Positively Mine (13 page)

“Great.”

When I stand and turn toward the door, I once again notice her peering at my middle. I pull my backpack around and duck out.

I’ve gotten so used to hugging the walls and lurking in shadows as I make my way around campus I take it for granted now I can get from point A to point B without running into Mike. I’ve managed to do it all semester, after all. So when I take the side stairwell instead of the main staircase to get to my writing seminar – a regular tactic of mine – why should I be surprised that he practically barrels me over while he’s running down the stairs two steps at a time?

My books fly out of my hands, with my loose-leaf binder, filled with a term’s worth of writing notes, taking the brunt of the collision. The rings snap open, and papers fly everywhere.

His eyes shift back from me to the mess on the floor. I sense he’s debating whether to flee or stay and help. Neither one of us says a thing or moves and the silence between us grows increasingly uncomfortable. I finally yield and begin picking up the pieces of my notebook. He bends down, too, grabbing papers off the floor.

We work like this until every last page is collected. He hands me a stack to add to the disorganized heap in my hands. “Thanks,” I say.

“Sure.”

He gazes down at me kneeling on the floor and trying to get everything back in order. It dawns on me that I’m no better off than the last time we were together.

“How are you doing?” he asks, and I watch his long, narrow feet shift his weight from one sneaker to the other.

I will myself to look up, to make eye contact, to be brave. “I’m okay,” I answer when I meet those hazel eyes.

To my surprise, he lowers himself to sit on the steps across from me, and our eyes remain locked. “You’re handling everything okay?” His voice is even-keeled and warm, but I can’t tell if he genuinely cares, or if he feels he needs to pretend to since he’s here. I mean, if he really was wondering how I’m doing, I only live two flights away from him. Where’s he been the past couple months?

“I am. I’m okay, Mike.”

I can tell he’s struggling with what to say. “What’s new?”

I can’t help but crack a smile.
Where to begin?

He brushes the hair away from his eyes. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m not, I mean, I am but it’s just kind of a funny question to ask a pregnant Colman girl.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I guess. Well, what should I ask you, then?”

I feel the muscles in my back tensing up. “You don’t have to ask me anything. Don’t worry about me.” I don’t know why it comes out of my mouth the way it does. Sharp and cutting. He’s just trying to be nice, after all. But what will I do if he wants to start hanging around me again?

I can tell he’s bothered by my tone. He nods his head, and his eyes seem to focus on the empty space in the air between us, not on me. “Okay.”

I snap my binder shut and stand. “Well, I’m late for class now.”

He stays seated and looks up at me, not saying anything.

“If I don’t see you, have a good Christmas.”

He continues watching me, not saying anything, not moving, and I suddenly feel very aware of my pregnant body, the extra weight I’ve added to my face and butt and stomach, and all around how different I must appear now compared to just a few months back when we were devouring each other on my bed. I cringe and push it out of my head.

“I’ve got to go, Mike.” And I dart, leaving him in his unnerving silence.

My ultrasound is scheduled for the same day as my last final. Thankfully, Professor Stoker offered enough review sessions that I zip through the questions with ease.

When I hand her my exam, she smiles. “That was quick.”

“I went over everything twice.”

“Well, then I’m sure you did fine. I’ll see you back here January 3
^rd
.”

I drive the hour to Rochester while chugging down a liter of water. I’m supposed to have a full bladder for this test, but a liter seems excessive. By the time I’m parked and inside, I feel like I’m going to lose it. To my dismay, the radiology department is packed with pregnant women and people with limbs wrapped in splints or on crutches.

I’m practically doing a dance to keep all the water in while I check in, but still can’t ignore stares from both the receptionists and onlookers sitting close enough to watch me count out $1200.
There’s got to be a better way
.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to the woman behind the glass, who is distracted by all the cash. “Will it be a long wait?”

“It shouldn’t be too bad,” she finally answers, but when I look around at the throngs of people, I am not encouraged. I slip into the last available chair and unbutton my coat. The heat and humidity is stifling.

