Leap (12 page)

“It's the garden!” I said finally. “They wrecked the garden.”

Mom hurried outside. Images of the snapped sapling and trampled pansies looped in my mind as my shoulders shook and tears landed in my tea.

She stayed out there long enough for me to get the first round of sobs out of my system. The phone rang until the machine picked up. “Denise? Natalie? Are you there? I just received a message from the Victoria police and I want to know what the hell is going on.” Dad paused and softened his voice. “I mean, I want to know if everything is all right. I'm going to call the police in ten minutes if I haven't heard back from you. Please call me.”

The front door opened and closed. Mom shuffled into the hallway and took her time getting back to the kitchen. She was stooping. I blew my nose and told her she had better call Dad. Serves him right if he feels helpless and worried when shit happens, living that far away.

I've got to call Lisa.

Monday, August 9th

A book lay open on Mom's lap as I passed the living room, but she was leaning back in her armchair and staring into space.

I rolled my eyes. “Good book, Mom?”

She blinked rapidly several times. “I can't seem to focus, actually.”

“Wonder why,” I said under my breath.

Now she's unloading the dishwasher, folding laundry, and bundling the recycling. She does domestic chores when she's upset, so the sound of her bustling always unsettles me. Especially tonight.

I'm huddled as small as possible on this single mattress. I'm trying to compress my spirit, like a tightly-packed snowball. I want to shrink, to take up as little space as possible. Can a person will her uterus to contract? How much muscular control do we have over our internal organs, how tight can we squeeze them?

Listen here: anyone trying to find mooring in there, forget it. There's no room at this pier. Keep floating until it's time to leave.

God, this is exhausting. My muscles clench like this when I'm cold, as if trying to keep the heat in. I feel cold right now. Peppermint tea?

Made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. Mom wandered in and asked me if I'd been on the phone. I snapped at her that I hadn't. She picked up the kitchen phone to check for a dial tone. She looked so sad when she realized that, yes, of course the phone was working. It just wasn't ringing. She's so transparent. I should have offered her some tea, but there was only one bag of peppermint left, and frankly, I wasn't in the mood to share. Now she's watering the garden.

Peppermint smells so clean.

I'm still stiff with worry.

Before, I glossed over what happened the afternoon of the party. I want to get it out, I want the relief.

Fighting had stoked our emotions. We hadn't made out for almost two days after doing it nonstop. We hadn't drunk or smoked weed. Kevin's touch alone made me high. I felt an urge to get even closer to him. I could tell he felt it too. He was
there
, more present than ever, really seeing me. He raised himself on his elbows and looked down—half-smiling, half-questioning. I gazed back. Nothing was said. He started pressing himself between my legs. At first it felt good. Then he started thrusting, like he was hammering at a locked door, and I got scared. My muscles tensed and it hurt. He said, “Just relax.” I was about to say “Stop” when something gave. He pushed in and came to rest, as if, after all that struggle, he had found a hold. And I held him.

He groaned and pushed more, in and out, sliding deeper each time.

I was getting alarmed. “Kevin!”

He didn't respond. His eyes were closed, lips apart, as he pumped. Finally he swore, “Oh, God, oh, Jesus.” He yanked away and liquid spread over my stomach and thighs. He rolled onto his back as I sat up. Semen glistened on my belly.

“Don't worry, babe, I was careful.”

It stung between my legs. I patted my stomach and thighs with a sheet.

“Lie back down and cuddle with me,” he said. It came out as a whine.

I balled up the soiled sheet and carried it to the laundry hamper.

He was “careful.”

But how does he
know?

Tuesday, August 10th

I called Lisa's house and her mom answered. She was proud of her daughter for landing a job at an insurance company (as an “administrative assistant”). I agreed that it was hard to get any kind of office work right out of high school. I admitted that it wasn't simply luck; Lisa deserved it. I couldn't comment on the organizational skills Lisa displayed as a toddler, but I seconded the idea that landing this job boded well for her entire career.

In other words, I said “Uh-huh” for what seemed like an hour. When I finally pried Lisa's work number out of her mom, I called and asked to see her as soon as possible. We met at her office at four-thirty.

We walked down to the Inner Harbour and found an empty bench. Sailboats bobbed and chimed in front of us. I kept my eyes on the wharf as I told my story. Halfway through, I remembered our heart-to-heart back at Con Brio in July. My concerns were so immature back then—
Sasha's not speaking to me because I went to the fireworks with her brother.
I wished I could reverse time! I don't know what I expected Lisa to do about my current problem. She said nothing until I was finished. Perched on a wooden post, a seagull was crying in rhythmic repetition, its beak open wide.

“When exactly did this happen?”

“Saturday afternoon.”

Lisa counted on her fingers. “Then there's no time to waste. You can get Plan B at the drugstore, but you have to take it within seventy-two hours.”

“Plan B?”

“The morning-after pill.”

She led me to a small pharmacy close by. I hoped it would be more private than the big-box drugstore. As we pushed open the glass door, dusty, perfumed air engulfed us. We headed for the back. In the diaper aisle, a young woman bounced up and down, trying to soothe the infant strapped to her front and at the same time corral a runaway toddler. An elderly woman stood at the dispensary, leaning on a cane. The white-smocked pharmacist's assistant had to shout at her and I cringed, worried that she would shout when it was my turn, too, and announce my dilemma to everyone in the store.

