Butterflies in May Page 16

  “Just tired. Erica was crying on and off all night. I only slept for three hours.”

  “Does Jared help?”

  “He tried at first, but it seems like she cries even harder when he holds her.” Kelly sighs. “It’s okay. He has to get up early for work every morning.”

  “Do you have anyone else who can help you?”

  “My mom stopped by over the weekend. So at least she hasn’t completely disowned me, but she works. . . and my stepfather still wants nothing to do with me or the baby.”

  “How about if I come over and babysit Saturday afternoon so you can go out? Besides, I need the practice.”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind, that would be great.” She smiles for the first time since I got there.

  “Kelly, can I ask you something personal?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you and Jared fight a lot? I mean, before you had Erica?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, yeah, especially when I first told him. But then it was like we were the perfect couple, and we could picture everything—our own place, decorating the nursery, that sort of thing.”

  I look around the shabby apartment. “Is it what you thought it would be like?”

  Kelly laughs. “Not even a little. I love Erica, and I really wanted someone of my own to love, but it’s so hard. She needs attention 24/7. . . She’s like this love vacuum. Last night, I was exhausted. . . Erica was crying. . . we were trying to sleep, and Jared yells at me like it’s my fault. There are times when I just sit here and cry because I’m not ready for it.”

  Later, right before I leave, Kelly says, “Since we’re being honest, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you get pregnant to hold onto Matt?”

  “No. Why?”

  “That’s what I heard at school. Some of the girls are saying you got pregnant on purpose.”

  Matt and I are speaking again, but things aren’t like they used to be. I see him less and less. His phone calls are shorter. And he’s always working or going somewhere with Niles. So I ask Mom if she’ll go to the childbirth class with me again on Wednesday night. The topic is labor and delivery, and I don’t want to miss it. Mom doesn’t ask why Matt isn’t going.

  The traffic is heavy that night, so we’re ten minutes late. The room is dark when we walk in. Susan Fischer, the instructor, is standing next to her laptop. On the screen is a picture of a woman giving birth like a pro. “There are two seats in the corner,” she says, waving us to the chairs.

  Susan continues with her presentation, giving detailed information about each stage of labor. “A lot of time during contractions,” she says, “you’re going to have bowel movements. Don’t be embarrassed. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. There will be a whole pad of gauze under you, which the nurse will fold up and dispose of after you.”

  Swell. That’s just swell. I sit there, staring at the images on the screen. All I can think is, How Did This Happen to Me?

  Matt is leaning against my locker after school the next day. “Are you still mad?” he asks.

  I shoot him a look.

  “I have to be at work by 4:30,” he says. “Can I give you a ride home?”

  I think about saying something sarcastic about Lauren. I saw them talking at his locker earlier today.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the other day,” he says. “But we should talk.”

  He doesn’t look that sincere, but I want to believe him. I really do. Besides, we have a baby to think of. “Okay.”

  We’re sitting in his car at a stoplight when he says, “I got that full-time construction job.” He’s staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the light. “So maybe we should start looking for apartments.”

  “Hey, that’s great.” I touch his arm and think that maybe we’ll be okay, that everything will work out. The light turns green, and he keeps his eyes on the road the rest of the way home. His mouth is tight and grim.

  I remember what Kelly had said about getting pregnant to trap Matt. When he pulls into the driveway, I turn to him. He doesn’t bother to put the car in park. “Matt, do you think I did this on purpose?” I ask. There’s no way he’d think that, but I want to hear him say so.

  He looks impatient. “Do what on purpose?”

  “Get pregnant.”

  He shrugs. “It hardly matters now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” he says.

  “I didn’t do this to trap you.” I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but the tears start flowing anyway. “How could you even think I’d do something like that? I wanted to have an abortion at first, remember? I didn’t want to get pregnant!” I can tell by the look on his face that he’s not entirely convinced.

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks at his watch and says, “Ali, I’m going to be late.”

