Someone Like You (17 page)

We ran out of the elevator downhill to the parking lot, jumping into his car and squealing around corners and through stop signs, finally pulling up to the corner of my street at exactly 12:21. I could see the light from Scarlett's house, where I was supposed to be, through the trees.

“I gotta go,” I said, opening the door. “Thanks.”

“I'll call you tomorrow,” he called out through the car window. I could see him smiling in the dark.

“Right,” I said, smiling back as precious seconds went by. I waved, one last time, then cut through the trees and popped out by Scarlett's pool. I heard him beep as he drove off.

I walked up Scarlett's back steps, through the door and into the kitchen, where she was sitting at the table eating a hot-fudge sundae, with So You're
Pregnant-What Now?
propped up against the sugar bowl in front of her.

“You're late,” she said distractedly as I passed through, heading straight for the front door. She had a smear of chocolate sauce on her chin.

“I know,” I said, wiping it off with my finger as I passed her. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Right.” She went back to her book and I opened the front door and headed up the walk, across the street.

My mother was waiting for me inside, by the stairs. As I shut the door behind me I could hear Macon's engine rumbling, testing fate again. Bad timing.

“You're late,” she said in an even voice. “It's past curfew.”

“I know,” I said, revving up for my excuse, “but Scarlett and I were watching this movie, and I lost track of time.”

“You weren't with Scarlett.” This was a statement. “I could see her sitting in her living room by herself, all night. Nice try, Halley.”

Outside, Macon was still there, rumbling. He didn't know how much worse he was making it.

“Where were you?” she said to me. “Where did you go with him?”

“Mom, we were just out, it was nothing.”

“Where did you go?” Now her voice was getting louder. My father appeared at the top of the stairs, watching.

“Nowhere,” I said, as Macon's revving got louder and louder, and I clenched my fists. There was no way to stop it. “We were at his house, we were just hanging out.”

“Where does he live?”

“Mom, it doesn't matter.”

She had her stony face on, that look again, like a storm crossing over. “It does to me. I don't know what's gotten
into
you lately, Halley. Sneaking around, creeping in the door. Lying to me to my face. All because of this Macon, some boy you won't introduce to us, who we don't even know.”

The rumbling got louder and louder. I closed my eyes.

Her voice rose too, over it. In the alcove, it seemed to bounce all around me. “How can you keep lying to us, Halley? How can you be so dishonest?” And she caught me off guard, sounding not mad, not furious, just—sad. I hated this.

“You don't understand,” I said. “I don't want to—” and then the engine was tacking up higher and higher, louder and louder, God he wanted me to get caught, he didn't understand, as the tires squealed and screeched, burning, and he took off down the street, racing, stopping to beep as he rounded the corner. All this I knew, without even looking, as well as I knew Mr. Harper's light was already on, he was already out there in his slippers and bathrobe, cursing the smoke that still hung in the air.

“Did you hear that?” my mother said, twisting to look up at my father, who just nodded. “He could
kill
someone driving like that. Kill someone.” Her voice was shaky, almost scared, just like Grandma Halley's.

“Mom,” I said. “Just let me—”

“Go to bed, Halley,” my father said in a low voice, coming down step by step. He took my mother by the arm and led her into the kitchen, flicking on the light as they went. “Now.”

So I went, up to my room, my heart thumping. As I passed the mirror in the hallway I glanced at myself, at a girl with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, in a faded jeans jacket, lips red from kissing. I faced my reflection and committed this girl to memory: the girl who had risen out of that night at Topper Lake, the girl who belonged with Macon Faulkner, the girl who broke her mother's heart, never looking back. The girl I was.

“Look at this,” Scarlett said, passing me the magazine she was holding. “By Month Four, the baby is learning to suck and swallow, and is forming teeth. And the fingers and toes are well defined.”

“That's surprising,” I said, “considering it's existing only on hot dogs and orange juice.” It was the next day, and we were at the doctor's office for the fourth-month checkup. Scarlett had always been phobic of stethoscopes and lab coats and needed moral support, so I'd been pardoned from my most recent grounding, for (1) lying about being with Macon and (2) breaking curfew. I was becoming an expert at being grounded; I could have written books, taught seminars.

“I'm eating better, you know,” she said indignantly, shifting her position on the table. She was in one of those open-back gowns, trying to cover her exposed parts. Behind her, on the wall, was a totally graphic poster with the heading
The Female Reproductive System.
I was trying not to look at it, instead focusing on the plastic turkey and Pilgrims tacked up around it; Thanksgiving was two weeks away.

“You're still not getting enough green leafy vegetables,” I told her. “Lettuce on a Big Mac doesn't count.”

“Shut up.” She leaned back, smoothing her hand over her stomach. In just the last few weeks she was finally starting to show, her waist bulging just barely. Her breasts, on the other hand, were getting enormous. She said it was the only perk.

There was a knock on the door, and the doctor came in. Her name tag said Dr. Roberts and she was carrying a clipboard. She had on bright pink running shoes and blue jeans, her hair in a twist on the back of her head.

“Hello there,” she said, then glanced down at her notes and added, “Scarlett. How are you today?”

“Fine,” Scarlett said. She was already starting to wring her hands, a dead giveaway. I concentrated on the
Life
magazine in my lap; the cover story was on Elvis.

“So you're about sixteen weeks along,” Dr. Roberts said, reading off the chart. “Are you having any problems? Concerns?”

“No,” Scarlett said in a low voice, and I shot her a look. “Not really.”

“Any headaches? Nosebleeds? Constipation?”

“No,” Scarlett said.

“Liar,” I said loudly.

“You hush,” she snapped at me. To the doctor she said, “She doesn't know anything.”

“And who are you?” Dr. Roberts turned to face me, tucking her clipboard under her arm. “Her sister?”

