Love (And Other Uses for Duct Tape)

  Tom comes over after I get back to the house and we do homework together, plunked down at the kitchen table, our books and papers strewn all over the place. My mom’s off at Jim’s “coordinating things,” she says. Ha.

  Tom’s jaw is strong lines. I want to tell him about Emmie and the fear that gnaws at my stomach. I can’t.

  Muffin keeps jumping up and trying to get in the middle of things. She shoves her kitty bottom in Tom’s face and lifts it up high.

  “Nice view,” he says, crinkling up his nose. He scratches her back at the base of her tail, which is a good kitty-friendly thing to do.

  “She just wants some lovin’,” I say in a pseudo-sexy soul-singer-from-the-1970s voice, instantly hating myself for sounding so stupid when Em’s having a crisis.

  Tom smiles, but his eyes stay serious and intense. “Don’t we all.”

  Then he starts humming this song from West Side Story, the musical Dylan and I were in last year. It has the words “tomorrow night” in it. The song is like a promise. I swallow and try not to think about how my body is warm all over. It is. Warm all over. Even with the Em thing.

  I stare at my law book.

  In Roe v. Wade, 410 U. S. 113 (1973), it was determined by the United States Supreme Court that a woman’s judgment to terminate her pregnancy is protected by the Constitution.

  My stomach flip-flops. We are covering abortion, which figures. Em must be studying this too, right now. If she’s okay enough to study anything at all. Tom’s going through some advanced math logarithm-type stuff. He’s put duct tape around his pencil like a finger stop, which is really cute. Muffin bats at the pencil with her paw. She wants attention.

  I want to tell him.

  I can’t tell him.

  I slide my feet across the bare floor, back and forth beneath the table. There are eyes in the wood, brown circles where the boards had knots, where tree limbs once grew. Now, they are just flat, shiny boards, a hardwood floor.

  In Doe v. Bolton, 410 U. S. 179 (1973), the Supreme Court ruled that states could not prohibit or limit a woman’s right to an abortion. It held that a state could not limit access to ways for her to understand her own judgment to terminate her pregnancy.

  Emily could have an abortion. She hasn’t even really mentioned it. Of course, she’s only known she’s pregnant for what? Thirty hours? I close my eyes and try to imagine what the baby would look like if she had it: Emily’s duck lips and Shawn’s big shoulders and blue eyes. I imagine a baby swinging on a plastic toddler swing, hair blowing in the breeze. That’s all romantic though, that’s a romanticized television version. Instead I should imagine Em haggard and stressed, spit-up crusted on her shirt, screaming at Shawn because he forgot to bring home diapers.

  But even that’s romantic, really. I mean, what if Shawn doesn’t stay with her? And what about college? They’re both supposed to go to college.

  I groan out loud and don’t even realize it until after the fact.

  “Belle?”

  Tom’s staring at me. Muffin’s staring at me.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. I lie. “Yeah. Bad law stuff.”

  Tom’s eyes flash. “You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong.”

  I flip the page in my law book. “It’s nothing.”

  “Belle … ”

  I do not want to fight with Tom. We never fight. Well, not until this week. I swallow hard and look up at him, into his about-to-be-mad eyes and say, “I can’t tell you. It’s not mine to tell.”

  He lets out a long, slow breath. He lets out a long, slow silence. And then he reaches over and grabs my hand in his. Electricity and warmth charge right through me. He says, “Belle, you can trust me, you know. I’m right here for you.”

  “I know.”

  My feet slide beneath the table. I wonder how we ever walk on this floor, it’s so slippery. I’ve never realized it was so slippery before.

  Tom sucks in a long breath. He lets go of my hand. Then he presses the base of both his hands into his eyes like he’s got a headache or something.

  “Tom?”

  He nods. He doesn’t move his hands.

  “Tom?”

  My fingers wrap around his wrists and I pull his hands away, gently. He is not crying. He is almost crying.

  “I need you to be here for me,” I tell him. “I really do.”

  He nods and smiles, not a joyous smile, but a tiny one.

  “I just don’t want to screw it all up,” his voice cracks. He pulls his hands away and then changes his mind, grabbing on instead. “You know? We could screw everything up.”

  Like Em and Shawn have. But that’s not who he’s thinking about. He’s thinking about his parents.

  What can I say?

  “I know.”

  I start a stupid list because it’s all too much. I can’t just figure it out thinking. I have to write it down.

  What It Means to Be Responsible:

  To always do the right thing? That sounds dull.

  To always try to do the right thing? That sounds worse. And what is the right thing anyway?

  To do the things you’re supposed to do to try to make things better when everything goes bad because you’ve already screwed everything up super famously bad.

  To pay a mortgage, show up to school, blah, blah, blah.

  Doing what society expects is right. And how does society determine that? And who in society determines that? Crud.

  Being accountable.

  Not every girl who has sex is a slut. Not every girl who has sex gets pregnant. But everyone always makes it out like they do. It happens sometimes, right. It’s less likely to happen if you use condoms or the pill or the patch or something. But if it does happen you are accountable.

  Oh, this sucks. Responsible? This word just sucks. It all basically just sucks. Especially this list. Where is the delete button? I have to press delete.