  I barely close the door of his car when he tears off.

  “How can you go on like this?” Monica asks over the phone that night. “You guys aren’t getting along at all, but you’re still going through the motions. It’s like you’re both paralyzed.”

  “It’s complicated.” But this voice inside me asks, Is it really so complicated? I want to do the right thing, but I’m not even sure what that is any more. Before we hang up, I ask about Kyle. “What’s going on with you guys?”

  “You won’t believe this. Mom has totally backed off. So has Steve.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She says she can’t keep us apart, so she’s not going to try.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know. Best of all, Kyle will be living at home this summer, so we can see each other every day.”

  Ms. Connor is in her office Friday morning. She’s drinking coffee and picking at a blueberry muffin.

  “Are you busy?” I ask.

  “No. Come on in.”

  I shut the door and sit in the green vinyl chair next to her desk.

  “What’s on your mind?” she asks.

  “It’s about Matt. You know, he gives me this ring and says he wants to get married, and now he’s gotten this job where he can work construction full-time after graduation, but it’s like he’s mad at me, like this is all my fault. I’m due in six weeks, and I don’t know. . .” I almost tell her about Lauren, but then I don’t. “Do you think you could talk with him?” I keep thinking that if he just came in, maybe things would get better. Ms. Connor never gives me advice, but always insists that I set goals, and goals are what Matt and I need.

  “Sure, I can talk with him,” she says. “Why don’t you bring him with you next time?”

  On Monday, we finish reading Hamlet. Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel—or so we thought. But Carrot Top then brings out the sacred text again and asks what we think of Hamlet as a man. Someone coughs, everyone starts paging through the book, but no one says a word. Carrot Top looks personally offended. She reminds us that this is an Advanced Placement English class. Finally, Niles says, “He’s a mass of contradictions.” It’s the first time he’s said anything in class all semester.

  Carrot Top smiles. “Yes,” she says. “Go on.”

  “The dude doesn’t know who he is,” he says. “He doesn’t believe in himself or in God, so he defines himself by his circumstances. In his mind, he’s the dude whose mother married his uncle—the guy who murdered his father.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” says Carrot Top. She’s really excited now. “Hamlet has no center. He’s the man who thinks too much, who can’t make up his mind, who never wholly commits to anything.”

  Later that day, I look for Matt right before lunch. We didn’t have a chance to talk during study hall, and I want him to see Ms. Connor with me. But as I turn down the small corridor near his locker, I see Lauren leaning against it, as if she belongs there. Then Lauren sees me, our eyes meet, and I turn away.

  I eat with Monica at lunchtime. Monica is eating a bean burrito, the special of the day. I have a cheese s
andwich, which I haven’t touched yet.

  “Oh, I got some pictures back yesterday,” Monica says, reaching into a pocket in her backpack. “There’s one of you and Matt.” She sorts through them until she finds it and hands it to me.

  I remember when she took it—before spring break at my house with a disposable camera. I was sitting on one end of the sofa, Matt on the other. My hair is pulled back, and I’m smiling directly into the camera, but it’s a forced smile. Matt’s arm is resting on the back of the sofa, but he looks stiff, and he’s staring at me with a sort of bewildered expression on his face. That’s when it hits me. Neither of us looks happy.

  Maybe Monica’s right. Maybe we are only “going through the motions.” One night, when we weren’t fighting for a change, we went to a movie and then drove to our usual place and parked. Matt touched and kissed me in all the familiar ways, but I knew he wasn’t really there. Afterward, when I was already back home, it occurred to me that he never said, “I love you.” That isn’t like him at all.

  In photography class, we can come and go as we like now. I’m in the lab developing a couple rolls of film. Mr. G. comes by to check on my work. He laughs when he sees the photograph of Monica sticking out her tongue, and smiles when I show him the photo of my dad nose-to-nose with the retriever. But then when he sees the photograph of my mom, which I don’t think is that great, he studies it closely and asks, “Who’s this?”