“I'm her friend,” I said. “And she's scared to death of doctors, so she won't tell you anything.”

“Okay,” the doctor said, smiling. “Now, Scarlett, I know all of this is a little scary, especially for someone your age. But you need to be honest with me, for the good of yourself and your baby. It's important that I know what's happening.”

“She's right,” I chimed in, and got another death look from Scarlett. I went back to Elvis and kept quiet.

Scarlett twisted the hem of her gown in her hands. “Well,” she said slowly, “I have heartburn a lot. And I've been dizzy lately.”

“That's normal,” the doctor said, easing Scarlett onto her back and sliding her hand under the gown. She ran her fingers over Scarlett's stomach, then put her stethoscope against the skin and listened. “Have you noticed an increase in your appetite?”

“Yes. I'm eating all the time.”

“That's fine. Just be sure you keep up your proteins and vitamin C. I'll give you a handout when you leave today, and we can discuss it further.” She took off her stethoscope and consulted the file again, tapping the clipboard with her finger. “Blood pressure is fine, we've gotten the urine sample already. Is there anything you'd like to talk about? Or ask me?”

Scarlett shot me a look, but I didn't say anything. I just turned the page, reading up on national politics, and pretended I wasn't listening.

“Well,” Scarlett said quietly. “I have one. How bad does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt?”

“Delivery. When it comes. Is it really bad?”

Dr. Roberts smiled. “It depends on the situation, Scarlett, but I'd be lying if I said it was painless. It also depends on the course of childbirth you want to take. Some women prefer to go without drugs or medication; that's called ‘natural childbirth.' There are birthing classes you can take, which I will be happy to refer you to, that teach ways of breathing that can help with the delivery process.”

“But you're saying it hurts.”

“I'm saying it depends,” Dr. Roberts said gently, “but honestly, yes, it hurts. But look at how many people have gone through it and lived to tell. We're all here because of it. So it can't be that bad. Right?”

“Right,” Scarlett said glumly, putting her hand on her stomach.

“You're gonna need major drugs,” I said as we left, climbing into the car en route to our Saturday twelve-to-six shifts at Milton's. I was driving, and she settled into the passenger seat, sighing. I said, “They should just totally knock you out. Like with a baseball bat.”

“I know,” she said, “but that's bad for the baby.”

“The bat?”

“No, the drugs. I think I should take a birthing class or something. Learn how to breathe.”

“Like Lamaze?”

“Yeah, or something like that.” She shuffled through the handouts the doctor had given us, packets and brochures, all with happy pregnant women on their covers. “Maybe Marion could go with me.”

“I'm sure she would,” I said. “Then she'd get to be there when it came. That would be cool.”

“I don't know. She's still talking about adoption like it's for sure going to happen. She's already contacted an agency and everything.”

“She'll come around.”

“I think she's saying the same thing about me.” We pulled into Milton's parking lot, already packed with Saturday shoppers. “Sooner or later, one of us will have to back down.”

Later that afternoon, after what seemed like thousands of screaming children and gallons of milk, hundreds of bananas and Diet Coke two-liters, I looked down my line and saw my mother. She was reading
Good Housekeeping,
a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, and when she saw me she waved, smiling. My mother still got some small thrill at seeing me at work.

“Hi there,” she said cheerfully when she got to the front of the line, plunking the bottle down in front of me.

“Hi,” I said, scanning it and hitting the total button.

“What time do you get off tonight?”

“Six.” Behind me I could hear Scarlett arguing with some man over the price of grapes. “It's seven eighty-nine.”

“Let's go out for dinner,” she said, handing me a ten. “My treat.”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm real tired.”

“I want to talk to you,” she said. My line was still long, people shifting impatiently. Like me, they had no time for my mother's maneuvering. “I'll pick you up.”

“But, Mom,” I said as she grabbed her wine and change from my hands and started toward the door. “I don't—”

“I'll see you at six,” she called out cheerfully, and left me stuck there face to face with a fat man buying two boxes of Super Snax and a bottle of Old English. Lately to get to me she'd had to hit hard and fast, rushing me, then tackling to the ground. For the rest of the afternoon, all I could think about was what she had planned, what trick was up her sleeve.

She picked me up at six, waiting in the loading zone with the engine running. When I got in the car, she looked over at me and smiled, genuinely happy, and I felt a pang of guilt for all the dreading I'd been doing all afternoon.

We went to a little Italian place by our house, with checkered tablecloths and a pizza buffet. After a half a slice of pepperoni and some small talk about Milton's and school, she leaned across the table and said, “I want to talk to you about Macon.”

The way she said it you'd think she knew him, that they were friends. “Macon.”

“Yes.” She took a sip of her drink. “To be honest, Halley, I'm not happy with this relationship.”

Well,
I thought,
you're not in it.
But I didn't say anything. I could tell already this wasn't going to be a discussion, a dialog, or anything involving my opinion. I was an expert at my mother. I knew her faces, her tones of voice, could translate the hidden, complex meanings of each of her sighs.

“Now,” she began, and I could tell she'd worked on this, planned every word, probably even outlined it on a legal pad for her book, “since you've been hanging around with Macon you've gotten caught skipping school, broken your curfew, and your attitude is always confrontational and difficult. Honestly, I don't even recognize you anymore.”

I didn't say anything and just picked at my pizza. I was losing my appetite, fast. She kept on; she was on a roll.

“Your appearance has changed.” Her voice was so loud, and I sunk lower in my seat; this wasn't the place for this, which was exactly why she'd picked it. “You smell like cigarettes when you come home, you're listless and distracted. You never talk about school with us anymore. You're distant.”

Distant.
If she couldn't keep me under her thumb, I was far away.