Positively Mine (3 page)

“I hear you.” He clinks my cup again and swills. “I don’t think this place is so bad. It takes longer to get to know everyone, but they’re okay.”

“Yeah. I’m not complaining. And besides, it’s better than being stuck all year with a roommate you can’t stand.”

“Exactly.”

“So those are your friends from high school?”

“We’ve been good friends since like kindergarten.”

I lean my back up against a wall that has now been vacated by a couple that wandered into the hall. It feels good to have the distraction of conversation. “Do you miss Saratoga?”

Mike joins me, resting the bulk of his weight on his shoulder. “Who has time? I can’t believe how much work we have.”

“Yeah, it is pretty intense. Every teacher expects you to read like a hundred pages a night. It’s fine if you like the subject, but I can’t stand my legal ethics course.”

“Why are you taking legal ethics? Do you want to be a lawyer?”

“No way. My dad’s a lawyer. My mom was a lawyer. Enough with law already.” I sigh.

“Your mom
was
a lawyer? What is she now?” Mike asks this innocently as people often do when they inquire about my mother. I always feel bad with my answer.

“She’s dead.”

Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh, god. I’m sorry. What happened?”

“A bad car accident. Eight years ago.”

“Wow. That must have been tough.”

“It sucked. But my dad and I try to make the best of things,” I lie.

I look down at my cup and realize that as I’ve been talking, I’ve also been drinking. It’s almost empty. Karen’s words about avoiding alcohol flash through my mind, but I push them out and take another sip.

“So why the legal ethics class?” Mike thankfully moves off the topic of my mom, and I appreciate it because sometimes people ask me a million questions about the accident, and then I want to crawl into a hole.

“I don’t know. My dad thought I might change my mind about law. I think he has this fantasy about me someday joining the law firm, continuing in the family tradition. Harris and Harris again like it used to be when my mom was alive.”

“Your parents were law partners?”

“Yup. They both went to Colman, too, if you can believe it. My mom grew up on a winery not far from here.”

“Really?” Mike grins. “I knew you had an interesting story.” He grabs my arm. “Come on. We need some more beer.”

Other than a few fleeting conversations with people here and there, Mike and I spend most of the night talking to each other. It’s easy with him. He’s friendly and laidback, and there aren’t any awkward silences. Plus I’d be lying if I didn’t admit he’s pretty easy on the eyes, too. He doesn’t tower over my vertically challenged self, but he’s got some height on me, and he’s built just enough that he doesn’t come across as skinny. I like how his bangs sweep across his forehead. By the time I scan the room to see that just about everyone has left except his visitors, who hover around the keg like it’s the Holy Grail, I feel like I’ve found a friend.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket. It’s after three.

“Hey, Mike. I’m going to take off.”

He’s started playing a video game on a small television he’s mounted with wire to the 1950s’ built-in desk that comes standard to every room in Miller.

“Want me to walk you upstairs?” His eyes are bloodshot, and his shirt is partly untucked from his jeans. He looks tired and drunk, but adorable.

“It’s two flights. I can handle it.”

“You sure? I hear there’re a lot of questionable people in these parts.”

“I’ll call you if I run into any trouble.” I smile.

“All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I turn to his friends to say goodbye, but they’re in drunk bro zone. So I give them a lame wave and close the door.

My head has barely hit the pillow when I begin to feel really, really queasy. It starts out slow – just this tinge of something off in my stomach.
Why did I drink those beers?

I turn to my side and hope it will pass, but the feeling begins to grow, and before I know what hits me I am grabbing for my garbage can and hurling. And hurling again. And again.

Chills and sweat take turns tormenting me as my body seems to have lost all ability to regulate temperature. And it keeps on coming until well after I’ve thrown up everything I’ve had to drink and eat in the last day. Ugh!

Finally I manage to inch my way back to bed, clawing my comforter around me. I pull my pillow over my head – which is pounding – and wait for sleep to give me some mercy. The birds are singing outside my window before I am able to drift off.