  Tom’s almost leaving. We’re standing outside by his truck. My mom’s come home. She’s singing love songs in her bedroom.

  I lean towards Tom. My eyeballs hurt I’m so stressed out about Emmie. He wraps his arms around my waist, lets his hands dangle, stares at me. It’s dark out, but not too dark.

  “Commie?”

  I bend my back so I can get my face far enough away from him so I can actually see him.

  I try to remember how to talk.

  “Commie?”

  Something is wrong. My hand shakes.

  His mouth makes a word. I can’t tell what it is and then I am gone.

  We are sitting on the driveway. Tom’s legs stick out straight. He’s holding me sideways against him. My body aches. Oh God …

  Pine needles crinkle beneath my legs. I should have swept the driveway.

  “Belle?” he whispers. “Honey, you okay?”

  He called me honey.

  I nod. I do not speak. I’m trying to remember how.

  He pulls me closer to him, hugging me. He rocks me there for a second. I can hear my mom’s voice singing in the bedroom.

  “I plead you. I read you. I feed you, I feed you,” she sings. It’s a country duet song. It’s suppose to just go “I need you” over and over again.

  I swallow. “Did I … ?”

  “Yeah,” he says as I pull away, try to sit up by myself.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “What?”

  I start crying, not sobs, just tears. “I’m sorry I had a thing.”

  “A seizure?”

  I nod.

  “Belle, I don’t care. I don’t care if you did. I just want you to be okay,” he says. He takes my face in his hands. “Is that what you’ve been freaking about? Is it because you’ve been having seizures?”

/>   “Just one, the other day, ” I whisper. A truck rumbles down the road. “It’s Eddie.”

  “Great.” Tom swears. Eddie pulls into his driveway, sees us all lit up from the light of Tom’s open truck door. “He’s coming over.”

  Eddie doesn’t even shut his door, just runs across the street, right up to us. He is monster huge, standing over us, and then he crouches. “Belle? You okay?”

  I nod.

  He turns to Tom. “Did she have another seizure?”

  Tom stiffens. He doesn’t address Eddie. He says his words to me. “He knows?”

  “I … ” Oh, it’s so hard to talk.

  “She had one Friday. I saw her on the road and she fell off her bike. I gave her a ride home,” Eddie says. “God, Belle. Are you okay? You want help up?”

  He starts to reach out towards me.

  “Don’t touch her,” Tom snaps. “Don’t put one freaking finger on her or I’ll kill you.”

  Eddie’s hand stops and hovers in mid-air.

  “Jesus, Tom. Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” I manage, struggling away from him. Everything is so hazy, confused. I put my hands on my head.

  “She’s stressed,” Eddie says. “I think she’s having seizures because she’s stressed.”

  “She has seizures because she’s had caffeine or aspartame,” Tom says as I struggle to stand up.

  “But all those seizures she had before have made her more prone to seizures now,” Eddie says. “That’s how it happens sometimes, and stress makes it more likely.”

  “Right. Like you’re an expert,” Tom says, sounding like he’s eight.

  “Guys. I’m right here,” I say, wobbling in between them. They are both tense and rigid, like goats ready to fight, to slash their horns into each other’s chests. Eddie’s all dressed up like he’s been at church. I only just notice this. “I’m going inside.”

  Eddie nods, turns, leaves.

  “I’ll walk you in,” Tom says.

  “No. If you walk me in my mom will know something is up and I am not telling her.”

  “Belle … ” Tom glares at me.

  “I mean it,” I say. “She’s all excited about her vacation. If I tell her she’ll stay home.”

  I grab for Tom’s hand, miss, then really get it. “I’m not going to let this ruin her time, okay? She gets back, then I’ll tell her. There’s enough stuff everybody has to deal with right now, okay?”

  He stares hard at me. “Okay.”

  Once I’m in my bedroom, I go to the window, lean against it. Tom’s truck backs out of the driveway, super slowly. Eddie goes and shuts his truck’s door. He turns around, stares up at the house and sees me at the bedroom window. He waves. I give him the thumbs-up sign to show him that everything is okay. But everything is not okay. Emmie is pregnant.

  I stumble into my bed, stroke Muffin’s back and try to figure out everything, but I can’t. I can’t figure it out at all.

  I call Em’s cell.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Her voice is tired. “Hi.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  Muffin squirms on top of my lap, above the sheets. She starts kneading them, trying to make a nest.

  “You okay?” I say.

  She sniffs in. “Yep.”

  “I love you.”

  Silence.

  Muffin repositions herself, turning in circles until she finds the perfect place. The room is so dark. I can’t see anything, just have to go by sound and feel.

  “Em?”

  “I love you, too.”

  I finally fall asleep and later in the middle of the night my mom’s voice startles me back awake.

  “Jim!” she yells. “Help me! Jim!”

  I stumble into her bedroom. She thrashes and turns in her sleep. Muffin skitters down the hall, like this is too much for her kitty nerves to handle. I know how she feels.

  “Mom,” I whisper. “It’s okay. You’re having a bad dream.”

