Shame Us

We were alike in so many ways it was difficult not to love him as I loved myself. He was a hugger, above all. He would climb into my lap and place his little paws on either side of my neck before resting his chin on my collar bone. Sometimes, if I'd just eaten, he would keep his face level with mine, savoring the scent of my breath. As I inhaled his breath, I couldn't help smiling at the closeness of our inter-species relationship. His tan fur was a shade no different than my own tawny hair. Our green eyes were practically the same hue. If my husband found these similarities unnerving he never mentioned it. He seemed pleased I had someone to keep me company, because he knew I wasn't about to form a relationship with any of the neighbors.

The cat's name was Mike—never Michael. People often raised an eyebrow when I revealed my feline had a human name, but I had dubbed him such for a my own reasons. What I couldn't describe was the reason it had to be Mike and never Michael. I supposed it was like those people who hated receiving nicknames. “Hi, my name is William.” “It's good to meet you, Bill.” “It's William,” William might correct. It was like that.

Mike had come from a farm. I had chased him down one late-December afternoon for the benefit of my high school aged children. Christmas was upon us and I planned to surprise them good. There had been a litter of six kittens and as soon as the barn doors opened, they scattered. Mike proved to be relatively easy to catch, but he was difficult the whole drive home, clawing and crying and outright refusing to be transported into the city. As soon as I got him inside the house, he calmed. I hid him in our master bathroom for two nights. My husband tried feeding him the fancy wet stuff, but we soon discovered Mike would only eat dry food from my hand.

On Christmas morning, the children—it seemed silly to call them that, they were already so adult—came down the stairs bleary-eyed and angsty as ever, despite it being the day. They breezed past the presents under the tree and stumbled into the kitchen. I recall my daughter pouring a cup of coffee and mumbling about a strange smell.

“You didn't get us a gerbil, did you?” she asked, nose wrinkled with disdain.

My son muttered disapprovingly and hung his head until it reached the granite counter top. Concerned he'd fall asleep and stay in that position, I shook him by the shoulder and invited him into the living room. He was my favorite; he would open the box that held the newest member of the family. To my great dismay, my son shared my daughter's enthusiasm for the kitten: none. He put on a fake smile and thanked us before asking who would take care of the litter box. My husband squeezed my hand and I pasted on a matching fake smile as I handed my son a new Wii game he'd requested.

It turned out Mike was remarkably intelligent. He used a litter box that first winter, but as soon as the weather improved, we worked together and he was soon trained to wait at the door when he needed to go out. I awarded him with the occasional catnip mouse or jingle ball. It wasn't long before I'd formed a relationship with the cat every bit as strong as the relationship I was slowly losing with the kids. In a couple years my daughter moved out, and my son was gone so often it felt like it was just me, my husband, and Mike.

As the family shrunk, my husband made the executive decision that we would downsize our home, too. I argued that the kids would soon have kids of their own and they'd want to visit. My husband said we could consider that when the time came, but in the meantime he didn't want to pay taxes and utilities on empty space. I hugged Mike to my chest and conceded to relocate. We moved to the suburbs, a development with smaller, cookie-cutter houses geared towards retirees. The only benefit of the new location was that Mike could spend more time outside, since the traffic was low. I would sit in the bay window and watch him track squirrels while I read or did Sudoku puzzles and waited endlessly for my kids to call.

My issues with the outside world were present, though minimal, before the relocation. It wasn't until we met the McAllisters and neighbors like them that I really began my journey towards a hermit's life. They were loud, inconsiderate people. The parties on their back patio lasted until the early morning hours. They drove their Lexus Coupe so fast down the street my breath sometimes caught as I realized Mike was out there somewhere. I had visions of him being squashed by their carelessness. In addition to the behavior of the McAllister humans, they had a loud, inconsiderate cat they called Shamus. It irritated me to no end that they chose a Scottish name, but did not remain true to the Scottish spelling. While this wasn't cause to hate him, per se, he was a fat behemoth with black and white spots that made him look more like a small cow than a feline. Worst of all, Shamus was a bully, and when he looked at precious little Mike he saw a plaything. I couldn't count the times Mike came in in the evening with new wounds, scratches on his face, even a bite in his ear. My husband wouldn't say it out loud, but I was sure he found it ridiculous when I tended the sores with tears in my eyes. I would wrap Mike in my shaking arms and retreat to the small bedroom that I had dedicated to the cat.

“What if the kids come to visit?” my husband had asked, the roles reversed in that moment. “We have a queen size bed being occupied by a nine pound cat.”

I tilted my nose toward the ceiling. “I can change the sheets if the kids decide to stay the night.”

After those attacks, I would curl up behind Mike and sleep with him tight in my arms. He didn't like to be stroked for long periods of time, but if I was snuggling him close he would be content for hours. Best of all, if anyone else paid him such attention, he would acquiesce. He wasn't one of those hoity-toity cats with preference and prejudice. I loved him all the more for that.

The stronger my relationship with Mike grew, the more I detested Shamus and the McAllisters. They lived two houses away and sometimes at night, as I sat in the bay window, their motion sensor light would flick on. That light illuminated everything, including their nasty cat standing sentinel in my driveway, watching and waiting for Mike to emerge. Refusing to set foot outside I could do no more than smack the window and hope it would startle the vile cat away. I wanted to protect Mike, but my hands were tied by my reluctance to deal with anything outside my front door.