The hard-of-hearing lady took a seat right next to the counter. So much for privacy. I was grateful my own grandmothers weren't around to overhear me right then. It wasn't my proudest moment.

Lisa nudged me and we both stepped forward. I kept my eyes on the counter and mumbled my request.

“Pardon?” The woman kept her voice raised, perhaps trying to model the appropriate volume.

I shot Lisa a pleading look, and she said, “My friend would like to talk to the pharmacist.”

“I screen all the requests,” the woman boomed.

“It's about Plan B,” I said.

“You'll have to speak up.”

My cheeks were burning. Other customers had lined up behind me. “Plan B!”

The assistant's expression instantly changed: I was one of
those
girls.

“Have a seat in the consulting booth. The pharmacist will be with you shortly.”

Only one person could fit into the booth, which reminded me of the penalty box at an ice rink. I didn't want Lisa to leave. “You'll be fine.” She squeezed my hand and smiled, flecks of amber glinting in her brown eyes. I nodded and shut myself in. Since the gate was only a few feet high, it didn't really serve any purpose. The walls, the counter, and the shelves were stark, hospital white. Fluorescent lights glared on all the surfaces and lit the vacant seat opposite me.

At last the pharmacist arrived, wearing a white crewneck shirt under his smock, kind of like a priest's collar.
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.
He extended his arm and introduced himself. I had to stand up to shake his hand, which was dry and powdery. “How can I help you?”

Why do doctors and pharmacists always make you repeat to them what you've just told their assistant? At least I didn't have to shout, and Plan B was less embarrassing to say than morning-after pill.

“Were you using any birth control at the time?”

I shook my head and stared at my lap.
Would I
be
here if I'd been using
birth control?
I pressed my knees together tight.

“When did you have intercourse?”

Oh my God!
So much for skipping the embarrassing part.
Lisa, what have you done to me?
But it wasn't Lisa. It wasn't even Kevin. I had done this. I had to answer.

“Saturday.”

Like Lisa, he counted back.

“Saturday night?”

What was he going to want to know next? The position, the duration, and the estimated time of ejaculation on the twenty-four-hour clock?

“Saturday afternoon.”

“Saturday after
noon
?”

Yes, we're kinky, we do it in the daylight. Don't you wish you were young again?

“Plan B is only effective if taken within seventy-two hours of intercourse, so you're almost out of luck. I can help you out this time, but before I do, I'm obliged to give you some information about birth control.”

He launched into the available options, emphasizing the effectiveness rate and pushing pamphlets across the counter to illustrate each method. Educators make sex sound like a dentist appointment, right down to the hygienic rubber gloves. They talk about “getting swept away in the moment” like it's a health risk and not the point of the whole experience. I can't help it: I want sex to be romantic.

At last he stopped talking and handed me two small paper cups: one held the pill, the other water. He watched me swallow and gave me a second pill to take twelve hours later. When he said, “How are you going to pay?” I stopped short. I honestly thought he meant
pay for your sins
until he placed his hand on the till. Fortunately, I had enough cash. I didn't want any record of the purchase on my bank statement.

I escaped from the booth, still blushing, and found Lisa browsing in the greeting card aisle. At least there wouldn't be any New Baby cards in my near future.

“Ready to go?” she said.

On the sidewalk, I took huge strides, distancing myself from the store as fast as possible. The air was cooling as evening approached.

“You look relieved. Embarrassed, but relieved.”

“I am
never
going through that again! NEVER!”

Lisa giggled. “That's exactly how I felt a couple of years ago.”

“You've been through that too?”

She dropped her eyes to the sidewalk, then looked at me. “How do you think I knew what to do?”

I shook my head. “I'm so lucky you were there. You have no idea …”

It was five-thirty. Throngs of people were milling about. Some wore dress shirts and carried briefcases; some wore T-shirts and carried backpacks. But they all looked the same: used up and hungry for dinner. They clustered at bus stops, ear buds in place, and winced as if their shoes were too tight. Not me. I wanted to burst out singing.

Lisa was chewing her lip. “I hate to bring this up, but …”

I froze to the spot. The stream of foot traffic parted around me. My good mood evaporated. “What is it?”

“There's one other thing you need to take care of.”

She must be thinking of the second pill. “The pharmacist gave me another pill to take at home.”

Lisa touched my shoulder. “Let's keep walking.”

We turned off Douglas and onto View Street, where the crowds thinned out.

“It's not about Plan B. It's about STIs.”

“STIs?” I thought she was referring to a TV show at first. But that's CSI. “Oh! You mean—”

We both said it together: “Sexually Transmitted Infections.”

I groaned.

“You don't have to go today.” Lisa tried to make her voice sound reassuring. “The timing doesn't work quite the same way.”

I wanted to punch a wall, but suddenly I was afraid to touch anything. The whole of downtown must be crawling with germs.

“Just Google the Sexual Health Clinic and call them to set up an appointment.”

We were close to the Saint Vincent de Paul Society, where there's a soup kitchen. A man with piercing eyes and matted hair stormed past us. “Sluts.” At least, I could have sworn that's what he said.

My legs started trembling. “I can't handle any more right now. I've got to go for a run. Burn off some tension. Want to come?”

Lisa gestured to her work clothes. “I can't, but you go ahead.”

We parted, and I tore down the sidewalk, weaving through the rush-hour crowds and away, away, away from downtown.