  I place my hand on the top of her head and soothe her. She sits up straight like she’s possessed and stares at me with big, frightened, still pretty much asleep eyes.

  “Belle?”

  “You’re dreaming, Mom. It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m right here.”

  She flops back down on her bed and covers her face with her hands, which shake.

  “I was having a nightmare,” she says, all sleep-voiced.

  “Mm-hmmm. It was just a dream.” I tell her the same thing she’s told me a million times.

  She grabs my wrist gently in her hand. “Thanks for taking care of me, sweetie. I’m okay, now. You go back to bed.”

  She gives my hand a little squeeze and lets go.

  I turn through her dark room and she says, “Can you put up the shade for me? Let a little starlight in.”

  I trudge over to the window because all my adrenaline is gone and I’m back in sleep zombie mode. I give the shade a little tug. It doesn’t move. Normally it flips up. I try another little tug.

  “Stuck?” my mom asks.

  I don’t answer. Something burns in my throat. This stupid shade. I tug again a little harder and it pops right off the roller things that hold it up and slams down onto my foot.

  “Crap,” I say. “I broke it.”

  “We’ll fix it in the morning, honey,” my mom says, all sleepy again and calm. “At least now the starlight is coming in.”

  “It’s moonlight,” I grump and trudge out of the room.

  “I love you,” she murmurs.

  “Yep.”

  I bury myself in my covers.

  She was calling for help from Jim. Jim. Like he’s her hero. What kind of hero name is Jim? And that’s not his job. It’s my dad’s. He’s supposed to be her hero. It’s his name she’s supposed to yell when she has a nightmare.

  There are roles for people, places they are supposed to be.

  My jocky boyfriend = Tom

  My unpregnant best friend = Emmie

  My best friend’s boyfriend = Shawn

  My gay ex-boyfriend = Dylan

  His annoying boyfriend = Bob

  My arch enemy = Mimi

  My mother = Mom

  My mother’s hero man in nightmare times ≠ Jim

  My childhood friend/difficult neighbor with aggression

  issues = Eddie

  My father =

  I can’t sleep. I pick up Gabriel and start to strum this old Van Morrison song about being a motherless child, only in my head it’s fatherless, too. And maybe it is motherless, because who the hell is my mother if she’s yelling out the name of a newspaper reporter in her sleep?

  He collects horror movies. God.

  I’m fooling myself. It’s not about Jim, or my mom moving on. I switch off my lamp.

  I look out the window. Eddie’s truck is gone again. I stare at the trees, green, leafy, full of life. Somewhere out there in the Eastbrook night people’s lives are changing. Someone is being saved at Maine Coast Memorial Hospital. Someone is being beaten up in their house. Someone is crying alone in their bedroom, hiding their sobs into a pillow. Someone else is snoring away thinking that everything is okay, but tomorrow—tomorrow their world will be ripped apart by news they have no control over.

  They’ve made a life.

  A life.

  I yank open the window, pop out the screen and slide it in. It’s still too early for black flies, so this is okay. I sit on the sill, dangle my feet out and look into the oak tree branches. The leaves are hiding the world from me, but I know the world is there, right past those leaves. It stretches on and on.

  Pretty soon Em won’t be Em any more. She’ll be the pregnant teenager, the unwed mother. Maybe Dr. Mahoney will del
iver her baby. Maybe Tom’s mom will offer her advice, buy her some onesies, or a card. Maybe people will look at her differently, I don’t know.

  Maybe they’ll say, “There’s that sweet, Emily girl.”

  They’ll say, “… her dad died of cancer. Shawn Young got her pregnant, did you know? She’s decided to keep the baby.”

  They’ll say, “One fool mistake and her life’s ruined.”

  It doesn’t have to be ruined and sex itself is not a mistake.

  I swing my legs into the blackness. If I jumped, I wonder if I’d land easy on the grass, or if the fall is too much. I wonder if I’d hit limbs on my way down, if anything would try to catch me. I wonder if anyone will try to catch Emmie, anyone other than me, and I wonder if I’m strong enough to break her fall.

  Eddie’s truck storms up the road. I listen to the bass beats of the music playing too loud. The engine shuts off. The seat belt unbuckles and the car beeps warnings. Then the door opens. I can’t see it through the trees, but I can hear it.

  “I’m home!” yells Eddie’s dad. His words smoosh together with booze. “I’m freaking home, you assholes! What kind of shit have you been up to?”

  He slams the door shut.

  “Hello!?! I’m home.”

  The house door opens. Eddie’s voice urgent-whispers through the dark, “Dad, keep it down. You’ll wake everyone up.”

  “Jesus Christ. Don’t you go telling me what to do.”

  “Dad … ”

  “No goddamn son of mine—”

  There’s this noise. I don’t know what it is and Eddie gasps.

  I suck in my breath. I pull myself out of the window, rush through the house and out the door before I can think. In two seconds I’m across the street. Eddie’s standing in his driveway, alone. He’s hunched over like he’s going to throw up.

  I stand on the edge of his driveway, whisper his name. “Eddie?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “You want me to call the police, Eddie?”

  He moves slowly, lifting up his body and then his head. He stares at me like he doesn’t recognize me.