Months passed slowly at the new house. I watched my husband go in and out in the mornings, kissing him goodbye fleetingly, my hands resting firmly around Mike's body curled in my lap. I never knew whose breathing to focus on. I sensed my husband was beginning to grow weary of my relationship with the cat. Maybe he knew that our time together would come to an end before I was ready. Maybe he saw something in Mike that I was just too close to see. I tried not to analyze it. I tried to enjoy the cat as much as ever. I would hoist him to my chest and savor the hugs he offered me. I would slowly feed him pieces of dry cat food. I would tease him with a ribbon when he seemed restless and it was too cold to go outside.

There came a time when I sensed a shift in Mike's behavior. He began to revel in his time outside. I would open the door and timidly cry out his name, but he would only come half the time, then a quarter of the time. I began to worry he had found someone else, someone who enjoyed spending time outside with him; someone who had better cat food. I grew despondent.

One night when Mike was outside playing, I was stirring pasta sauce in the kitchen. My husband arrived from work with a uniquely pleasant air about him. He cast his eyes around the kitchen, and seeing no sign of Mike, wrapped his arms firmly around my waist and kissed the crook of my neck. My skin tingled in a way it hadn't for what felt like years. “What's gotten into you?” I asked with a smile.

He shrugged those broad shoulders. “I am just happy to see you.” He paused, thoughtful. “Or maybe I should say I am happy to see just you.” He sat at the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and spread out the mail. After flipping lamely through Clipper Magazine, he unfolded a bright orange flier and passed it across the Formica to me. “Check this out.”

I set the sauce spoon carefully beside the stove and turned down the heat. I crossed the small kitchen and looked at the page. There was a photo of the monster, Shamus, perched on an expensive chair looking as mean and deplorable as ever. Above his snapshot were the words LOST CAT. Below was the promise of a REWARD and a number where the McAllisters could be reached with information. I feigned concern, but I knew immediately the cat's disappearance was the cause of Mike's new freedom outdoors. I muttered about it being a shame, but my husband knew I was thrilled.

“Have you seen him?” he asked conversationally.

I shrugged, striving to hide the smile that I could feel shining behind my eyes. “Not in a few weeks, actually. What about you?”

“Not since I chased him away for tearing up my begonias. That had to be months ago.” He paused and watched as I returned to the stove. “Hope he turns up, for the McAllister's sake.”

He didn't see my lips silently shape the words, Not me.

I became even more concerned with how little time Mike was spending inside. I needed him, and I missed the days when I felt like he needed me. One morning, after staying awake all night waiting to hear his scratching at the back door, I decided to bite the bullet and go out to find him. It took me at least an hour to locate a pair of shoes I could wear outside. I hadn't noticed my own reticence to leave the house until it was there in front of me: my trainers tucked away in the back of an upstairs linen closet. Who had noticed my tendency to stay in to such an extent that they removed my shoes from the entryway? I had sat there on the floor outside the closet, holding the shoes to my chest as I would Mike, hardly noticing the tears that rolled down my aging cheeks.

Once I'd regained my composure, I tied the strange shoes over my high arches and wrapped one of my husband's sweaters around my slender shoulders. The empty sleeves hung like broken wings as I stepped off the back porch and into the yard. The autumnal air stung my lungs, the freshness of it surprising me and frightening me as much as it delighted me. It took me another moment to find my bearings in this world that had become so strange, but was at once so painfully familiar. I traipsed carefully around the outside of our house, marveling at the late-season flowers that were still in bloom in my husband's carefully tended gardens. I whispered Mike's name, and when nothing bad happened as a result, I cried it a little louder.

Before too long, I heard a rustle in the bushes and Mike appeared. His tail was flicking behind him, his whiskers long and proud. I scooped him up in my arms and pulled him into my chest. For a while I let him nuzzle against me with his head. He placed his paws on either side of my neck and rested his chin on my shoulder. He mewed quietly into my ear, “I want to show you something.”

Following Mike's directions, or perhaps my own intuition, I walked slowly around the far side of the house. I found a wood pile my husband must have created. Nearby there was a rake and a shovel and a push broom, all resting against the siding of the house. My eyes fell on something through the spokes of the rake. It looked like a matted, moldy blanket with a cow pattern. I racked my memory for that blanket, if it had ever belonged to one of the children. As I stepped closer, however, a strange sensation spread within my chest. I squeezed Mike a little tighter and he meowed again, this time more insistently. He was frightened.