The sour smell of vomit wakes me a few hours later. Unable to tolerate it, I take my garbage can down the hall to the bathroom and dump its contents into a toilet, then shed my clothes and climb into a shower. With the diversion of an upset stomach now gone and the silence of a dorm post-party, there is nothing to distract my mind, and I am unable to block the intense feeling that begins rising up in my chest as I’m forced to face the truth.
I’m fucking pregnant!
And I have no idea what to do about it.

I squeeze my eyes shut and let the hot water pummel my face.

Do I tell my father? Do I tell the baby’s father? How?

My heart begins pounding like I’m running a marathon, and adrenaline floods my system. I take a few deep breaths and try to focus on something, anything, to calm myself down. I force myself to listen to the sounds of people trickling into the bathroom, squeaky faucets turning on in the stalls on either side of me.

Once all three showers are going at the same time, the hot water runs out fast.

“Oh, man. There’s no more hot water again,” comes from the stall to my left.

“Dammit!” from the one to my right.

But for me, the cold proves a good thing. The snap of icy water lowers the volume of my mind instantly. I stand in it for a few minutes, and it numbs me just enough.

Realizing I don’t have a towel, I wrestle with my shirt and leggings as they adhere to every last inch of my wet body. When I’m finally dressed in sopping clothes, the bathroom has cleared, allowing me to slither back to the solitude of my room without small talk. But the lingering stench hits me as soon as I open the door. I force my one lone window as wide as it will go and stick my head out to breathe the fresh air. I’ve got to get out of this room, out of this dorm, and off this campus for a while.

Reaching for my jewelry box, I push aside the bracelets, rings and necklaces my dad has given me over the years. There are quite a few as he doesn’t seem to notice I’m not much of a jewelry person. Underneath the sparkling beads, Tiffany silver and 14 karat gold is a single key. I add it to my key chain and place it into my backpack, trying to ignore the envelope full of decisions I have to make.

On my laptop, I pull up a map of the Finger Lakes and plot how long the ride would be to Dresden.
Eighteen miles
. On any other day I could do it. Do I have it in me today?

Once I throw on some riding clothes and toss my wet hair into a ponytail, I feel ready.
A day to think
. I make my way to the bike rack, passing bed-headed, bloodshot dorm mates stumbling to the bathroom for an inevitable cold shower. And just before taking off, I slide my hand into my backpack, into the manila envelope, and reach for one of those horse-pill vitamins lying at the bottom, swallowing one with my water. Just in case.

Riding down the hill past the freshman dorms, Kashong Lake shimmers deep turquoise, and the warmth of the late morning sun offsets the coolness in the air. Given that it has rained almost every day since I arrived in August, students are taking full advantage with blankets laid out on the grassy shoreline, bikini tops by the dozen, and radios blaring. I pass Joni’s Hot Truck, a sandwich shop on wheels, on a nearby side street, and there’s a line down the road with people waiting for her amazing grilled paninis.

Main Street turns into Lake Road, taking me past the marina, and then along Kashong Lakeshore Park, where the picnickers, runners and motorcyclists are out in droves.

Eight and half miles go quickly with my mind distracted by the beauty beside me. But once off the lake, the rest of the ride is not as easy since it is mostly uphill. My legs burn with the sloped terrain and my mind slips back to my situation.

I don’t even know why I let it happen. Maybe I felt like we needed to finally get it over with – which is terrible. Let’s get the sex over with. But we were caught somewhere between friend and boyfriend/girlfriend status for so long. Something needed to change.

He was the first person I met on Shelter Island when my dad bought a house there a few years back. I may as well have been a permanent fixture on his boat this past summer. It didn’t necessarily seem like a bad thing when we finally hooked up. But there was always this vague tension between us. We’d be together all summer long and then barely talk during the school year. Even though I must have invited him into the city a dozen times, he’d never come.

Still, even if we weren’t meant to be, to blow me off the way he did with only a text two nights later to make sure that we were – to put it in his exact words – good?
What is that?

Oh, we’re good. We’re REAL good now.

As I crest the next hill, I whisper, “What do I do?”

The September breeze has no answer for me.

