I like writing, sure, but the thought of being a literature major fills me with horror. What I really like is photography. I haven’t done it that much recently, and although art school is definitely more interesting to me, I don’t know if I’m any good at it, not really. I used to think I was, I used to think I had a real talent, when my mom gave me her old Nikon, and I’d take tons of pictures on proper film.
I’d use Sophia as my model. Sometimes I’d take pictures of her back with her clothes just kind of draped, because it looked more artsy, like something you might see in black and white, framed and hanging on the wall of a cool modern house.
I never totally understood the whole aperture and shutter-speed thing, but I experimented and ended up taking some amazing shots at the beach. Manzanita branches twisting on the sand, cool shells, that kind of thing.
Andi got them blown up and framed as a surprise. I walked into the house one day after school and four of these shots I took were hanging in the hallway. They looked totally professional, and I felt so proud. Everyone who came over commented on them, but now they’re not special anymore; they’re just part of the furniture.
Sometimes I take photos of my friends, and I mess around with Photoshop, making the picture look so much better than it actually does. My friends say I’m really talented, but I don’t know. It’s just something I like doing.
There’s this photographer, Nan Goldin, who took these amazing photographs of her friends in, I think, the seventies or eighties, in New York. I found one of her books at the library one day, and I couldn’t tear myself away.
They’re explicit, and raw, and beautiful. It’s sex, and drugs, and rock and roll, and if ever I thought I stood a chance at being a proper photographer, those are the kinds of photographs I’d take.
My friends are all heavily into drugs now, and I have these great shots of them, but it’s not as seedy as Nan Goldin’s pictures. Popping OxyContin and Vicodin, and their parents’ Ambien that they’ve stolen from the medicine cabinet, plus occasionally snorting the odd line of coke isn’t quite as dramatic as someone’s tying a tourniquet on their arm and shooting up some smack.
I kind of keep hoping that someone will do something a bit harder, so I can capture it on film, but even I recognize that’s a bit sick. I just like hanging around and shooting what’s going on, and I know that if someone chooses to do something stronger, I’ll probably be there to capture it.
At least, that was before the Bean came along. I call her the Bean, even though it’s not a bean, it’s a baby. My dad and Andi said not to find out the sex because they still think I’m going to give this baby up for adoption and they don’t want me to get too attached, and even though they didn’t tell me, I know it’s a girl.
And I’m already thinking about the kinds of photographs I could take of her. Like Sally Mann, but maybe not as provocative. Or Tierney Gearon. Photographers who captures these moments in their children’s lives, all the sweetness and sadness that comes with childhood.
I won’t do those dressing-your-baby-up-like-a-pea-in-a-pod kind of shots, though. They’re just weird. But how awesome would it be to be able to capture your child’s life with these beautiful images from the moment of birth onward. Obviously, though, I wouldn’t be able to capture the moment of birth, but maybe just after.
Birth.
Ergh.
I have to say, that bit totally freaks me out. First of all, it means they’re going to be looking at my, well, you know … That bit is just beyond gross. I think I might just die of embarrassment on the table.
I YouTubed videos of people giving birth, and it’s not pretty. Plus, if some male doctor tries to stick his hand up there, I think I might slap him.
And the pain freaks me out. I’ve already said sign me up for every drug available. I’m not one of those martyrs who plans on natural childbirth and breathing. Christ, no. Stick that needle in my spine and fill me up with that epidural, baby. I don’t want to feel a thing.
But here’s the thing: it will all be worth it because right now, inside my body, is another life, and she’s all mine, the one person in the world who’s going to love me unconditionally, and the one person I’m going to love unconditionally. I’m never going to leave her, or do anything to hurt her. I’m going to make sure she feels safe and loved her entire life.
You think I don’t know how to do it? You think that my mother was so crap I couldn’t possibly be a good mother myself? Huh. The reason I do know how to do it is because of my mother. It’s exactly because she never did it, because I see the disappointment in her eyes every time she looks at me that I know how to do it differently.