I reached out one arm and moved the rake aside. There, in a heap of fur and long-dried blood, was Shamus the cat. He was lifeless and hollow, his eyes long gone, leaving empty pinkish-black sockets. I tried not to look too closely, but I couldn't help noticing the larvae and flies that had made a buffet of his dog-like face. I stepped back in surprise as all the pieces fell together: Mike's new freedom to explore the outdoors, the McAllister's frantic fliers, my husband's attitude towards everything. I did not want to know who was responsible for the demise of the cat. I would not ask any questions. After placing Mike carefully in his bedroom and closing the door, I returned to where Shamus lay. I used the shovel to scoop up the carcass, which proved to be much lighter than I had anticipated. It had been a dry few weeks. I hoped this would make it easier to pull off my hasty plan. I carried the shovel in through the back door and dropped its contents in the fireplace. I practically ran the shovel back to its original spot, grabbed an armful of the prepared logs, and returned to the hearth. I held my breath as I created an expert fire around the decaying cat. I closed the doors, certain breathing the burning flesh would bring me more harm than Shamus had ever brought Mike. I sat back on the floor and watched the flames engulf the fur, lighting it like kindling and making it black. I watched the funeral pyre with the same confused set of emotions I had felt on discovering the animal. I then decided if I couldn't pin-point my attitude, perhaps Mike could help.

I walked slowly down the short hall and opened his door. Mike jumped primly from the bed and sauntered out of the room. He stalked with purpose to the fireplace and when he arrived at the tile in front of it, he curled up and enjoyed the ambient heat produced by his burning enemy. I watched him intently, hoping he would give me a clue, an indication of how I should think or feel or proceed with the whole situation. He looked at me then, returning the intensity of my gaze. He mewed once and proceeded to give himself a bath.

When my husband arrived home a couple hours later, I was still wearing his sweater and the trainers. Mike was curled in my lap. My eyes were dry. My husband took this in slowly, processing what he was seeing. He took note of the shoes, the sweater, the smoldering logs in the fireplace.

“You went outside,” he observed quietly.

I nodded.

Without a word, my husband moved to the adjacent kitchen and pulled out a drawer beneath the microwave. He shuffled through a small stack of papers before producing a neon orange sheet of paper, folded in thirds. He walked to where I sat, pulled open the door to the fireplace, and placed the paper gently on the depleted logs. There were one or two flames still fighting for survival and they thrived as they swallowed the paper. I watched it shrivel, just as Shamus had. I looked up at my husband with bewilderment in my eyes.

My husband closed the door, dusted his hands, and sat on the floor beside me. He gathered Mike into his lap and I watched adoringly as our cat reached up and placed his paws on either side of my husband's collared shirt. He rested his little chin on my husband's shoulder, his emerald eyes locked on me, a small smile playing on his kitty lips. I smiled and tickled the top of his little head before leaning over and resting my own head beside his on my husband's strong shoulder.

Letter to Love

Love,

I had dismissed you from my life. I didn't want you interfering with my family, with my friends or their friends, and especially not with any handsome men that might cross my path. I hated you so fully. I tried washing you down the shower drain, crying you out on my knees in pain. You were a tough one to get rid of, but I succeeded. For some period of time—a little over a year, as it were—I was free from your grasp. I did whatever I pleased with whomever I pleased. My family was leaving me blessedly alone, my friends didn't come to me for counsel. I looked after me and forgot about you completely.

It was February thirteenth—go figure. I was sitting on that bench minding my own business. Like a threaded needle you slid into me. I barely felt anything; I am used to needles. Slowly, you plotted a course through my veins, finding the most inconspicuous artery and gliding up it, looking for a quiet route to my core. I didn't even notice, but by month two I was yours again. My body had become a cross-stitch. I am a marionette, completely at your will. Here I am six months in and it's only now I can identify that it's you who has been screwing me up again.

I haven't decided to let you stay, but I don't think I'll evict you just yet. It hurts too much to cut all those threads. I bled too much the first time. But let this be a warning, Love. I know exactly what to do to rid you from my life. Either we work together this time, or so help me I'll get the scissors. Just as I am capable of unspeakable things, I know that you are, too. Direct the silver point where I urge you. Wrap his heart in your red thread web, and tighten it in my direction. I'll go through the motions as always I've been. You look after you. I trust you to do what you have to do.

-L

escape

Let's pretend that's all it takes. Let's make believe you can delete yourself from Facebook, turn off your phone, down two shots of cheap rum and a Lortab 10. Existence: gone. Disappear off the face of the earth. At least for a day or two. Let's pretend when the sun rises tomorrow I'll be lying on my back in a field somewhere. He's beside me. Which “he” doesn't really matter—I loved them all in their ways. It's a different world. One free of misunderstanding and confusion. There's no chaos. No disarray. We get along... just me and him. I don't want to be troubled with anyone else. Let's pretend there is such a thing as heaven. When I get there on my cloud of hydrocodone and Captain (or is it Admiral?) Nelson, that's when the rest will come. Eternal relaxation in a field of poppies, his hand clasped with mine. I could watch our knuckles for eternity. I could enjoy the sensation of his thumb sliding over mine forever. We'd lock eyes among the flowers; his blue blue eyes in high contrast to the red-orange of our field. I would wonder if he compared my brown ones to the soil beneath the grass beneath our backs. I wonder if there even is soil. Dirt doesn't seem like something that belongs in our perfect haven. I wonder how he came to be here. I wonder if I'm just imagining him. But then the pressure of his thumb crosses mine again. The heat surges through me and his smile slides on his lips. He's real and tangible and eternal. I don't have to speak a word; I understand. He needed to escape as much as I did. Our time is fleeting. In a day or two more, we'll log in again. We'll make up with our families, our “friends”. We'll feel better, simply because that's what's expected of us. We'll return to reality and no one will really realize we ever left it.