In search for some kind of diversion, I pull out my phone, like almost everyone else in the room, and start checking email. Tara has taken to keeping me apprised of all the stages of pregnancy in regular updates. I think she’s more in tune with where my baby is at now than I am. There are close to a dozen from her with links to various pregnancy websites. I’m glad to have her on my side.

As I continue to scroll and skim through the information she’s sent, I notice an address that I don’t recognize with nothing but “Hey!” written in the subject line. I click it open, and my face immediately flushes when I see who it’s from.

What’s up, stranger?

Long time no talk, or see, or text. Your dad was out here dry docking the boat. It got me thinking. How the hell are you? Do you like Colman? Let’s catch up. Give me a call or write. BTW, notice the new email. Other one was getting spammed.

Best,

-D

The room spins, and a wave of nausea rises in my stomach. Do I write back? My hand starts shaking. What would I say?

In my hasty confusion, I press delete instead of save and stuff the phone into the bottom of my bag as far as it will go. I’ve practically chewed off every fingernail, bladder bursting, when I’m finally led into a room with a technician, who has me lay back on a table.

“How far along are you?” the woman asks. Her voice breaks the spool of racing thoughts flooding my brain.

“Twenty weeks.”
Halfway through now
.

“We should get some nice pictures, then.” She smiles. She has a dark and delicate face. “Do you want to find out the baby’s sex?”

I push the email and the pangs of guilt out of my head. “Can you do that?”

“We can try. It’s not always easy to see.”

“I’m not sure if I want to know.”

“You can think about it and tell me in a little while. Did you drink your water?”

“I’m dying!”

She puts the cold gel on my stomach and moves the probe. The baby’s head is the first thing to appear on the screen. “It’s so big!” I gasp. She takes detailed measurements of the head, the hands and the feet, pointing them all out to me along the way, including the beating heart and several organs. When she’s done, she asks, “Have you decided?”

“Do you know?” I ask.

“I do.”

I close my eyes. “Okay, tell me.”

“You’re having a girl.”

I reopen them and gaze at the screen. “You’re sure about that?”

“The baby was in a good position, so, yes.” She presses a button on the computer, and a black- and-white photo prints out like the one Dr. Adler gave me at my first visit, only this time the baby looks like a baby, not a bean. Her profile reveals a small nose, an ear, and an eye, and her little hand is floating above her head in a fist with her thumb sticking up.
A girl
. I always assumed I was having a boy for some reason.

Driving back to Colman, sneaking peeks at the picture, I try my hardest to ignore my conscience and the smothering feelings of remorse.

What are you doing, Laurel?

Everyone needs to be out of the residence halls by noon on Monday, but I’ll be gone way before then because I have a 9am appointment with Dr. Adler that day, and then my flight home at one.

Dad and I haven’t spoken since Thanksgiving, but we have communicated via terse texts. Did you make your flight arrangements for the holidays?
Yes.
When are you getting in?
Monday at 2:15.
Did you get the invitation to the wedding Sheryl sent you?
Yes.
Are you coming?
Yes, Dad. I’m coming to your wedding.
And the last one that I got this morning: When you get in on Monday, Sheryl would like to talk to you. Please come to our apartment. She’ll be home.

I guess she’s all moved in now.

Our last pregnancy support meeting of the year has been moved up to accommodate final exams and holidays. It’s a potluck dinner. Since I don’t have a kitchen, I buy a box of fried chicken and I’m put to shame by all the nice dishes everyone else has made.

We set up a long table and put down red plastic cloths with festive paper plates and cups, and sit around gabbing about this and that. Now there are two new moms because Yolanda had her baby boy in early December. We are dropping like flies. Alison begins the structured part of the meeting over dessert.

“The holidays can be stressful for everyone, but especially if you’re pregnant or just had a baby. As you leave here tonight and deal with potentially difficult people or situations over the holidays, I want you to focus on acceptance. In other words, don’t try to control the uncontrollable, and don’t try to change a person who can’t be changed. People are who they are. With acceptance comes forgiveness, and with forgiveness comes inner peace, and we can all use some of that.”

