Hush Little Baby (22 page)
And that’s when I start to cry. It’s too much. The multiple revelations of the day overwhelm me—a statewide manhunt is in hot pursuit; each day I’m here, I endanger Goat and Paul and the family; and I’m pregnant with Jeffrey’s baby. It’s too much.
My sobs come in great gasps, and Paul’s arm is around me, and I’m mortified with myself and sorry for Paul trapped beside me with my incoherent blubbering.
Finally when I get a breath, I wail, “I can’t do it. I can’t have this baby. I can’t. How can I?”
“Shhh,” he says, and kisses the top of my head and rubs my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. It’ll all be okay, you’ll see.”
“How? How can this possibly be okay? I can’t even take care of the two kids I have.”
“Little Fish and Hawk are fine.”
“Fine? They don’t have a father, they don’t go to school, they don’t even have a last name. What kind of a future do they have?” Then I bite my lip, and my forehead crashes to my lap in another blazing blast of regret. Paul’s father left when he was a baby, and he dropped out of school when he was younger than Drew. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Once you become a man, your future is not the fault of your childhood.”
I turn my head on my lap to look at him. He smiles peacefully without an ounce of pain. Perhaps it’s the Chalen in him, but in a dozen lifetimes, I won’t understand the world as well as he does.
I’m a decade older, and yet I still blame so much of my life on my past. My dad’s been my champion, my crutch—and for the past year, the reason I chained myself to my marriage. My whole life I’ve isolated myself from my mom, pretending I’m better than I am because of pride and vanity. I blame my childhood and my parents, not entirely, but in part, for the state of my life. But Paul’s right; at some point it’s time to grow up. Do I want my kids to be tethered to me for eternity, to use me or this moment as an excuse for their mistakes even when they’re my age?
But I also don’t want to be deserving of their blame. “I can’t have this baby,” I repeat.
Paul nods, and for a long while, the running water of the river and the wind are the only sounds.
“How far along are you?”
It feels like a year since Jeffrey and I made love, so much has happened, but it’s only been slightly more than a month. “Not too far.”
“Then tomorrow you’ll see a friend of mine.”
“I don’t have insurance. I don’t even have a license.”
“This man won’t ask for that.”
I try to see Paul’s face, but the night hides his expression.
“Good night, Ntamqe,” Paul says as he stands. “Sleep well.”
I
’m parked in my fugitive car in front of a clapboard building with worn yellow paint, a river rock chimney, and no sign. It’s on a road that leads out of Elmer City and toward the back country of the reservation where there are a few homes, a dump, and an old iron mine.
I sit in my car as the minutes tick toward my appointment, then past it. Paul asked if I wanted him to come along, and I shook my head. I’ll call him when I’m done, and he’ll come with Sissy to drive me and my car home.
My jeans are tight, the waistband digging into my thickened stomach. I finger the small gold cross given to me by my dad at my first communion and that I’ve not taken off since.
All day I’ve done nothing but cry and hide from Addie and Drew so they wouldn’t see me crying.
I can’t do this. I can’t have this baby. It’s not fair to Addie and Drew, the two kids I already have and who I already can’t take care of. How will I manage with a newborn?
I can’t do this.
I repeat my reasoning as the sun falls in front of me.
A man, perhaps fifty, tall, with long legs and a short waist, steps into the doorway and looks at me through my windshield. He wears a white coat, probably the doctor. Paul explained the man’s license was revoked years ago because he was a drunk and killed a woman on the operating table while he was wasted. He stopped drinking, and as repentance, has practiced backwoods medicine ever since—cash accepted, no questions asked.
Jeffrey and Gordon spin in my mind. I feel Jeffrey making love to me and Gordon choking me. I see Jeffrey dead in the gymnasium and Gordon finding us.
I’m the only car in the parking lot. The doctor looks at the glare of my windshield and tilts his head in query, waiting for me to make my decision.
I start the engine and turn the car around. As I drive back to the Flying Goat, I unbutton my jeans, relieving the pressure.
“I’m sorry,” I say aloud, smoothing the shirt over the bulge of my abdomen, the guilt so heavy I’m certain the child inside me feels it.