blind

As is the case with most, the earliest memories I can conjure are unpleasant. For some reason the pain stays with us, resonating in our memories every time we reach for them. The person who installed me was rushed and rough, taking no great care for my state of comfort. The large, clumsy fingers rammed screws through my brackets, pinning me to the wood above the window. There was a grinding as he screwed the metal into the wood. There were so many screws. When I'd been successfully mounted, they yanked my cord. For the first month it seemed, I was alone but for the occasional visitor who wanted only to pull my cord. I would collapse, all my slats coming together like a stack, rising above the window so they could peer out. I was beginning to feel like nothing more than an nuisance. I wondered why they wanted me around if they only wanted to see around me. My existence was becoming very bleak until one day some visitors arrived and decided to stay. I watched every move they made. I admired the way they moved, the parts and pieces that made them up. I was so in love with them. And after a few days they began showing me they loved me. At first they would come up to me and stick their fingers between my slats. It tickled and made me squirm. Every time they let my slats fall closed I wanted them to peek out again. Next to the tickling, my favorite was when they'd twist my wand, causing my slats to turn, warming the underside in the sun. I loved turning. To my very great delight there was a little one in the house who enjoyed twisting my wand as much as I did turning. On one or two occasions he want overboard, turning so much it made me dizzy. The worst sensation was often provided by a tiny thing I never did get a good look at. Perhaps the dog or the baby. Sometimes the small thing caught my cord as it dangled to the ground. The pull wasn't consistent, causing one half of my slats to rise while the other side remained down. It caused a sense of vertigo to permeate my existence. The sense of spilling would come over me, gripping me with anxiety. My own discomfort was the root of the problem they usually had righting me after such an incident. I shudder with the memory. The visitors were good to me. Gently they pulled my cord to raise and lower my slats. Frequently they ran a soft, smooth duster over me, brushing off the itchy dust particles that accumulated on my surfaces. When they used my door, they were careful not to slam it. Despite all their care, I could feel my screws coming loose over time. The wood was straining to hold them, and they were straining to hold me. We spent months fighting the battle against gravity, until one day the visitors had a visitor. He was huge. His shadow in the doorway when he arrived made my purpose null and void. In tow, he had a great big dog. Its head came up past the door knob. I knew if he stood, he'd maul me with those dangerous and clumsy paws. I'd seen it happen to the couch. Things were fine. They seemed to enjoy having the big man around. One day, he got the children so excited for an outing, they ran one-by-one out the door, each pull and sway putting indescribable pressure on me and those screws. When everyone was out, the big man patted his monstrously large dog and exited through my door. His enormous arm pulled a little too hard, causing my door to hit the jamb with a little too much force. The screws made a terrible grinding sound and gave out. In a flash of light and noise, I clattered to the floor. A commotion of dust swirled around. I hadn't realized it'd been so long since last I felt the caress of the duster. I felt so embarrassed, so disappointed to have fallen from my position above the window. Too much light was coming in. They'd be so upset with me when they returned. Then, as if to add injury to insult, that great big dog sauntered over to see what all the noise had been about. The clumsy creature took no care of where he stepped. He crunched two of my slats beneath his heavy paw. The sound of a snap and a crinkle rang out through the entryway. The dog's ears perked, and I saw the faces of every man, woman, and child that had ever come through this room. I remembered every hand--delicate, pudgy, sweaty, calloused--that had wrapped around my cord. They all pulled differently. But none of it mattered now, because the beast liked the sound of my slats cracking and bending. In a matter of seconds he was all over me. His front paws pushed while his back paws pulled. I felt some slats break in two. Some were torn at the eyelet, rendering my strings useless for raising and lowering them. I was being brutally destroyed, and no one was around to save me. The dog tired after what felt like hours. For some time it would attack, then leave, then return to destroy me some more. By the time it disappeared for good, I was in a dozen pieces. The sun had set, the room was dark. I worried they wouldn't find me until morning when they needed me again. I was so scared and so alone, broken on the floor. And then I was being lifted into the air. Two careful hands had gathered all my parts. I was being moved out of the house, away from the beast. That was good enough for me. I was carried into the garage and placed in a heap on the table. After some time, everyone else returned. Within the house the big dog was scolded. I took no satisfaction in this, because throughout all the shouting and speaking, two words kept standing out to me. Wood blinds. Wood blinds. "I've been thinking of putting in wood blinds for a while." I thought of my window. It would be so bare without me. I remembered the tickling fingers, how amazing they felt. I hated that stupid animal for ruining me. I hoped they'd kick the big man out. As it was, the big man took responsibility of making things right. He spent a great deal of time in the garage, working with super glue and vices and Creedence Clearwater Revival. He had very nimble fingers for his size. I observed patiently as he put me back together. When his work was finished, I felt different. Incomplete. I knew how I looked. I knew I didn't belong on the door anymore. In fact, when the time eventually came for the big man to leave, he tucked me beneath his great big arm and carried me out the door I had always belonged to. I looked up at my window. Sure enough, it was adorned with a beautiful set of white wood blinds. The slats were so thick, so sturdy. So white. The pull string was convenient and short, never to drag on the ground. Its ends were capped with white porcelain teardrops. They were the finest window coverings I had ever witnessed. I envied them with every fiber of my being. The big man placed me in the trunk of his car. He slammed the lid, enclosing me in blackness. There I stayed for days. He never once opened the trunk. He didn't expand my slats or turn them. He didn't tug my string. I felt neglected and unwanted. I considered jamming up forever, tying a knot just beneath my gears so they could never open me again. I realized how irrational I was being, and reminded myself they'd take me out eventually. I thought endlessly of the big man. He hadn't put me back together just so he could keep me in his trunk. I endured the darkness. One magnificent autumn day, the trunk lid swung open. The big man rifled around a bit, moving things, pulling some items into his arms. He didn't even glance at me. He was just about to close the lid again when a bright red leaf swirled past his ear and fell into the open trunk. It landed gracefully on my slats, and I hoped he'd remember why he ever fixed me in the first place. His fingers touched first the leaf, plucking it from me and discarding it outside the vehicle. Then his hand wrapped around me. He lifted me from the trunk and slammed it closed. He carried me--along with the other items--into a building. On every window was a set of blinds that looked just like me! Some were up, some down. People wre all around, some peering between slats. My hopes soared. The big man carried me into a separate room. Everything was white. in the middle of the room was a metal bed, a thin white mattress under a thin white sheet. I didn't have much time to look around. In moments the big man was holding me above the window. He was very careful as he inserted fresh screws into my brackets. He turned them gently, deliberately, as if taking care not to hurt them. When they were all securely in place, the man stepped back. he smiled at me and carefully lowered and raised my slats. It felt so good, like stretching. I was immediately grateful I'd endured the trunk. The big man left. Visitors came and went. I hung around for good news and terrible. I hung around witnessing birth and death. I saw the entire spectrum of human emotion. In a way, I lived. Through it all, I've never stopped getting tickled by peering fingers, turned in the sunlight, and caressed by the delicate surface of the janitor's duster. And for all the years I've hung here, I've never had to deal with another dog.

