The Smart One (23 page)

She wanted to say this to the nurse, but she couldn’t quite get the words together. Instead, she said, “I’m sorry, that can’t be right.”

The nurse nodded and said, “I’m afraid it is.”

“I don’t understand,” Cleo kept saying. “I don’t understand.”

The nurse was sympathetic, but firm and removed, which was annoying as all hell. Cleo wanted her to be just as shocked as she was. She wanted her to say, “I can’t believe it either!” But she just stood there calmly. She probably thought Cleo didn’t understand how the body worked, that it was possible she was one of those girls who would give birth in a bathroom, leave her baby in a garbage can, and then head back to the prom. This could not be happening.

“This is a mistake,” Cleo said.

“There is no mistake,” the nurse said. “You’re pregnant.”

“But I’m on the pill.” It sounded like she was making excuses, even to herself, but it was the truth. She was on the pill. This wasn’t right.

“It can happen.” The nurse shrugged her shoulders, like,
What can you do about it? Isn’t life a bitch sometimes?
Cleo wanted to punch her in the jaw, give her a side hook, like a boxer.

“Yes, it can happen. But it doesn’t happen often, does it? There is a very minimal margin of error in these things.” Cleo thought to herself that she sounded just like Elizabeth. And then she thought,
Elizabeth. Oh, fuck
.

The nurse was giving her pamphlets, asking her when the date of her last period was, looking unsurprised when Cleo said, “Ummm, let’s see.”

“It looks like you’re about five weeks,” the nurse finally said.

“Five weeks?”

She wanted to ask the nurse how many pregnant students she’d seen in her time here. Cleo would feel better if there were lots of them. She always felt better when she was part of a group.

Cleo could have stayed there all day, going round and round with the nurse about how this really wasn’t possible, but the nurse told her she had another patient and told Cleo she should make an appointment with an ob-gyn to get more information. Then she’d herded Cleo out the door, nudging and guiding her like she was some sort of sheepdog.

When she went to health services, she really hadn’t thought she was pregnant. Maybe it crossed her mind, the same way that cancer does—it’s a possibility, sure, but really, not very likely. Cleo had been feeling nauseous and tired, but she thought it was the flu or maybe a parasite or something.

It had never occurred to her to take a pregnancy test at home. She’d never ever taken one. Cleo had slept with her high school boyfriend senior year, mostly because she thought she should before she went to college. He was a lacrosse player with nice hair. She’d never really had any sort of pregnancy scare—she was careful!—but there were a few times she was a day late, and she’d panic.

Her friend Violet took pregnancy tests like they were going out of style, sometimes just to reassure herself, sometimes because she was bored, sometimes because she thought it seemed adult. Cleo thought maybe she bought them in bulk.

If Cleo ever breathed a word that maybe she was worried, Violet would offer her a test and encourage her to take it. “Don’t you just want to know?” she’d always ask. Cleo always refused. To take a test
would be too final—you might get the answer you were dreading. If you didn’t take it, there was always the hope that things were still okay. And so Cleo preferred to lie in her bed at night and pray and imagine that she would get her period the next day. It had always worked.

AFTER SHE LEFT HEALTH SERVICES,
Cleo walked for a while. She left the campus, because she couldn’t look at all of the students, just walking around with their stupid backpacks, thinking that they had real problems because they had a paper due or a test to take, when really none of it mattered at all.

She walked into town, and then around the neighborhoods, winding in and around streets, hoping to get lost. Just then, she missed Monica so much that it was a little bit like a stabbing pain in her stomach. She wanted so badly to find her, to be able to tell her what had happened, to cry hysterically on her bed, while Monica rubbed her back and said, “What are we going to do?”

And the strangest thing about it was that she missed Monica so much in that moment that it seemed to override everything else. Cleo didn’t want to tell Max. It was embarrassing or shameful or something. What if he got mad or broke up with her or thought she’d done it on purpose? Even if he wasn’t that kind of person, you had no idea how someone was going to act when he was in a situation like this.

Cleo ached to be able to tell Monica, but she knew she couldn’t. The day she packed up her stuff, she knocked on Monica’s bedroom door. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. “I don’t want things to be weird between us.” This of course didn’t mean much, since things had been weird between them for a while now.

Monica had shrugged. “It’s pretty shitty, but I guess I understand.”

She’d felt awful then, leaving her best friend who wasn’t well. What kind of a person was she? To give up on a friend when she hit a rough patch. Well, she was paying for it now. She had no one. No friend to talk to, no safe place to go. And so she walked up and down the streets, hoping that maybe she’d wake up and it would be one of those dreams that you talked about for days, saying, “It was so real, you wouldn’t believe it.”

CLEO WENT BACK TO THE APARTMENT,
and took a cigarette out of the pack that Max had left on the table. Max was a drunk-smoker, as he put it, buying packs when he was out at night, and then letting them sit untouched until the next time he was out drinking. Cleo had never really liked smoking all that much. Usually, if she got drunk enough to smoke a couple of cigarettes, she threw up the next morning.

She opened the window and leaned over the back of the couch. The lighter was running out of fluid and she had to click it a few times before she finally got it to light the cigarette. She inhaled and coughed, then inhaled again.

Of course, she wasn’t supposed to smoke. But she wasn’t supposed to drink either and she reasoned that drinking was worse. Maybe the cigarette would jostle the pregnancy, cause a miscarriage. She could smoke this baby out. But that was stupid. If that was the case, anyone would just smoke a cigarette when they were pregnant and no one would ever have to get an abortion.

Was that what she was going to do? She couldn’t imagine it. But imagining a baby, a creature that was going to grow inside of her and then come out of her, was even harder. She was so screwed.