  “My mother.”

  He considers it for a while. “She looks pensive. . .” he says, “worried, but it’s almost as if she’s trying to mask it.”

  Matt doesn’t come with me to see Ms. Connor. He says he doesn’t have time.

  I relay this to Ms. Connor on Wednesday while I help myself to a lemon drop from her jar. She looks at her notepad, as she always does, and considers this for a while.

  “I don’t know what to do any more,” I say. “It’s like he keeps saying ‘Let’s make this work. Let’s get married.’ But he’s not doing anything to make it happen.”

  “Sometimes a person’s actions speak volumes,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Consider his actions in all of this, Ali. By not doing anything, he’s telling you something. By not doing anything, he’s also making a choice.”

  Before I leave, I ask Ms. Connor if she’s married. “I’m a widow,” she says, “going on two years now. He was really sick. He died when Zoe was a baby.”

  “Is it hard—being a single parent?”

  “Extremely,” she says. “But I can’t imagine my life without her.”

  “May I ask you one other thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “What would you do if you were me?”

  “Ali. . .” she says, “you have to make your own decisions.

  There are times in life when you won’t like any of your choices, but you still have to make a decision.”

  On Saturday afternoon, I go over to Kelly’s apartment to babysit Erica. I wish I’d never promised. I’ve been really nervous because I’ve never taken care of a newborn before, but it’s not so hard. Erica sleeps for more than an hour in her infant seat on the living room floor while I work on my English paper about Hamlet.

  Kelly told me that Erica would probably sleep most of the afternoon, but at 2:00, she wakes up screaming. I try rocking her to calm her down. That doesn’t work. Then I hold her close and pace the living room. That doesn’t work either. I check Erica’s diaper—bone dry. Finally, I remember the bottle of formula Kelly left for her in the refrigerator. A cartoon bubble forms over my head. “Eureka!” Erica settles down at once, sucking hard on the bottle, and snorting loudly.

  “You were just hungry, weren’t you?” Erica studies my face with big eyes. After she drinks the bottle, I burp her, giving myself a mental pat on the back for remembering to burp her. Babies aren’t that hard. I can do this. I place Erica back in her infant seat and get back to my paper, but I haven’t written a single sentence when Erica screws up her face and howls. She turns this bright purple-red shade, and I’m afraid her head will pop off. Then there’s this rumble. . . rumble. . . phooosh. Major blowout. There’s poop exploding out of her diaper, though she’s wearing the new and improved brand with “leak-guard protection,” and I get it all over my arm.

  I can’t study the rest of the afternoon. For reasons unknown, Erica cries for two solid hours. Then she finally falls asleep, probably from sheer exhaustion.

  By the time Kelly arrives, I’m totally wiped out. I don’t bother telling her how awful the afternoon was. Kelly walks in with this big smile on her face. “I got a job as a cashier!” she announces. “I can work evenings, when Jar gets off work, and I’ll be taking home about $100 a week!” She makes it sound as if she just won the lottery.

  “That’s great,” I say, trying to sound positive.

  When I get home, I find Mom in her studio, painting another African basket.

  “How’d it go with Erica this afternoon?”

  “Okay.” I’m not about to admit how hard it was. If I do, Mom will go into this whole lecture about whether I want to keep the baby and how I’m about to completely tank my life.

  I’m on my way downstairs when she calls out, “Ali, Matt called. He’s planning to stop by after work.”

  At 5:30, Matt rings the doorbell, and I open the door right away. I’ve been waiting for him. I’m even wearing the ring he gave me at Christmas.

  “Hi,” he says, but he doesn’t come in or kiss me hello the way he used to when we first started going out. He looks at me for a second, in a way that makes me feel jumpy inside, then he says, “Let’s go somewhere.”