un-expectations

“Janine, please stop. People are going to think I’m a monster.” I placed my hand gently on the back of her elbow. She was shaking. “We can figure this one out. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She brought her shining eyes up to meet mine. They were rimmed red and still infinitely beautiful. I felt my emotions catch in my own throat and I wondered if I really believed the words I was whispering to my girlfriend of 14 months. I wanted to believe it was the truth—that we could find a simple solution.
We were standing in front of a convenience store somewhere in Nebraska, en route to Janine’s parents’ house in Cleveland, Ohio. We were almost exactly 1,000 miles east of my family, and 1,000 miles west of hers. And wouldn’t you know it? Janine was going to be a mom. The news—only just acquired from a pregnancy test both purchased and used in the gas station—hadn’t quite sunk in for me. All I wanted to do was get back behind the wheel of my Jeep Compass and get on the road again. I was done with Nebraska only moments after we’d entered it. I hated the god-forsaken state, as nothing good ever happened in Nebraska.
“I can’t stop,” Janine managed. She then buried her mouth and nose in the soggy tissue she was clutching, and continued to weep. I sighed and cast my eyes to the horizon.
The sky was pale and expansive. I had known when I awoke that morning in our Salt Lake City hotel that it was going to be beautiful weather. I had known as soon as Janine exited the hotel bathroom with no color in her face and a sour scent on her breath that the weather would be the last pleasant thing in my life for a while. We had only put 30 miles between us and the hotel when Janine demanded we stop and buy a pregnancy test. And those are the events that brought us here: me gazing at the line where light meets land, Janine falling to pieces beside me. I wrapped one arm around her and kissed the crown of her head. “It’s all okay,” I assured us both. “Let’s get in the car and we’ll be to your mom’s house before you know it.”
With some effort, I coaxed Janine into the passenger seat and helped her fasten her seatbelt. I kissed her twice, asking if she was alright and getting nothing more than a sad shrug of her shoulders. Reluctantly, I closed her door and walked around to my side of the car. Before I even reached for the handle, I heard someone call me from the direction of the fuel pumps.
“Hey. Is she going to be alright? I couldn’t help noticing . . .” the man trailed off, making it sound like he was unsure what it was he had noticed. He was in the process of cleaning his windows, and he held the squeegee lifelessly in his left hand while he addressed me. I glanced at Janine through the window. She wasn’t looking at me, but I held one finger up anyway, to let her know I’d be a minute.
I crossed the parking lot to where the stranger stood beside his town car. The grill was smattered with bugs, but the windshield gleamed in the mid-morning light. “She’s pregnant,” I blurted without ado. “She’s freaking out.” I shot the stranger a helpless expression, hoping that somehow I could convince him I would be receptive to any advice he could offer me.
The man had close-set eyes and poufy grey hair. He was reminiscent of Will Farrell, add fifteen or twenty years. I hoped he was as good-natured as the comedian seemed in all his films, of which I’d always been a fan. The man smiled, his lips closed in an attempt to hide a snaggle-tooth in the top row. “We’ve all been there, my friend,” he said warmly. “My advice to you is to make an honest woman of her.” Before I could protest, or even offer a response to his suggestion, he added, “That’s what I did, and I have been a happy man all my life.”
He nodded towards the front of the convenience store, and I saw a beautiful middle-aged woman. She was holding hands with a boy who looked about seven years old. They were each licking at a freshly-made soft-serve ice cream cone and they were smiling and talking quietly. They looked both ways before crossing the parking area and arriving at the car where I stood with the missing piece of their perfect little family. I nodded at the woman, who smiled in return and proceeded to help fasten the child in the back seat, which was littered with toys and coloring books.
“Well, thank you for the advice, sir,” I offered the man my hand and he shook it. “You have a safe drive.”
The man smiled and gestured to my car across the way. “I trust you’ll do right by her,” the man offered with an encouraging nod before returning the squeegee to the bucket full of bug-ridden window washing fluid.
I strolled back to my Jeep, feeling just a little less burdened than I had before. I pulled open the driver’s door to find Janine had lowered the back of her seat and was dozing peacefully. Her head tilted to the right so I couldn’t see her features, only the pane of her cheek and the delicately exposed flesh behind her ear and the side of her neck. There was a pale, wiry vein curving behind her ear, punctured as it was with a vacant earring hole. I was so tempted to reach across the space between us and caress her sleeping form. I resisted, and slid silently behind the wheel. I turned the engine and Janine tipped her head the other way. The disturbance caused her to open her eyes. She looked at me with such depth and sincerity, my breath caught.
“I love you,” she breathed before letting her eyes fall closed again. As I pushed the car into Drive, I couldn’t hide the smile that spread like wildfire across my tinted face. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I touched the horn to draw the attention of the grey-haired man. He looked up at me through his windshield and offered me a warm smile. I decided that whatever happened on the other end of our 1,000-mile journey, I would do right by Janine.
