As She Grows (32 page)

Every few weeks a chair will be empty, and for those of us who don’t already know, Karyn will announce the length of labour, the weight and sex of the new baby, accompanied by a collective gasp and a reflexive closing of legs when she announces anything above eight pounds. We are all convinced we’ll do it the natural way, despite revisiting mother Kris’s comment last week: “I didn’t know the human body could go through that much pain and survive.”

Tonight we have a special speaker, Cindy, for those hoping to keep their babies. Cindy is a mother of five. She wears a pearl
necklace outside of her pink cardigan sweater. Her tits are pointy, right out of the fifties, and she looks like she should be offering us all home-baked apple pie. There are four of us from the house, the others are from the community, still living with their parents. Cindy has chosen to open the floor to discussing the role of mother.

“What kind of mother do you think you’ll be?” Cindy goes around the room, asking for volunteers. They all say the same thing. They say they are not going to give their kid the childhood they were given. They say they will be different mothers, that they are going to spend all their money on their kids and give them so much love. I sit and roll my eyes at Rachel who punched out Crystal just last night for not giving back her Discman and Carmen who got so high she had to sneak in through the fire exit at one in the morning. I imagine the truth. I imagine them in their bachelor apartments, TV blaring, a whining toddler being just a little too needy, a broken dish, an unexpected tongue lashing out harsh words, an instinctive slapping of soft skin.

“Don’t you think your mothers thought this?” I blurt out, my mind trailing like a leash behind my bolting words. “Do you think they planned to treat you like shit?”

Everyone looks stunned. “You’re saying that you repeat what you learn at home?” Cindy asks, continuing her already annoying habit of paraphrasing every comment.

My mind quickly regains control and attempts to explain. “I’m saying it’s impossible not to. It’s like trying to stop breathing. You just can’t do it, no matter how bad you try.” The room is silent, all eyes glaring at me. And for a split second I feel bad for ruining this little feel-good party. I consider taking back what I said, or maybe adding an encouraging “of course, there are exceptions,” but Jackie speaks up before I have a chance.

“Don’t you think we fucking know that?” she says, staring me straight in the eye, not an angry stare but a watery one. She is huge, probably about to give birth any second now. I look back at her, unsure what to say, so I look away.

“A watched pot never boils,” Aunt Sharon says over the phone when I complain about how slowly my last two months are passing. It’s amazing how much I used to be able to squish into my life before I lived here. Now, even one planned event, like a doctor’s appointment or meeting with Eric, manages to consume my entire day. I eat, sleep, pee, and lie on my side, staring off into space.

The other girls in the house seem to have more energy than me. They make crafts such as quilted photo albums and bibs with already chosen names stitched on them. In school, they write poetry and personal creeds of motherhood. I attend the fitness classes and participate in the optional weekend trips to the movies and the Ontario Science Centre, but only because I have to. If one were to overlook the bulging bellies for a second, a visitor might mistake this for camp.

Besides Jasmyn calling every once in a while, I have no interest in the outside world. I think about Carla occasionally, think about tracking down her number and calling her. Just to hear her voice again. But then, when I actually go to pick up the phone, I change my mind.

The more I live in this house, the more I fear living outside of it. In here, adults smile at you and it seems like no big deal that your belly protrudes farther than your tits, even though you’ve only had your period twenty times in your entire life. In here, the young mothers on posters are all white and clear-skinned; and
returning residents are goggled over, while pink and toast-brown infants hang casually off their hips like basketballs. And I can’t figure out if Staff’s endless kindness is genuine or if they are intentionally stocking us up, filling us to the brim, before a long drought.

We change shape inside these walls. In the weeks before our labour, sharp angles erode until we become soft round silhouettes. Jagged bangs are pulled back to expose the gentle bend of a forehead. Harsh lipliner that once made our mouths look like knives is replaced by pink-tinted lip gloss. The curve of our bellies makes angular bone forgotten. We wear soft pastels, pale pinks and blues. Suddenly we care about feelings and values because we now have a purpose, a reason for being. We same girls who just last year were fucking guys up against brick walls and ripping nose rings out of girls who didn’t watch our backs.

The moment I walk into Eric’s office I can sense something is up. Things are too clean. Papers aren’t scattered on his desk and the rubber galoshes that have been lying forever by the coat rack are gone.

“So, what did you have to eat today?” he asks, and I let out a big sigh of boredom. He is speaking to me differently now that my growing stomach has wedged itself between us. We talk less and less about Mitch and Elsie and more about whether I’m getting enough food and sleep. Or we talk about my fears of having this baby and how I plan to deal with the emotions of being a mother. It’s all so dull and overwhelming all at once. I ignore his questions and continue scanning the room, trying to place just exactly what is different. Then I notice Freddy isn’t on the table where he usually is.

“Where’s Freddy?” I ask.

“Oops”—Eric’s hand whips up to his mouth—“I forgot to tell you. I found him floating dead this afternoon. Poor thing.”

