Tilt (50 page)

planned to keep the appointment.

I would have let Dylan drive me

to the clinic. But fate intervened

and I went to a funeral instead.

I Didn’t Know Shelby

Didn’t even really know she existed,

or what her life was about. Our only

relationship was my sister being friends

with her cousin, and my mom with her aunt.

A long, elastic thread. But when she died

and that cord snapped, it was a sharp reminder

of the value of life. She was only four. Not

much bigger than a baby doll, and that’s how

she looked in her frilly white burial dress,

her hair all curled in ringlets. A sleeping doll.

So much sadness at her passing, though it

wasn’t unexpected. How could you carry

a baby for nine months, dreams building,

only to have hope crushed by a heartbreaking

diagnosis? How could you live knowing

your child’s time with you would be so short?

So I Was at the Funeral Today

It was not my first, so I knew

the minister would talk about

dying

how it’s really a beginning, and

how Christ is key to conquering

death

and through him, one day we

would be reconnected with our

dead.

Then the eulogies, personal

stories about Shelby’s

living

and how her spirit added

layers of hope to every

life

she touched. And I wished

I’d known her while she was

alive.

And Hearing About

How those four short years

meant so much to those who

shared them, I knew without

a doubt that my baby deserves

the chance to bring his or her light

into this world. It can’t be up to me

to snuff it out. Making this decision

has been a tug-of-war. Or maybe

more like a teeter-totter ride.

Back and forth. Up and down.

Either way, I’ve thumped to

the ground, and now that I have,

things can only get harder, but

I won’t change my mind again.

First I’ve got to tell two people—

the baby’s father. And mine.

I Don’t Know Why Mom

Didn’t come to the wake. She said

she had a headache, but that’s not

a very good excuse. I hope she’s home

when I get there. No use putting this off

any longer, and I need her support.

Oh, good. Her Jeep’s in the driveway.

As Dad puts his car into park, I say,

“Hey, Dad. I need to talk to you.

It’s important.” Trace and Bri both

look at me, eyes asking if I’m going

to confess. I nod an acknowledgment.

If they want to listen in, fine. I go

inside and find Mom on her computer.

The glass beside it is almost empty,

a small puddle of red wine in the bottom.

“Mom?” Reluctantly, she draws her attention

away from the screen, refocuses it on me.

“I’m going to tell Dad about the baby.

I need you to be there, okay?” She starts

to say something. Stops. Gets out of her chair.

We Find Dad in the Kitchen

Pouring himself a drink. Death

and alcohol seem to partner well.

I could use one myself. Oh, wait.

Seeing Mom trail in behind me,

Dad has to know something is up.

Okay, Mikayla. What’s so important?

I notice Trace and Bri, hovering

in the background. But what the hell?

It’s now or never. “I . . . um . . .”

Come on. Straight out. “I’m pregnant.”

He stares, like I told him in Swahili.

Then he takes a gulp of his drink.
Oh.

Something of an anticlimax.

“Uh, Dad. Did you hear me? I said

I’m pregnant and . . .”

I heard you.
His voice is steady, but hard-

edged.
What do you want me to say?

I don’t know what I want him

to say, or where to go from here.

Except, “I’m going to keep the baby.”

Trace and Bri

Have crept closer, obviously anxious

to know how this will go. Dad notices,

and now the anger switch flips to on.

His eyes rotate. Trace. Bri. Mom. Me.

All of you knew? All of you, crotch-deep

in this conspiracy?
Unreasonably, he turns

on Mom.
How dare you keep this from me?

One lie on top of another, huh? Bitch.

Wow. Mom tries to defend herself.

We wanted to wait until Mikayla

decided what to do. We weren’t trying

to hide it from you.
Actually, we were.

And Dad, of course, knows it.
Really.

So, would you have told me if she had

an abortion?
Two beats.
That’s what I

thought. How far along are you?

I try to hold his gaze. Fail. Look past

him, to the far wall. “Twelve weeks.”

And Dylan is the father?
He waits for

my nod.
What does he have to say?

“He wants me to have an abortion.

But I’m not going to kill this baby.”

Goddammit, Mikayla! How can you

have a baby? You’re not even eighteen.

How will you finish high school? What

about college? Is Dylan planning on

supporting you? Or do you expect me

to? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Take it easy, Jace,
Mom intervenes.

This is not the end of the world. We can—

We? Who’s we, Holly? You and me?

We’re not even sure there is a you and me,

right? And now we’re supposed to throw

a baby into the mix? Are you insane?

He slams his drink on the counter. Shards

of booze-flavored glass spray the granite.

He leaves the mess, storms from the room.

Bri and Trace scramble to get out of his way.

Good thing. He probably would have

crashed right through them. “Well, that

went pretty well, don’t you think?”

The joke thuds. I grab a sponge, start to

clean up the glass. Mom comes over

to help. There’s a big chunk of something

stuck in the silence. Some huge piece

of information I’m not privy to, but I

think I need to be. “What’s going on

between you and Dad?” Whatever it

is makes Mom sad. “Nothing major.

Just a rough patch.” The lie settles

into the space between us. Shimmers,

like the slivers of glass we sweep away.

Dissolve

One bad scene, into the next. I call

Dylan, ask if I can see him. He agrees

to meet me at Emily’s, and as I drive