Crashing Down (9 page)

She lies in her bed, reliving the events of the day. Carl — but not Carl. How are you supposed to feel when your boyfriend wakes up from a coma and now seems like a complete stranger? When you are pregnant to a man who doesn't seem to exist anymore. When you remember the fourteen months you spent together and realise that the relationship was not what you wanted? She tries to pinpoint when it happened, when the shift came.

They were out in the city, the usual — a movie and a restaurant. And it was in the restaurant that she realised this was all they did. All they ever did. Go to the movies and dinner, having polite conversation. She had looked at her hand, the small gold ring he had given her for their six-month anniversary. It had come in a blue Tiffany box. And she'd feigned excitement when she opened it. It was so not her. A
small love heart ring — and she hated mainstream jewellery. But he had been so excited to give it to her, so she wore it dutifully every day, denying it was a symbol of their difference. But that night she couldn't deny it any longer.

He wasn't interested in culture and the arts; she wasn't interested in the FA Cup and weed. They didn't agree on refugees — they were ‘queue jumpers', as far as he was concerned, whereas she'd argue vehemently that they were human beings in need of help. He believed global warming was a hoax, while she was concerned that there was no Planet B, only this one, and the threat to it was real. As for the treatment of Indigenous Australians, he called them ‘dole bludgers' when she argued for their right to the land and some form of compensation. They disagreed on religion — he was a devout Catholic, but not so devout that he would forgo sex before marriage. Their politics were opposite ends of the spectrum, as was even their taste in furniture and design. She remembered clearly the feeling that had engulfed her, which could be summed up in three single-syllable words.
This is it.
This was all it would ever be. And a vision
of the future: the pair of them in a similar restaurant — him balding and her (hopefully not) fatter, looking at each other with nothing to say.

Lucy wanted to travel and study. She wanted to explore the world she lived in. She wanted to meet other people. She wanted to meet other boys. Not necessarily for sex — she wasn't that much of a fan — but for meaningful conversations. She didn't want to be stuck in Perth forever, in a four by two, a theatre room with surround sound and an alfresco area with an outdoor kitchen. She didn't want barbecues every Sunday with Big Al, Ben and JD, or even just Lydia and Georgia. She certainly didn't want the sum total of her existence to be movies and restaurants every weekend. And as she watched him across the candle's dancing flame that night, she knew that was what he would be happy settling for. She didn't want to be a settler; she wanted to be a pioneer. And at that point, her brain shifted.

We need to talk,
she messages Lydia and Georgia on Facebook that night.

Immediately Lydia, who is electronically attached, types back
When hon? You okay?

All good.

Simultaneously, Georgia types,
When?

Tomoz.
She sends this message to both and sits back, staring at the screen. What is she going to tell them? Or how much isn't she?

They meet at Dome in Mullaloo. A girl from school brings their order to the table.

‘Sorry,' she says, slopping coffee into the saucer. ‘I'll be back in a sec.' She returns with serviettes and proceeds to mop up the coffee. The trio wait in silence. ‘Hey,' she says before she tucks the table number into the back of her apron. ‘I was really sorry to hear about your boyfriend.' She is looking at Lucy. ‘Hope he and his mate will be okay.'

Such kindness from a total stranger surprises Lucy and she fights back tears.

‘I think he will be,' she manages eventually.

‘How are you?' Georgia asks, stirring her skinny chai latte, as the waitress leaves. ‘How are they?'

‘Okay.' Lucy stares into her own latte. ‘Carl is weird — head injury weird.' She goes on to tell them about yesterday.

‘In restraints?' Lydia can't get past that one detail. ‘What does that mean?'

‘He's tied down,' Georgia says. ‘Means they think he's dangerous.' She looks at Lucy. ‘Is he?'

‘He's definitely different,' she says and recounts the things he's said, the conspiracies, the madness.

‘Shit.' Lydia sucks her spoon. ‘What a nut job.'

‘There's more.' All of a sudden Lucy feels she's swallowed truth serum.
Tell them everything,
it demands. ‘Actually, it's even weirder.'

‘How?' Lydia looks across at the park and the Indian Ocean beyond, crashing mercilessly against the sand dunes. ‘What a cute dog.' She points to the golden coloured spoodle. ‘A cockerpoo.'