This baby may destroy us and bringing it into the world when I can’t protect it isn’t right, but if Gordon catches us, which I think he will, this baby may be my only chance to survive.
I
t’s been two weeks since my decision and morning sickness has set in with the bad weather, and we’re all miserable. Addie hasn’t been feeling well for a few days, and Drew’s going crazy being cooped up inside with the rain.
We need supplies. I need children’s Motrin for Addie, prenatal vitamins for myself, and Drew needs new shoes—supplies that can’t be found at Fred’s general store.
It’s Sunday, and except for us, the Flying Goat is empty. On the days the restaurant is closed, Goat returns to her family’s house on the reservation where her two sisters live and Paul goes into Spokane where he has several girls he sees.
I’d like to leave Addie home since she’s not feeling well, but there’s no one to leave her with, so I lay her in the backseat and put a blanket over her and I allow Drew to ride in the front with me.
Omak is the nearest town, and it’s an hour’s drive from Elmer City. It’s not a big town, but it does have a few fast-food restaurants, a gas station, and a few large stores.
We fill the car with gas, lunch at McDonald’s, then drive to Walmart. I carry Addie into the store, her head resting on my shoulder, her thumb in her mouth. Drew pushes the wagon. We shop quickly and are in line to check out when I notice two young men behind the customer service counter looking at us. One holds a sheet of paper and they both look down at it, look at us, then repeat the sequence. The one not holding the paper lifts a telephone to his ear. I forget about the supplies being rung up and grab Drew by the wrist. I run directly toward the counter and grab the paper from the other boy’s hand. “
REWARD
.” There’s a photo of each of us and below is Gordon’s cell number. The prize is $50,000.
I’m out of reach of the boy with the phone. He’s backed up against the items that need to be restocked and is saying the words “Walmart in Omak.”
I sprint for the door, Addie bouncing in my arms, Drew on my heels. We skid from the parking lot, and when we reach the junction for the highway, I turn away from the Flying Goat.
“Mommy, I don’t feel good,” Addie says.
“Hang in there, baby.”
But she can’t. The stench of vomit fills the car. I put my shirt to my mouth to prevent my own retching and pull behind an abandoned jerky stand. Using napkins from our McDonald’s lunch, I do my best to clean up the mess.
Addie’s skin is burning up.
Sirens race past us heading in the direction we just came. I sink to the gravel, holding my sick daughter, and pray.
* * *
It takes two hours to drive back to Elmer City going the long way, and it’s almost eight by the time we reach the house.
I carry Addie to our room, grind up an Advil, and stir it into some milk. She only drinks a mouthful. I lay her on my bed, make Drew a sandwich, then return to lie down beside her. Light from the porch lamp filters through the dusty window, and I watch Addie’s eyes flutter behind her thin, closed lids. Her pink lips are open, and she takes quick, shallow breaths. Rain begins to pour, and the old house creaks.
I bury my face into my pillow so I won’t wake her with my sobs.
My mind imagines Gordon racing like a NASCAR driver on meth to get to Omak, clenching his teeth and the steering wheel. Then those same tight hands wrap around my neck.
Gordon’s out there—so close I can feel him.
Drew stumbles into the room and climbs onto the futon beside the bed. “Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“Good night, sweet boy.”
His frightened tears are quiet, silenced by his young boy pride and muddled with the rain until they blend into a single sound.
* * *
The crack of thunder startles me, and I sit up, my heart pounding.
Lightning flashes, and through the rain-streaked window, a shadow moves along the side of the house.
I creep through the room, stumbling on the futon and stubbing my toe on the doorjamb. In the kitchen, I pull a
Fatal Attraction
knife from the cutlery block, crouch behind the hostess desk, and stare at the front door.
Nothing but dark, rainy silence.
The thunder rumbles, a distant drumroll, and the porch light flickers.
The door pounds, and my heart pounds with it. I consider yelling for Drew to wake up, shouting for him to grab his sister and run out the back door.
Then there’s another flash, and the silhouette behind the door is revealed. The shadow is short and thin with a wide brim hat, and my heart relaxes. I set down the knife, walk to the door, and unlock the deadbolt.
“Hi, Fred, come on in.”
Fred holds a soaked brown bag and drips from head to toe.
He wipes his feet on the doormat, hangs his raincoat and hat on the hook beside the door, and follows me inside.