My mom is the most amazing mom in the world. When she’s nice. Or sober. Or in a good mood. She’s also the biggest bitch in the world when she’s drunk, which is a lot of the time. She can look at me with love and say something really sweet, then, I swear, an hour later she’ll come pounding up the stairs and crash into my bedroom and start screaming at me.
It comes from nowhere, with no warning, and when it comes, it’s vicious.
“Look at you!” she screamed, right before I graduated. “You’re a goddamned freak with that hair and makeup. And the size of you! Jesus, Emily. You’re enormous. Who the hell is going to even look at you, looking like that.”
When I was younger, and she used to start in on me like that, I’d just curl up in a ball and squeeze my eyes shut, pretending to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. But now I just scream back. Fucking bitch.
And then, the next day, she apologizes, and I can see she feels horrible about it when she’s sober, and it isn’t fake, it’s for real. She puts her arms around me and croons to me as she rocks me back and forth, holding me tight, telling me I’m beautiful.
She didn’t mean any of the stuff she said, and it was nothing to do with me, she says. And she is so sorry, and I mustn’t listen to her when that stuff comes out of her mouth.
She says she has no idea why she’s so moody, and I want to point out that three bottles of wine, or a pint of vodka may have something to do with it, but I don’t. I allow myself to be a little girl, safe in her mommy’s arms, and in those moments I know, I really do, that the woman spewing that hateful shit the night before is not my mom.
But now—get this—she’s apparently been sick and can’t see anyone while she’s getting better. Not even her daughters! I’m worried, and I’m scared, and I can’t believe that at this time in my life, my own mother has abandoned me.
And the thing is, I know it’s not true. For the past few weeks my mom’s been amazing. She said she wasn’t drinking, but usually when she says stuff like that she’s already reached the point of slurring, but this time I believed her. So how come she’s suddenly sick? If I ever got sick, no matter what it was, even cancer, or anything, my Bean is going to be right there by my side, and I’m going to continue loving her, no matter how ill or tired, or drunk I am.
But I’m not going to drink anymore once Bean is born. I’m not drinking now. Bean and I are going to be this incredible team. I’m not going to even think about dressing her in anything pink. She’s going to be the coolest kid. I might even give her a Mohawk when she’s a toddler. She’s going to wear black leggings and cute little black hoodies. I even found a website that sells these baby shoes that look like biker boots, and she is so totally going to wear those all the time, and we are going to do everything together. She’s not going to be one of these kids that stops my life, she’s going to be part of my life, she’ll learn to hang out and sleep even if there’s loud music.
I’m a little scared about the drinking I’ve done. I know the doctor said it was probably going to be fine, but I’m scared that I might have done something to hurt her, and I would never do anything to hurt her. It’s not like I even want to drink anymore. I want to look after myself. I want to look after Bean.
Andi’s been making me these protein smoothies, and big salads, and all this food that’s supposed to be good for the baby’s brai
n, and it feels like I’m being looked after.
In a weird way, Andi’s being more of a mother to me right now than my mother ever was. I still want to hate her, and at times I get pissed at her because she’s being so nice, which makes me resent my own mom, and that’s not fair, but … it’s nice. I wouldn’t ever spontaneously kiss her—God no!—like I do my dad, or tell her I love her or anything, but she sometimes puts her arms around me if I’m sitting down, and puts a kiss on the top of my head, and I kind of like it.
It makes me feel safe.
I don’t think things with her and my dad are great, though. For years they’ve been all sickly sweet together, and suddenly there seems to be tension between them. This should make me happy. I’ve been trying to get rid of her for years, but right now, especially with my mom abandoning me, I need Andi. I don’t want them to split up until the Bean is born.
And you know what? I don’t feel as angry at her. I hated her so much for stealing my dad, for ruining what was a perfect arrangement. I didn’t want the divorce, but my dad was amazing afterward, he was with me and Sophia all the time; but then, once he met Andi, he wasn’t, and I just wanted her to be gone.