‘A spoodle,' Georgia corrects, not taking her eyes off Lucy. ‘How weirder?'

‘I'm pregnant,' Lucy says flatly.

‘Pregnant!' they both shout.

Lydia's eyes widen. ‘A baby! Will you name it Lydia?'

‘If it's a boy, that would seem cruel,' Lucy states.

Lydia doesn't get it. ‘A baby!' she says again. ‘We can dress her up. Play with her. Oh my God.' Her eyes widen in alarm.

Now, Lucy thinks, the reality is setting in.

‘You have to push it out your virginia.'

‘It's
vagina,
Lydia,' Georgia corrects. ‘What are you going to do?' She reaches across and grabs Lucy's hand. ‘What do you want to do?'

‘I don't know.' Lucy feels exhausted. ‘I think I need to tell Carl, but it's bad timing right now. Or, I go ahead and never tell him.'

‘Go ahead?' Georgia asks.

‘Yeah. He never needs to know. He's got a lot to deal with. Once he finds out about JD. Then there'll be a court case.'

‘Why?' Lydia asks.

‘Dangerous driving. Liability,' Georgia says. ‘What you're saying is that you'd only not tell him if you were getting rid of it.'

‘Yeah.' Lucy nods.

‘Getting rid of what?' Lydia asks.

‘The baby.' Georgia's eyes have never left Lucy's.

‘Oh, the baby — it'll be so cute.' Lydia twirls her glass. ‘Hey!' Her eyes widen. ‘Maybe you could
be on a documentary — you know,
Teen Mom
or something. We could be on it, too. As your BFFs.'

Lucy shakes her head. She loves Lydia, but she is so off the planet sometimes. ‘I don't think I can do it,' she says slowly. ‘Have it.'

‘What?' Lydia looks bewildered. ‘You don't mean you'd get rid of it, like in …' Her words drift. As she realises the enormity of the situation, Lucy sees her shudder.

‘Whatever you want, we'll be here,' Georgia says. ‘But you need to think this one out. It's Carl's baby, too — doesn't he have a right to decide as well?'

Lydia nods fiercely. ‘Georgia's right, it's his baby, too. He should be part of it — whether he's a nut job or not.'

A right to decide? Lucy bristles at the idea. Why should he have a right to decide? When did she become someone's property? ‘No.' She shakes her head certainly. ‘I don't think so. It's my body. My life. Carl doesn't have a say.'

But Lydia is looking angry. ‘But it's a baby — and half his, too. He needs to have a say.'

‘What?' Lucy can't believe this is coming from one of her best friends.

‘It's half his,' Lydia insists. ‘Why do you get to make the decision? What if he wants it? What if he says he'll look after it?'

‘Lydia!' Lucy shouts. She feels ill, the coffee bringing her nausea on. ‘It's my body! When did I become a baby-making factory? When did other people have the right to decide what happens to my body?'

‘I'd suggest when you had unprotected sex,' Lydia says.

And, hurtful as those words are, Lucy knows Lydia doesn't mean to be spiteful.

‘Hey.' Georgia puts a hand on each of their arms. ‘Don't. We're best friends. Let's not fight. Lydia, you sound so judgemental.'

‘I'm not.' Lydia frowns. She's upset by the conversation and Lucy sees she doesn't know why. ‘I'm not judgemental. But how come you get all the rights? Why doesn't Carl have any? If you wanted the baby, he'd have to accept it and become a father whether he wanted to or not.'

‘True.' Lucy nods. For once, Lydia has a point that no one else has thought of.

‘So why can't he be part of the decision, too?' she says.

‘Because if he wants it, what's he going to do? Force Lucy into having it?' Georgia says. ‘How can anyone do that?'

‘Maybe legally.' Lydia shrugs. ‘Maybe he can make you have it?'

Lucy and Georgia laugh. ‘Imagine that,' Lucy says. ‘Gilead.'

‘Gilly-who?' Lydia says, frowning.

‘From
The Handmaid's Tale,'
Georgia says, ‘a book we're studying in Lit, where all the women are the property of all the men. That makes you Ofcarl.'

Lucy shudders. ‘What a hideous concept.' Then she shrugs. ‘I don't know what to do.'

‘I think you have to tell him,' Georgia says, ‘and figure it out from there.'