“Ooh, poor Freddy,” I pout. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, making fun of the situation.

“I think I overfed him,” he says, thinking I’m being serious. I can tell Eric is really sad about it. About a stupid fish.

We spend the next half-hour talking about his childhood dog and about how there truly is a difference between cat and dog people. At first I like it, just chatting, but then I begin to get suspicious of this easy talk, it seems too effortless. I figure Eric must have something heavy up his sleeve, something he’s afraid to drop.

“Listen, I need to talk to you,” he finally says when our time is almost up. “I want you to hear this directly from me, so I’m going to tell you before they announce it officially.” I wait for Eric’s words but I already know what he’s going to say. I already know that he’ll say he’s leaving. I know that tone. I’ve heard it many times before. “I’m going into private practice,” he says, “and I just can’t pass it up. It’ll be family counselling, better financially and closer to home. I’ve thought a lot about it and it just seems to be the best thing for me now.”

“When do you go?”

“Well, officially, three weeks. Barry’s taking over my clients.” I take a deep breath and feel my eyes start to well up. “But I did ask for special permission to keep seeing you till after the baby is born. They said that was fine, if you’d like. I know I’d really like to.”

I sit there staring at the edge of the table, jab my pen into the wooden rim. The stupid tears start coming down my cheeks and Eric passes me a Kleenex. I am so sick of crying.

“I’m sorry, Snow.”

“It’s okay,” I say, grabbing tissue and wiping my face. “I’m not that upset, really, it’s just these frigging hormones. I cry at commercials now. Can you believe that?”

He laughs and relaxes in his chair. “I’d like to stay in touch with you after the baby. Maybe meet for lunch once a month? How does that sound?”

“Cool,” I say, forcing a smile. We’re both quiet for a few minutes. Eric shuffles some papers as I pull my pathetic self together. It was stupid of me to have trusted him. I’m an idiot for letting him force his words into my small cracks, slowly prying me open. I should have known that there was just a paycheque moving his mouth. That the caring was coming through him, not from him. And really, he wasn’t helping me much anymore, anyway.

He talks about his new job and what he’ll be doing and how he’ll miss working specifically with young people like me. It’s as if he’s trying to convince himself that he made the right decision. I pretend I’m interested, pretend I care about where he’ll be in a month, but I don’t. I don’t care if I ever see him again.

“I have to piss,” I say, interrupting him in mid-sentence. I jump up without waiting for a response. As I approach the bathroom down the hall I quicken my pace until, finally, I’m running. I feel like I’m going to burst. It’s that total urgency you get when you’re standing in front of a toilet and it’s as if all of a sudden you can’t get your fly down fast enough. Only now, it’s not piss I’m holding back, it’s tears.

As I yank open the door to the single washroom, my face collapses and I start bawling. I move to the corner and slide down to the cold concrete floor, crying so hard I’m soundless. My jaw starts to sting and my head starts to pound and I’m pulling at my
hair. And then I get angry, slap my fist against the wall, again and again, pretending it’s Eric’s face. Only it doesn’t help because the pain is all bony and flat. I scan the room for something sharp. Something that is capable of precision. I take out the backing of my earring and rip my skin. And this time I don’t care if the drops of blood stain the floor.

There is a knock at the door and, startled, I am out of my trance.

“Just a minute!” I yell, and pull my heavy body up. I inspect my face in the mirror. It’s blotchy and swollen, my eyes are bloodshot, and the snot is running from my nose. I quickly splash cold water on my face, but it makes no difference.

When I flip up the toilet lid to pee, I almost scream. Freddy’s stiff and arched body floats in the slow circular current of the toilet bowl. It’s a horrific sight. His eyes are bulging from the sockets. His once bright-orange body is now pale yellow. I knew the water pressure was bad in this building, especially with all the crap kids stuff into it. I even saw a sandwich in a plastic Baggie wedged down the toilet once. Still, I take Freddy’s resurfaced body as an omen.

There is another knock at the door, heavier this time. I flush the toilet twice but Freddy keeps reappearing back out from the hole in the bottom of the bowl. So I reach in, scoop his slimy body out, wrap him in toilet paper, and throw him in the garbage.

After Eric’s appointment I call Karyn. I lie and tell her that I want to stop off at the library to do some schoolwork. She is so impressed that I’m actually showing interest in something and she tells me to not worry about being home in time for dinner.

It takes me forty minutes to reach Mark’s old apartment building. I figure he won’t be there, but I just want to feel close to him
again. For a little while. Some guy with long greasy hair, wearing Adidas track pants, answers the door. His eyes are bloodshot and his teeth are crooked. I don’t recognize him, but he looks like the kind of guy Mark would know. I figure he’s Josh’s new roommate.

“Is Mark here?”

The guy speaks slowly, with a surfer drawl, “No, man.” He scratches his head. “Saw him a few weeks ago. Crashed here one night but then the dude took off.” Then he looks all interested and leans forward to ask, “Do you know him?”