That day we drove for thirteen hours and stopped for the night in a tiny town just shy of the Indiana border. Once when I was a child, I had camped with my family somewhere in Montana at a Kampgrounds of America. It had been one of the best overnight activities of my youth, and ever since Janine and I embarked on our trip, I had been hoping to take her to a KOA. She was not in on the surprise, however. As we pulled off the highway her spidey senses began tingling. She sat taller in her chair and muttered something about not having seen a hotel sign.
“I have a surprise for you,” I said with the same unabashed excitement with which men had been using to present the line for hundreds of years. I braced myself for Janine’s less-than-enthusiastic response.
“Jake,” she breathed, the syllable dripping with disapproving discomfort. “I am not sleeping at a KOA. I am with child.”
I tried not to grind my teeth too hard. She noticed when my jaw was tense. “Pretend it is fourteen hours ago and you have no idea what’s going on inside your body.”
“I know what goes on in my body, Jake,” she said with weak defensiveness. “I knew what was going on,” she whispered while one hand slipped subconsciously across her stomach.
As much as I needed the scents of fresh air, campfire smoke, Off! Mosquito Repellant—I let the KOA issue drop. I told her it was only 20 miles to a Hilton and she relaxed against the leather back of the front seat. I watched her for a moment, studying the way she melted against the material. I wanted to be that plush car seat more in that moment than I ever thought possible. I wanted to be her reason to exhale. I wanted to be there when she landed.
It took all my effort, but we managed to drive through to the Hilton I had promised. Janine was so exhausted, she climbed in the bed fully clothed and was asleep before I’d finished bringing our bags up from the car. The trip was turning out nothing like I’d expected a few days before. I had envisioned us getting frisky and falling asleep in a sensuous, naked embrace every night between the fresh, white sheets. I sighed and turned out the lamp light, removing my clothes and carefully crawling into bed beside her. I took notice that she had two pillows under her head, and one pinned between her knees as she slept on her side. My spot was left bare. I considered lying down on my own arm, as I was pretty exhausted as well. But I managed to find the energy to call down to the front desk for an extra pillow. When it arrived, I propped it beneath my own head and slipped in behind my girlfriend. I wrapped my legs beneath hers and draped one arm over her small stomach. I fell asleep lost in visions of a grey-haired version of myself, my gorgeous wife Janine licking at a soft-serve ice cream cone.
Janine was already up and out of the bed when the light spilled through the hotel curtains, dragging me reluctantly out of my sleep. I rolled over and saw her elbow around the edge of the wall that separated the main room from the bathroom area. She was doing her hair, which was a good sign.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” I heard her sweet voice lilt. She sounded infinitely more positive than she had at any point the day before.
“Morning,” I managed, pulling my aching body from beneath the tangled sheets. As always, we had kicked the comforter to the ground during the night. I bent to pick it up, and let out a groan. Driving for long periods of time sometimes got my back to hurting, an ailment I had yet kept from Janine. There were plenty of other things she wasn’t aware of, but as I considered the tiny byproduct of our lust that was growing rapidly inside her, I decided there would be enough time to fill her in.
“You okay?” she asked, tilting at the hips so she could see around the wall. Her eyes were concerned, adorned in makeup as they were.
I waved one hand in a gesture that suggested she not worry about it, and walked the space of the room so I was standing beside her. Her features looked so strange and crooked in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. It caused my heart to jump, the sensation that the woman I had awoken to was someone different than the one I had laid down with the night before. I turned her to look at me, and the emotions I usually felt upon looking at her returned to normal. I kissed her on the mouth, savoring the taste of her toothpaste. Without a word, I ducked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
The water cascaded through my hair, washing it over the back of my neck till it almost brushed my spine. I spat the droplets that had found their way into my mouth as I turned beneath the stream. I could see steam curling above the shower curtain, painting the mirror the color of clouds. The soap was harsh, hard as the water. It left my skin feeling dry and zapped. I missed my own shower, my Old Spice body wash. I turned the handle to the off position and stood within the confines of the porcelain until I was ready to brave the chill of the bathroom beyond the curtain. I pulled it back and was surprised to see Janine sitting on the toilet fully clothed; the lid down.
“Missed me?” I asked as I reached one dripping arm over her shoulder to the stack of towels the hotel staff had left us. I removed a towel, whipped it out, and wrapped it snugly about my slender waist.
“I don’t know how I got any sleep last night, but I did. So I’m well-rested. Is it okay if we start out with me driving today?”
I pretended to mull over the question, weighing the pros and cons of saying “yes” to her sweet, child-like inquiry. “Do you have a clean record?” I jested.