My legs ache with each incline, and I’m almost ready to surrender when Seneca Lake comes into view off in the distance, popping through the orange maples. It’s been three years since I was here, and the sight of that glassy pool with the low-lying clouds hovering over it like a bowl of cotton brings a rush of memories – long lazy days on my grandparents’ farm, riding on the tractor with my grandfather, baking cookies with my grandmother, days when I was a kid and my mom was still alive.

I let my bike coast down to the valley. A dash of anticipation has me pedaling faster once I reach Route 14, knowing I’m only a few miles from what was once one of my favorite places in this entire world. The last time I was here, my dad and I were boxing up the contents of closets, arranging for a Goodwill pick-up of clothes. Coming back after that seemed too depressing.

But I couldn’t put it off forever, could I?

The white wooden fence that runs the length of the thirty-acre property emerges when I veer around a bend in the road. Like most wineries around here, it starts up high on a hill with rows of trellised grape vines rambling down a gentle slope, finally settling at water’s edge. I ride past the small parking lot and the red barn turned tasting-room, now all boarded up. There’s a gaping hole in the roof, and it looks like with enough wind, the whole thing could topple over.

Finally reaching the tree-lined drive at the far end, I hop off my bike. The stake holding the “For Sale” sign has almost completely tipped over, and it is teetering close to the ground, muddy from all the rain. I’m tempted to push it down. Who is going to buy this place anyway? My dad’s been trying to unload it for years.

My stomach is suddenly in knots, and I don’t know if it’s from nerves or hunger. I did not plan this well. Dresden is in the middle of nowhere – miles from any place to get groceries, at least. I always forget how different it is up here after the city where there is a convenience store on practically every corner. It used to take me a few days to shift gears and get readjusted to country living when I’d come visit. My grandparents didn’t even own a television. I used to pack tons of books and I’d read every last one because at night there was nothing else to do. But I still always looked forward to August when my dad would bring me up to spend the month.

My stomach grumbles. Sure, I’ll make a great mother. Sorry, baby, I forgot to get us food.

Leaning my bike against a tree, I take a deep breath and fumble for my key and approach the front porch slowly, cautiously. The thick cedar door is silvered with age, and the lock is an antique, but it manages to click after a couple tries. Old hinges creak as I push, breaking a deafening stillness inside. My legs feel frozen, so I just stand and look.

The daylight filters through my grandmother’s old lace curtains in the living and dining rooms, bouncing off weathered wood floors while the dust dances through sunrays. Almost nothing has changed: the furniture in the living room, the tablecloth on the dining room table, the runner up the stairs.

I walk back to the kitchen, flicking on lights. Thankfully, the power is still on at the realtor’s request. I fill my water bottle at the sink, gulping it down. It has a metallic taste, but I’m so thirsty I fill it again.

Rummaging around the kitchen, the forks, knives and spoons, plates, bowls and napkins – all mismatched – are where we left them. Why wouldn’t they be? I sit in my old chair and imagine Gram is sitting across from me. After my mother died, she became like my second mom. She came with me to buy my first bra, helped me pick out an outfit for my first dance. She was the person I called when I needed an opinion.

I wonder if I would have told her about this.

I sigh. I would have. I know it. And after yelling at me for being so irresponsible, she would have settled in to help me. We would have talked it through for hours.

Now it’s just an empty kitchen and an empty chair.

My stomach is feeling queasy again thanks to all the water. I have a sudden urge for fresh air, so I unlock the back screen door and trot down the dirt path that winds to the lake.

The sun has shifted in the sky, lower now. And like Kashong, Seneca Lake is alive with activity. A few small vessels are buoyed a couple hundred feet from shore, with fishermen drinking beer from tall cans, waiting for the trout to bite. I climb out on the small dock and sit on its rough planks, gazing at the water. The buzz of motor craft is a soothing backdrop to the blank, empty state of my mind.

Try as I might, I am unable to connect the dots, unable to grasp for an answer. It’s like I’m watching a movie and this is happening to a girl on the screen. Only, she was mismatched for the part, and I can’t relate to her story. I lie back and allow my eyes to close in the warmth of the late summer sun and soon feel myself drifting to sleep.