Her words strike a nerve, and I can’t help speaking up. “But what if the problem isn’t that you can’t accept them, but they can’t accept you?” I ask.

“In what way?”

“It’s like, with my father, I’m the symbol for everything that has gone bad in his life. So instead of us getting closer, he pushes me further away. And now he’s getting married, and he’s about to start a new life with someone, and I’m afraid I’ll never get the chance to show him that I’m a real person, that I exist.”

The entire group is looking at me, staring actually. Kyle is the first to speak up. “But you aren’t giving him a chance to accept you. You haven’t even told him you’re pregnant and you’re five months into it. You push him away as much as he does you.”

“That’s not true.”

Audrey chimes in. “It is, Laurel. You’re nice and all, but you’ve told, what? Two people you’re pregnant, other than us and a couple of doctors. You drive an hour to a support group when there is probably one right near Milton. How much longer are you going to keep this secret? If you told your dad, maybe he’d see that you’re a real person. Real people screw up.”

“Wow.” I wrap my arms across my chest. I feel invaded.

Alison tries to soften the blows. “I think what Audrey and Kyle are saying is that we need to let the chips fall where they may.”

“Okay. Point taken.”

I avoid Audrey’s eyes for the remainder of the meeting.

Afterwards, Alison pulls me to a corner. “If you need to talk, you can call me anytime. I don’t want you to feel alienated by the choices you make for yourself. We all have our reasons for the way we handle the situations we’re in. But it can be helpful to talk out our feelings. Sometimes that’s easier one on one.”

“Okay, thanks.”

After my monthly weigh in, five more pounds for Team Laurel, Dr. Adler greets me with his usual questions. How am I feeling? Am I still taking my vitamins? Any complaints or concerns? He goes over my ultrasound results. The baby looks good. He’s pleased. I’m having a girl, I tell him. Congratulations, he says.

He closes my file and removes his glasses. “You are moving along in your pregnancy, and although things have been very smooth, sometimes complications can arise as you get closer to term. I’m happy to waive the fee for your prenatal visits, but if you were to require hospital care, paying out of pocket could get very costly.”

“What kind of complications?”

“It could be any number of things. I’m not trying to scare you. You’ve had a healthy pregnancy. But you have access to insurance, and you aren’t utilizing it. I’m just wondering when that is going to change.”

“I’m working on it.”

“How is that pregnancy support group going? Are you finding it helpful?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“There is counseling available, too. Perhaps talking to someone could help you sort through whatever it is that’s keeping you from…sharing your news.”

I nod.

After my appointment that includes a nurse handing me a list of psychiatric professionals in the Greater Rochester area, I drive to the airport and park the truck in long-term parking, which is packed.

Squeezing into a spot that is too small for the Chevy takes an eternity, and when I am finally in, I feel like I am suffocating.

It’s one of the worst gridlock days of the year in New York, and it takes longer to drive the 8.6 miles from LaGuardia to my front door, than it did to fly 352 miles.

Charlie is busy in the bustling lobby holding doors open, helping people with groceries, hailing cabs for old ladies going out to shop. He has an entirely different energy in December and a smile that gleams from ear to ear. This is the month people tip their doorman.

I slide past with a wave.

My father must have had his cleaning lady in my apartment after my departure in November because the half-eaten pizza I deliberately left on the kitchen counter has been cleared, the milk in the fridge removed, and my bed made. The carpet has vacuum lines in it, and the pillows are fluffed, too.

I drop my things in the middle of the room, pull off the baggy sweatshirt that hides me best, and search the pantry for food. There’s a half-empty box of Wheat Thins and a jar of pickles in the fridge. Good enough. I flick on the TV and polish them off.

After an hour of flipping through bad television, I pull myself off the couch – time to hear what the little woman has to say. I put the sweatshirt back on and venture upstairs.