my body will look like a puckered asshole when this is over. I may never have sex again; which is great because look at what it did.

  But you know what? I will only be thirty-five when my kid graduates, or if she’s like me, I’ll be even younger because the genius will rule.

  Psst...I’m having a girl.

  That gives me at least eighteen years to save enough money to buy the plastic surgery to undo the damage of this pregnancy. Plus, I’m young and if the books are correct my rubber band youthful skin will snap back. I’m okay with staying single until my thirties. A woman’s sexual prime, right, my bitches?

  Stop, stop. Don’t gather the kindling yet. A few more weeks then I promise you will like me again.

  The first weeks of my pregnancy I spent with people. Six fabulous weeks of puking, and pampering by Carrie, Pappy, and Daddy. I went for ice cream, shopped at the local market, and ate at the diner. Then I woke up one morning at about the five-month mark and BAM there was no more hiding this baby.

  I isolated myself in the cabin. Shopped on days I went to school and talked to no one. Carrie stayed most nights until my constant bitching tested her sanity. I kicked her out but she only went because I spouted a white lie claiming Hendrix offered to take her place. Long months spent alone in a cabin is a perfect plot for a series on the creation of a psychopath.

  In late January, I broke. An emotional upheaval fueled by the baby using my bladder as a trampoline. Snotty and sobbing, I called Mazric. Hearing him on the voice mail message soothed the constant state of worry, panic, and heartache I lived in. I didn’t speak at first, just let his vibrato balm over me, then after enough stalking words began pouring free. For two weeks I filled his inbox with no response.

  Chirping birds, hooting owls, scratching racoons, chattering coyotes, the forest is terrifying. But spilling my apologies to the man I love blocked the noise. When Hendrix heard me sobbing and burst through the door catching me mid-message, I peed myself.

  Only a little but geesh, baby, pick a different body part to torture.

  He promised to clear his schedule and become my roommate if I swore to stop calling Maz. Two weeks later, he moved in. While I went to school, he continued working from the plantation. My world turned inside out in those fourteen days.

  The sounds, smells, and enclosing walls left me rocking in the corner, talking to myself. I worked equations, which led to teaching dynamical systems and differential equations to my imaginary pupils. Integrating variables with growth rate, fertilizer, and the instability of the sun brought about the math I’ll use to push Double V Ranch into the next tax bracket. They’re brilliant, insightful, and invisible but my students are boss. My mania had just made a breakthrough when my phone trilled. My heart stopped when Mazric’s name lit up the display.

  “Shlammy Lee,” he slurs, dampened music plays in the background. “Your mess-a-ges, fucked everything up, again. So here’s I am and there you are.” His inebriated mumble is hard to understand but the pain hanging on each word comes through loud and clear. “How’sh Jimmy? Fuckin’ like rabbits are we’s?”

  “Mazric, I’m so sorry.” Tears stain my cheeks.

  “Diabolical. Satan himself would applaud your work. Wiped out all my closest friends with one ball. Steeeriiiike. I can’t look at Elvis ‘cause she shared womb space with him. Joey claims he’s Switzerland, but his loyalty lays with the pushay and Jimmy, well, he landed the golden goose. Hell, you even swayed my momma and gramps. But the worst sin, Splinter, you took you away.”

  “Please, Maz, I’m sorry—”

  “STOP saying that. Why? I need to know why?”

  His pain, mine, and the overwhelming everything rises tsunami high in a swirling wave of destruction. “The baby isn’t his, Mazric, it’s yours.” Holy shit, it felt good to drop that damn bomb of truth. But fuck me, the genie’s out of the bottle and I can’t put it back.

  “What? Did you think I don’t know? You, Samantha Gentry, are a shit liar and Jimmy’s not much better. I pieced it together a month ago but YOU LIED!” he screams, spitting anger in a blur of drunken slurs. “Funny thing about clarity, I only have it when I’m blitzed. I’m blissfully dumb during sobriety.”

  “If you know, then why? What will we do?”