‘But you know what he'll say.' Lucy's had the conversation with him a hundred times in her head.
‘Let's get married. We can live with my parents. You can eventually go back to school. I'll help.'
The image makes her nauseous. She certainly knows she doesn't want that. ‘I don't want to do it.'

‘What?' Lydia asks. ‘You don't want to tell him? I think Georgia's right. You have to tell him.'

‘No, I don't mean that.' Lucy sighs and looks at
her watch. ‘I've got to get going in a sec. But look, I don't want to have it. I'm sure of that.'

‘So quickly?' Lydia says.

‘She's had a while to think it through,' Georgia says, and then turns to Lucy. ‘But are you sure you've had long enough?'

Lucy blinks the tears. ‘The longer I wait, the more it becomes a person.'

‘It's a person already,' Lydia says.

Lucy shakes her head, thinks of her Biology classes. ‘It's not, it's just a bunch of cells. It can't exist without me. It's like a parasite.'

‘Gross.' Lydia shakes her head. ‘Like a giant tapeworm. I was watching that show
Embarrassing Illnesses
and this dude had this massive tapeworm in him. When they got it out, it was like a hundred metres long.'

‘I don't think so,' Georgia says.

‘Ten metres, then,' Lydia says.

Georgia still looks sceptical. ‘Unlikely.'

‘Well, I don't know, but it was massive. Disgusting. Blah.' Lydia looks at Lucy. ‘I don't mean your baby is like a tapeworm or anything.'

‘It's not a baby,' Lucy says. She can't allow herself
to think of it like that. If she did, how could she even consider abortion? Be clinical, detached, she tells herself. Remember it's just a mass of cells, still dividing and unable to exist in its own right. It's like a tumour.

‘So when does it become a baby, then?' Lydia says. ‘If it's not when you get pregnant, when is it?'

‘I don't know.' Lucy needs to talk to Dad; he'll have all the clinical information she needs. But to tell him? It's almost as bad as the idea of telling Carl. ‘I guess when it's viable.'

‘Viable? What does that mean?'

‘When it's able to exist outside of me — without me giving it life.'

‘So one second before it's viable means it's not a baby and the next second it is?' Lydia grapples with the concept.

‘Yes.' Lucy nods.

‘But when is that? Is it the same for all babies?' Lydia says.

‘I guess not. I don't know.'

‘Seems a bit random,' Lydia says.

Lucy has to agree. When does an embryo become a foetus, become a baby? When does life begin? And
if so, when is there ever a time when someone can take that life away? It's doing her head in. She can't think anymore.

She looks at her watch. ‘Gotta go.'

Both Georgia and Lydia embrace her. ‘Call. Text. Anytime,' Georgia says.

‘Me too,' Lydia says. ‘Love ya, babe.'

‘I know,' Lucy says. ‘See ya.'

She gets to her car and heads to the freeway. She can't stop thinking about the conversation. When is it a person? When does life begin?

It doesn't take long to get to the hospital and Lucy parks the car and heads into the lobby. She stops at the gift shop, looks at all the magazines, buys a packet of gum. There's a rack of get well cards, and she picks up one. It seems so inappropriate —
get well.
He's not exactly sick.
Get better
would have had more meaning.
Get normal. Get real.
She realises that she's procrastinating. She glances around at the baby clothes, the stuffed toys, the mobiles, the booties. They are so small. She holds a crocheted sock in her hand — so tiny — then puts it gently back on the shelf and heads for the elevator.

‘Hey,' she says as she enters Carl's room. He's lying on the bed, staring at her, the white sheet pulled up to
his chin. ‘How you doin' today?' She sits in the chair next to his bed. ‘You look tired. Sleep well?'

He doesn't reply. His mouth is set in a straight line. He narrows his eyes and looks aggressive.

‘Carl.' Lucy shifts in the chair. She suddenly feels way too close to him. The vibe she's getting from him is really violent. ‘What's the matter?'

‘You!' he spits. ‘I know all about you. What you've done. What you're up to. Everything. EVERYTHING!'

She leaps from the chair and puts as much space between them as she can. How can he know? She thinks quickly. There are only three people who do and none of them would tell him. She watches him in horror, glad he is still restrained. He looks maniacal — like Jack Nicholson in
The Shining.