“Thought you might be needing some supplies,” he says, holding out the bag. “Storm’s getting worse, and power’s gonna be spotty tonight.”
I peer inside the bag to see two flashlights and a dozen candles.
Fred’s dressed as he always is in a short-sleeve dress shirt and tan Docker pants.
Small-town hospitality, each day it amazes me—kind words, kind thoughts, simple respect and compassion. “Thank you.”
“You okay?”
It’s then I realize I’ve started to cry.
His hug after the first minute is awkward, and I pull away. “Would you like some coffee?”
He nods, and I turn on the coffee machine.
Fred’s easy to talk to. He was raised in Spokane by a minister and a seamstress and still has a sister and brother who live there. As the coffee brews, he talks a little about his childhood and the wife that left him. “‘Slow is one thing,’ she told me, ‘dead’s another.’ Last year, she married a plumber and moved to the valley.”
He keeps the conversation on himself and doesn’t ask questions about me or the kids, and I wonder if he, too, already knows the truth.
I pour the coffee, and Fred searches the cabinets until he finds a bottle of whiskey and holds it up in invitation.
I nod, and he pours a dash into each of our mugs.
The coffee, alcohol, and company soothe my ragged nerves, and I begin to relax.
The conversation turns to Paul.
“Used to steal from me,” Fred says with a smile. “When I first opened my store, every day he’d come in, say hello, cheerful as can be, then he’d lift a six-pack of beer, a bottle of vodka, or a bag of chips. Wasn’t a bad kid, just dealt a tough hand. Got sent away for a knife fight when he was nineteen, then again for destroying public property when he was twenty-two. Came out the second time with the tattoos, the limp, and only half the attitude that got him sent to prison in the first place. Goat took him in, and he’s been doing real good since.”
After another cup of coffee and a little more whiskey, my eyes get so heavy they begin to close. Fred stands and carries our mugs to the sink. I walk beside him to put the whiskey back in the cupboard, then grab a dish towel to dry the cups so they can be put away. Fred holds the last one between us a second too long, and his body leans in, barely crossing the invisible line where friendship ends, and like a cat’s whiskers, I feel it immediately and move the few inches it takes to make us nothing but friends again.
In the past month, there have been a few customers who have flirted, but I’m immune to that kind of attention. Something deep inside me is broken, a switch turned off, and I don’t know if I’m permanently ruined as Goat seems to be, but I’m certainly not ready to care for a man again.
T
he storm streaks rain down the bedroom window that looks out on the dreary morning.
Addie woke up feeling a little better, and she and Drew are upstairs in Paul’s room watching his television. There’s no cable, and during a storm the reception is fuzzy, but Fred loaned us a video of
I Love Lucy
episodes, and at the moment, the kids are eating cereal and watching it for the second time.
I lie on the bed staring at the ceiling, hoping to ward off the heartburn and nausea that’s always worst after breakfast. How different this pregnancy is than my others. With Drew, I was so ecstatic. There were champagne toasts and phone calls, followed by building our dream home, decorating the nursery, and spending hours in bed with Gordon rubbing my belly as we mulled over names and dreamed about what our baby would look like and the kind of kid he would be. Four years later, my pregnancy with Addie was a second chance. The week before I found out I was pregnant, I’d moved home with my parents and filed for divorce, claiming Gordon’s irresponsibility with money was the reason I left. Gordon had hit me twice, one too many times to be forgiven.
The pregnancy, his seemingly sincere, incessant apologies, his pleas for forgiveness, and his promises to never hurt me again convinced me to return. And all through my term and for a short while after, he kept his word.
I stretch my legs to the corners of the small bed. It’s always these rare moments of quiet that are hardest. Alone with my thoughts, the past haunts me.
There’s so much about my life I miss—my dad, my mom, Jeffrey. I long for oysters and crab cakes, a dramatic literary novel by Anne Tyler or a dark thriller by Stephen King. I miss my Krups coffeemaker and the special blend of almond-roasted coffee I ordered from San Francisco. I think about my mom’s rosebushes and the lemon tree my dad and I planted in my backyard when Gordon and I bought our house. It never gave me a single lemon, but it provided my dad and me lots of laughs.