  “Nothing. Thish is my last hoorah. I’s has dreams, Splint. And nothing’s stopping them. You keep playing house with Jimmy and I’ll live what should’ve been. Have a great pathetic life, Sammy,” he sneers, silencing the line.

  I cried myself to sleep but, in the morning, warmed by the amber rising sun I’m free. I told him my truth. His call cut the lead weights strapped to my swollen feet. Over a nasty cup of decaf, I accept Hendrix’s offer to co-parent, no longer caring what others think. My child will understand he’s more of an uncle, and he’s a good male role model. The greatest accomplishment of my life is this tiny human.

  Around noon my phone vibrates on the table. “What do you want now, Mazric? Didn’t you say enough last night?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I saw your number in the call log. What did we talk about?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Uh,” he hesitates, “I don’t. I woke up naked and feeling guilty, but last night is lost in the dark abyss a blackout drunk.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  “Lately, yes, but that was it. I’m done drinking.”

  “Probably for the best.” I could tell him again, but I did it once and the blame is in his lap for not remembering. “Thanks for checking but nothing was said that wasn’t true.”

  “Right, fine,” he clips.

  “Have a nice life, Mazric.” I steal his thunder, pressing the button to end the call. One day those shadows hiding in his head will crawl over the wall revealing the horror hidden within. When that day comes, if it’s before I tell him, I have plausible deniability. I’ll miss his friendship like a lost limb, but it’s time to make lemonade with the lemons my life keeps rubbing in my wounds.

  Forty-Two

  SAMANTHA

  FROM THE MOMENT THE ultrasound tech showed me the image of my baby floating around I’ve been ready for the meet and greet. When I learned the kidney punching, bladder-squishing interloper is a girl, my excitement built.

  Vivianne opened her house to the baby and me until my plan for the farm produced income. Hendrix sat in a chair, working on a movie score, while we turned one of the guest rooms into an infant paradise. I tried to thwart Viv’s shopping addiction, but she said Pres and Hendrix’s parents insisted I allow them to help. Their son isn’t the father but said they’d claim her as their grandchild anyway.

  Hendrix offered to pay my medical bills with the money he made writing jingles but I refused. If my math is accurate, this harvest season will solve my income issues.

  My due date breezed by three days ago and I want this human out of me. I keep distracted by working numbers. With the help of my biomedical knowledge base, I’ve concocted a formula for fertilizer to triple our yield and create a super food. The tiring paperwork of getting
the Food and Drug Administration to test the crops upon completion is a bunch of bureaucratic bullshit, but time consuming enough to keep my mind off the baby who won’t come out.

  A warm gush soaks my thighs. “Wonderful. Now I’m pissing myself.” I shove up to go change and my huge stomach cramps, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. “Urgnuagh,” pushes from my lips as I curl forward.

  Viv returns from the kitchen where she was making me a snack. “Oh, oh, oh,” she claps.

  “Yes,” I hiss, “celebrate me peeing my pants.” Hands on my knees, I pant, pushing out a sigh when the sickening someone’s trying to remove my spine agony eases. Legs spread wide I waddle toward the stairs to change.

  “Sam, no, honey, you’re in labor,” she calls halting my steps. “You didn’t wet yourself; your water broke.”

  “What? Pshaa, no.” I brush her off with a hand wave, returning to my long, infernal duck walk up the stairs.

  Five minutes, and a dry pair of granny panties later, the most intense cramp hits my lower back. An agonized urge to poop paired with the baby rattling my uterus weakens my knees. Bent over, one hand on my stomach I inch to the bathroom.

  “Samantha, we need to go to the hospital, NOW!” Vivianne shifts from foot to foot in the doorway.

  “F-f-fine,” growls from my lips. “Let me use the toilet first.”

  “NO!” She grabs my wrist. “Damn you’re the densest smart woman in the world. Don’t grunt, push, or make any other attempt to ease the horrid pulling in your back. Didn’t you learn about this in Lamaze class?”