  I pull on my denim jacket and call to Mom that I’ll be back in awhile. We drive around, and then he parks the car on some back road we’ve never been to before. I rub the pad of my thumb over the ring. I’m not used to wearing it, and even though it looks right on my hand, it feels strange.

  He turns toward me and glances at my hand. A muscle flicks at his jaw. “I called Al. . . I told him I won’t be taking that construction job after all. I accepted at Pratt.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

  He looks out the window and fiddles with his car keys.

  “What are you saying?” A wave of panic sweeps through me. All this time, I felt he would bail on me, and now it’s happening.

  “I know it was my idea to get married and raise the baby ourselves. But I’ve thought about it a lot, and I just don’t see how we can make this work. The construction job pays pretty well, but it’ll barely cover our rent and food. There wouldn’t be much left over for tuition and all the other expenses, and my mom and dad aren’t going to help us, Ali. I think we should stick with our original plan. Give the baby to the Gardners and go to college.”

  “You want to give our baby up?”

  “Look, Ali, the Gardners can give this baby so much more than we can right now. Be realistic. It’s the only way. If we keep the baby, everyone’s life is ruined. Mine, yours, and the baby’s.”

  “It’s so simple for you, isn’t it? It must be nice to walk away from this, without a second thought.”

  “Ali. . . it’s the only way.”

  I want to ask him about Lauren, but my throat squeezes shut. I close my eyes. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Maybe Lauren’s the real reason behind all this. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten pregnant, things would be different, but there’s no going back. Everything has changed. I open my eyes and look at Matt. I can tell he’s already checked out. We’ve been together for more than a year, and been through so much together, but suddenly nothing about him seems familiar any more. Neither of us says anything on the drive home. When he pulls into the driveway, I open the door and step out.

  He leans over, and I’m somewhat shocked to see tears in his eyes. “I know you don’t think so, but I really loved you. It’s just that. . . I can’t do this, Ali. I can’t.”

  I take off the ring and hand it to him. “Don’t do this to us,” I wa
nt to say, but the words stay stuck in my throat. Matt doesn’t look at the ring. He tosses it in the cup holder, then looks at me for a minute before turning away. I really loved you—past tense. How can he shut off his emotions just like that? I close the door, and something closes off in my heart. Matt is the last person on earth I ever thought would let me down.

  Chapter 21

  When I was twelve years old, I couldn’t wait to fall in love. Never once did I consider the trouble love can bring. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. So I cry and remember every kiss, every touch, every moment we ever shared together. I’m well aware of how pathetic I am, but I miss him. It’s a letdown to just be the old me again. I liked the person I was when I was with Matt. I’m not ready to let that go.

  The first week, I sulk in my room, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. And though I’m not hungry, I manage to choke down some cheese puffs. I want to call him, but every time I pick up the phone, something stops me. I think about saying something to Monica about it, but she’ll spaz if she knows I’m even thinking about calling Matt.

  I don’t tell my parents right away, but when I finally do, my mom says “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She looks as if she might actually mean it. My dad gives me a hug. But neither of them looks that surprised. My dad worries I’m not eating enough, so he makes me smoothies every day, and every night before I go to sleep, he comes in and asks me how I’m doing.

  When I get bored with being pathetic, I get angry. Matt has let me down in the worst possible way. How can he just walk away? Doesn’t he care about me? About the baby? Whatever we had was most definitely not love. It’s over, really over, and I’m glad to have him out of my life and out of my heart. I rip up his photo—the one I kept tucked in the mirror on my dresser. I don’t look for him at school, or call him at home, or even stop by the store where he works for so much as a pack of gum. He’s no longer in second period study hall, and I have a new lunchtime strategy—avoid Matt. Sometimes, Monica and I pick up something in the cafeteria and eat in her car with the windows rolled down. Sometimes we skip out altogether and go for tacos. The strategy works. I don’t see Matt for several weeks. As far as I’m concerned, he no longer exists. He’s no more than a speck of dust.