But my mom isn’t around, and I need someone who understands, and Andi’s the closest thing I’ve got.
* * *
G-man comes over this afternoon. I hear him downstairs, hear Andi chatting to him, and then she comes up and knocks on my door.
I’ve been making playlists on iTunes for Bean, and I’ve found these collections with Tom Waits, Lisa Loeb, and Sarah McLachlan, playing music for kids. It’s not the stuff I listen to, but it’s better than that Disney crap. When Sophia was young, she used to love the Wiggles. Seriously. She was obsessed.
Mom and Dad used to sing the fruit salad song all the time, and even then I thought it was pretty awful. Bean isn’t going to be that kind of kid. I’m going to raise her to appreciate good music.
“Emily? G-man’s downstairs. Do you want to come down?” Andi waits outside my closed bedroom door.
I take the earbuds out and think about it. I haven’t seen anyone for days, and with all this talk of adoption, I couldn’t face anyone. I didn’t want any of my friends to know I was pregnant, although honestly, if I thought I was just getting fat, I bet they thought the same thing. I mean, no one would know the difference, right?
But now, I’m going to keep Bean, so it shouldn’t matter if people know. I haven’t told my dad yet. I know he’s going to freak out. It’s going to be the usual shit about ruining my life, and I have no idea what having a baby involves, blah blah blah.
The thing is, yesterday I spent the afternoon in the library, and I read a ton of books about what to expect, then what it’s like the first year of your baby’s life. I took a notebook and made notes, and it was kind of funny. I felt like I was studying for a test, and probably studying harder than I’ve studied for anything in ages. I was really into it.
But I do know what to expect, and my dad will get over it. He has to. He has no choice.
So when Andi hovers in the doorway I nod, pull my oversized sweater around myself, and head downstairs to see G-man.
* * *
“Wanna go out?” he says.
“Sure.”
“Where are you going?” Andi’s back downstairs, pretending to be busy chopping vegetables, but she’s worried about what I’m going to do. I can tell. I look at G-man, and he shrugs.
“Town?” I say, and he looks at me quizzically. We don’t usually hang out in town because there’s not much to do there, or at least, not the kind of stuff we like to do. But I’m really determined not to drink, even though I know that bulge in G-man’s jacket is a hip flask filled with whatever he’s managed to steal from his parents’ liquor cabinet, and I’m really determined not to smoke weed, even though I know on the other side of his jacket his pockets are probably holding two superthin joints of superstrong skunk, but in town I won’t be tempted.
He shrugs eventually, and we leave the house, and I feel Andi’s eyes follow me until we turn the corner.
Even then, I feel like she’s still watching.
* * *
“So where you been?” G-man says, shuffling beside me with his hands in his pockets and his head down.
“Kind of busy.”
“Yeah? With what?”
And so here it is. Decision time. Do I tell him or not. If adoption is an option, I wouldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I know that if I tell G-man, the word is out. No one I know can be trusted to keep a secret. The only person I ever knew who could keep a secret is Michael Flanagan.
He knows everything about me, and even now, when we don’t speak, and we cross streets to avoid each other, I trust that he won’t tell anyone anything. Just as I would never breathe a word about him.
And suddenly, as freaky as this sounds, I don’t want to tell G-man. I don’t want anyone in my so-called crowd of friends to know because it feels like this is a special secret between Bean and me, and the only person I want to tell, the only person I can trust, is Michael.
“Just hanging out,” I tell G-man, suddenly wanting to get away from him, to get back home. “I can’t stay long. I have a ton of stuff to do.”
G-man shrugs. “Hey, you should have been with us on Tuesday. Man, we drove out to this farm in Sebastopol, and got so totally wasted. We built a fire, and Rockit brought his guitar. It was awesome.”
“Great,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it, and I just want to leave.