“As clean as your butt,” came her retort. She then stood and wrapped her arms around my exposed shoulders. She smiled up at me, and I took in every aspect of her beautiful face. Her light hair was beginning to frizz in the steam of the bathroom. I knew she hated it, but I thought the halo of fly-aways around her face was endearing. I brushed one out of the way before I kissed her.
“Okay, you can drive.”
Forty minutes later, with our bellies full of continental breakfast and an endless river of road stretching before us, we recommenced our journey. The car rules stated that whoever was driving got control of the stereo, so I sat patiently through several hours of Kate Nash, Regina Spektor, Alanis Morissette, and other female power singers. It was good to see Janine so animated, singing and belting the lyrics she knew so well. She was actually a good singer, and I was mildly surprised to find myself enjoying her vocal accompaniment to the music. For the first time, I found myself wondering about whether our child would be a good singer. The sensation that filled my stomach and limbs was so total and so foreign, I had to hold on to something. My sudden reach for the roll bar did not escape Janine’s notice.
“What is it?” she asked, gripping the steering wheel tighter with her left hand and turning the knob on the radio with her right. The music played quietly in the background while Janine glanced at me over and over, unwilling to take her eyes off the road for too long at a time.
I let my jaw open and close a couple times, unable to find words to capture what I was feeling. It was like the most powerful sensation of love I had ever felt, and I realized that no matter what happened between Janine and me, there would always be a part of our love for one another captured in the existence of the tiny child growing inside her. My mind darted back to the man at the gas station the day before, and I said the first thing that came to my cluttered mind.
“Pull into that rest stop.”
Without any further inquiry, Janine hit the right turn signal and maneuvered into the rest stop that had conveniently come up on our route. She parked the vehicle and turned her attention to me. “What’s wrong, Jake?”
I couldn’t bring my eyes to meet hers. I knew I’d get overwhelmed. “Can we get out of the car?”
At this point we’d made it to the western end of Ohio. The rest stop was situated beside a pleasant man-made lake. I exited the Jeep and walked to the nearest edge of the lake. I hardly noticed the family enjoying a picnic on the far side of the lake. I turned my full attention to Janine, who was standing uncomfortably on the edge of the water beside me. Without a word, I dropped to my knee and took Janine’s nimble hand in my own thick, clumsy ones. I looked up at her, grateful the sun was behind me, causing the light to hit Janine’s beautiful, bright eyes. She knew exactly what I was doing, but she said nothing.
“Janine,” I began, barely able to get through those first syllables. “I want to do right by you. But more importantly, I know that I want to spend my life with you; not only as the father of your child, but as the man who will stand beside you through everything.” I cleared my throat, a weak attempt at brushing away the emotions that were curling up through my stomach like smoke. “Will you be my wife?”
Janine was crying openly. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and cast her eyes to the small family on the other side of the water. I peeled my eyes away from her lovely face, and took in the same sights. The dad was holding a small girl on his lap. The little girl was shrieking with every bounce of her father’s knee. The mother was showing a little boy something very small. Their heads were leaning together conspiratorially. I knew Janine was trying to visualize us in the same roles. I hoped she liked what she saw.
“Thank you,” she said after a pause, “For not doing this in front of my family.” I looked up at her again, just in time to witness the beauty of her face as it split into a radiant smile. I knew her answer. “Of course I’ll marry you, Jake.”
She let me off the hook for not having a ring, and allowed me to purchase her a soda from the vending machine. She even gave me the keys and said her mind was too occupied to keep driving. I took this as a good sign and was grateful to have full control over the stereo. Truth be told, I was so appreciative of my new fiancé, I even left Regina Spektor playing.
We arrived at Janine’s parents’ house around eleven that night. We were both strung out from the road, and irritable to boot. To my great delight, Janine had the kind of parents who could read a person’s emotions. They let me go straight to the basement bedroom they had set up for me. Her dad assured me we’d have a nice, long, getting-to-know-you chat over breakfast. I was so tired, I didn’t even let this daunting bit of news bother me as I prepared for bed.
The house was small, and the bedroom took up half the basement. It was colder than I had prepared for, and I asked Janine if she could bring down an extra blanket. She said she’d have to sneak down past her father’s study door. When I reminded Janine she was twenty-four years old, she reminded me her father was the pastor of his congregation. It would be extremely unfitting for his daughter to spend the night with her boyfriend. Janine hadn’t agreed with her dad’s religious practices since middle school, however, and shortly after midnight I heard her on the stairs.
I watched her toes step delicately from one stair to the next, the shimmering silver toenail polish catching what little light was spilling from the main floor. Her slender ankles came next, and the curve and swell of her calves as they morphed into her flawless knees. She was wearing a tiny pair of shorts, and a form-fitting tank-top beneath a loose sweater. She looked like the epitome of comfort carrying a large quilt.