When Cleo got nervous, she balled up her hands into fists and played piano exercises from memory. It probably made her look strange, if anyone noticed the way her fingers pulsed, how her mouth sometimes counted. She explained it to Max once, and he’d said it was something you’d think an autistic kid would do.

She wanted him to come home and didn’t want him to come home at the same time. Once it was over with, it would be done. She could tell him and she wouldn’t have to worry about that part anymore. It would just be all the shit that came after it.

When he finally came in the door, she’d stopped crying but her face was still red, and she knew she looked strange sitting there, her legs underneath her, a blanket wrapped around her.

“What?” Max said. “What happened?”

It occurred to her later that he probably thought someone had
died. And then after she told him, just blurted it right out, he probably wished that it had been that—because if someone had died, it would be sad, sure, but not unthinkable. They would know what to do and how to deal with it. There would be things they had to do, actions they had to take. But with this, they were left on their own.

Sometimes when Cleo was in a moment that she knew was an important one, she could step back from it like she was watching it, like she wasn’t part of it, like she was just an observer. And she knew she was going to remember for the rest of her life how Max responded when she said, “I’m pregnant,” simply and without any lead-in. Because he’d remained standing and put both hands on either side of his head so that he looked the way people on TV look when they’re witnessing a tragedy or an accident, like someone jumping from a building. And then he looked straight at her, waiting for her to take it back or say she was kidding, but she remained silent.

“Oh fuck,” he said. And then again. “Oh fuck.”

THEY DIDN’T SLEEP THAT NIGHT.
They tried; when they were exhausted with talking and Cleo was drained from crying, they lay on the bed facing each other with their eyes closed. But neither of them slept, and soon they’d just start talking again.

“What are we going to do?” Max said. It was just what she’d wanted to hear Monica say. But it didn’t sound comforting coming out of his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Cleo said. “I really don’t know.”

“Do you think you want to keep it? Or do you think you don’t?”

He couldn’t even say the word, which was driving her crazy. All night, he’d talked around it. It wasn’t his fault, she tried to tell herself. It was a hard word to say, but if they were going to talk about it, they were going to have to say it.

“I don’t know if I can have an abortion,” she said.

“Okay.”

“But I don’t know if I can have the baby.”

“Okay.”

Cleo started crying again, quietly. Tears just rolled out of her eyes
and she had no idea how she still had any left inside of her. She was surely dehydrating herself. She hadn’t cried this much in her whole life. Never.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Max said. He put his hand on the side of her head. “Whatever we do will be okay.”

Cleo moved away from him and sat up to blow her nose. He sat up too, put his hand on her back. She knew that he was trying to make her feel better, trying to touch her so that she would know he was there, but it was suffocating. She blew her nose and added the Kleenex to the pile that was on the nightstand.

“I can’t imagine doing either,” she said. “But if I had to pick one that I really couldn’t do, it would be having an abortion. I can’t. I know I just can’t.”

“I know,” Max said.

“And I don’t want to even think about giving the baby away. I don’t want to do that. I mean, we’re young but we’re not, like, thirteen. People our age have babies all the time.”

“So that’s the decision, then,” Max said. He reached over and put his arms around her shoulders, pulling her down until she was lying in his lap. She was so uncomfortable, she wanted to scream. It felt like Max was trying to act like a straitjacket. But she knew if she moved then, he’d be hurt, and so she willed herself to stay still.

“We shouldn’t tell anyone,” Cleo said. “Not now. Not for a while. Anything could happen. I could have a miscarriage. It happens all the time.” She tried not to hope for this, but she couldn’t help it. It was one thing to decide to have the baby, but if nature intervened, well, then, who was she to stop it?

“How long should we wait?” Max said.

“I don’t know,” Cleo said.
Forever
, she thought.

They decided they would wait until Thanksgiving to tell their families. It was three weeks away. If she was still pregnant by then, they’d suck it up and tell them.

“They’re going to kill us,” Max said. He sounded so young then, like a seven-year-old in trouble, and even though it was the exact same thing Cleo had been thinking, she found she was annoyed.

THEY WENT THROUGH THEIR DAYS,
going to class and watching TV. Cleo studied for midterms harder than ever, trying anything she could to keep from thinking about being pregnant. She stayed in the library for hours, eating only bananas and drinking water. There was one cubicle she liked, on the fourth floor near the back. It was right by a window, and she could watch people below as they scurried around the campus, sometimes laughing with a friend, sometimes staring down at the ground with a serious look.

Cleo got more done at this cubicle than anywhere else. She began to think of it as only hers, and a couple of times when she arrived at the library to find it taken, she sat nearby, keeping her eye on it until the person there decided to leave. Once, when someone left an empty Coke can there, like it was his own personal garbage can, she’d followed him out.

“You forgot this,” she said, and handed it to the boy.

“Oh, I’m done with that,” he said.

“You’re not supposed to have food or drink in here,” she told him. He’d just shrugged. She felt like someone had come into her home and littered.

TWO WEEKS LATER, CLEO FELT LIKE
she was losing her mind. She was still pregnant, there was no doubt about it. And even though almost every night she or Max would say, “Let’s not talk about it tonight,” they couldn’t help it. They always came back to it. Even if they were just watching TV or a movie, there was always a baby somewhere on the screen, and one of them would look at the other, or Max would lean over and rub her leg, and just like that they were in the middle of it again. There was no escaping it.

Cleo managed to avoid talking to Elizabeth much on the phone. She was afraid if they talked too long, Elizabeth would hear it in her voice. It was a lot like after she had sex for the first time and was afraid to look Elizabeth in the eye, like she’d be able to tell right away. Cleo kept her phone calls short, told her that she was really busy with school-work, that she was spending every minute studying.