* * *
An hour later, I get rid of G-man. It isn’t hard. Everyone texts us while we’re hanging out in town, and they’re all going to Suki’s house because her parents are away, and I just tell him I’m too busy, and I promised Andi I’d get home to do stuff for her.
Instead, I go straight to Woody’s, but they say Mike isn’t working until that evening, and so I walk over to his house. There isn’t anyone home there, either, and by the time I get there, I start to think I’m totally nuts and have no idea what I’m doing there.
I go into the backyard, and the tree house is still there, exactly the same, and it makes me literally cry with longing. Before I know it, I’m climbing the ladder up to the tree house.
I lie on my back, looking out the window at the canopy of trees rustling slightly as they brush the tree house, and it looks and smells the same. The pillows are still the same faded green and orange pillows that his mom gave us years ago, and there are still the broken rattan baskets we used to keep our stuff in. I take off a lid and—OH MY GOD—there are pictures of Michael and me, grinning and sticking our tongues out and stuff, pictures we used to take on the computer and print out.
We were so young! And look at me! I look so happy. That’s when I start to cry, when I realize I haven’t been happy for years and years; probably not since the last time I was up in this tree house, and that’s when I hear voices down below.
I freeze. It’s Michael, and one of the bitchy beautiful girls, Jenna, and they’re walking over to the tree house, and I hear him say: “You have to see this. My dad made it for me when I was five,” and I think I’m going to throw up.
Twenty-one
Ethan pounds down Hillside at the end of his daily loop, his T-shirt drenched, but he’s calm now, filled with purpose. It is the kind of day he used to love, the kind of day that makes him happy to be alive.
He slows down as he comes into town, pauses at a bench, and bends, clutching his knees, slowing down his breathing before standing up and stretching.
Usually he takes nothing with him on his runs, except perhaps an iPod strapped to his arm, but today he has a small fanny pack with money; today he has a plan.
Andi was fast asleep this morning when he left. Usually, she wakes up while he is in the bathroom; he emerges to find her sitting up in bed, checking her e-mail and looking at The Huffington Post.
But these past few days she has been … if not actually sleeping, then feigning sleep. Her breathing is too slow to b
e asleep, the most common mistake people make when they are faking, but she keeps her eyes closed, and when he leans down to kiss her good-bye, she mumbles something inaudible before rolling over away from him.
Even though he knows she is awake, he doesn’t know what to do other than leave, quietly pulling the bedroom door closed behind him.
When he gets back from his run, she is usually making breakfast for Sophia downstairs, busy packing snacks and lunch for camp, helping her pack her bag, or chatting with her about what it will be like being in seventh grade.
Ethan tries to join in, but Andi can barely look at him, only talks to him if she has to. He knows she is still furious with him, and feels helpless in the face of her hurt. He has tried to apologize but isn’t changing his mind, knows that nothing would make him willing to raise this child.
Time will heal her wound. It has to. When the baby is born, when a suitable family is found, she will forgive him. She will understand.
If only the chasm between them weren’t growing larger by the day.
He remembers this feeling once before. Years ago. At school, when he fell in love with Tricia. They dated for two years, and he thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with her.
They were together all the time her junior year, but toward the beginning of their senior year, something changed. At first, he thought he was imagining it. She didn’t pick up the phone, or she said she was going out with girlfriends when she had not been on a girls’ night out for years.
She came in late, and became suddenly critical of him. He worked too hard on the landscaping business, he didn’t have enough time for her, he was too serious. Nothing he did seemed to be right.
When she said she needed space, he trusted she needed space. She said she was going through some emotional stuff, and she just needed space to figure out where she was; it had nothing to do with him, and, no, he shouldn’t worry at all.
He agreed, reluctantly, to a month off. She moved out and into a friend’s apartment, and stopped taking his calls entirely. A week after she moved out, he was dragged out by friends to try to drown his sorrows at the local bar.