“Well, hello,” I whispered into the darkness, anticipating her eyes lighting on mine.
Janine looked at me seductively, and my body responded. At that moment her father’s office chair squeaked upstairs and I silently pleaded with my body to cooperate. I managed to relax just as Janine reached the side of the bed. She unfolded the quilt and spread it over the queen-sized mattress on which I laid. Just as she turned to go back upstairs, I stopped her.
“He won’t know if you stay for a couple minutes,” I reasoned.
Janine looked worried, but said nothing. She slipped into the bed beside me, wrapping her legs around mine. She was so warm I thought there might be something wrong. I asked her about it. “My mom keeps it, like, 80 degrees upstairs,” was her casual response. I knew she was tired as I was, but it felt like something was off. I wondered if her parents had given her a talking-to already. Though this didn’t seem likely, I couldn’t get the notion to leave me long enough to sleep comfortably. I tossed and turned and lie awake staring at the ceiling for much of the night. I was so distracted by my thoughts, I didn’t even remember to wake Janine and send her back upstairs before sunrise.
I heard the first sounds of life around eight the following morning. It amazed me how thunderous the footsteps of a hungry teenage brother could sound from below, as he ran down the stairs to join his parents for breakfast. I heard his voice first. “Janine’s not in her room,” he said casually—not accusing, merely stating the fact. At the words, my heart stopped and I looked beside me, where Janine was sleeping as peacefully and gracefully as any of the angels her father preached about. Before I woke her, I heard the tell-tale scooting sound of her father pushing his chair away from the table. There were footsteps, and then, “Janine? Are you down there?”
I shook her shoulder hard, more intent on waking her quickly than doing it delicately. “Janine, get up,” I hissed, praying to a god I didn’t believe in to keep the pastor at the top of the stairs. “Your family is awake,” I tried.
Janine muttered something about time, ignoring my pleading. I knew she didn’t remember where she was, or she’d be as eager to join the living as I was. I shook her shoulder again, aggressively. “Your dad is talking to you.”
These seemed to be the magic words. Janine sat up, her eyes wild and confused. “Where is he?” she asked, at top volume.
“I’m up here, young lady,” came his dark, disturbing response. “You’ve got one minute.”
Janine shot me a horrible look that reminded me it had been my job to wake her, to send her back to her room. She threw off the blankets that had uncharacteristically lasted through the night, and was just about to storm up the stairs when I saw the scene that made my heart stand still. Janine’s shorts were stained, as were the sheets beneath them. The color was vicious and offensive, it reeked of metal. My stomach churned at the realization that it was blood. I leaned over my side of the bed and let out a sticky, putrid stream of vomit.
“What’s going on down there?” was her father’s response to my upheaval. My eyes were watering, my ears ringing, my stomach writhing in upset. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should turn and face my future father-in-law, or if I should recover, be a man, and see to the needs of my fiancé, who would, in a matter of seconds, notice what had happened inside her body during the night. God only knew what kind of response the discovery would merit from Janine.
The steps on the stairs told me the older man was slowly descending. I was through vomiting, having expelled what little matter had remained in my stomach through the night. I turned to Janine, my eyes wild and pleading, despite my best efforts to remain collected. She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Her eyes were glued to the mess all around her. Her mouth was open just a little, the complete horror of the situation not yet registering on her sleepy face. I could feel the tears breaking past the barrier of my eyelids. I felt weak and defenseless.
“What in the hell?” was her father’s enraged response to the scene when he reached the foot of the stairs. Neither one of us heard him as he began to rant. Janine scooted closer to me, and I had no choice but to wrap my arms around her and hold her as we both fell to pieces at the end of the whirlwind ride that made up the past couple of days.
Oblivious to the anger, the sadness, and above all the confusion that was trickling down the stairs and accumulating in the puddle of Janine’s family, I held her while she sobbed. Our shoulders shook with the pain and confusion of what had occurred in the course of three days. At some point we had created a child, learned of its existence, and devastatingly lost it all before we really knew what a miracle we had possessed. I took a deep, stabilizing breath and pulled back from Janine. I placed my clumsy hands on either side of her face, and steadied it. I bore into her eyes with mine, and I whispered with enough passion and intensity to move mountains, “I will always want you. This doesn’t change a thing.” Without a word, I tore the hem of her ruined shorts and fashioned from it a tiny ring. I said nothing as I slid the piece of fabric over her knuckle and let it rest between her middle and pinky fingers. We looked at the ring, and then at each other, and the look we shared solidified the knowledge that no matter what happened down the road, Janine and I would be ready.