Pregnant Pause

  "Hey, Banner. It's okay. Everything is okay. What's going on?" By now I've caught up to where she is, and I struggle, and I mean struggle, to get myself down on the ground so I can put my arm around her and show her she's not in any trouble.

  Banner really starts sobbing when I do that, but it's this funny sob because she's trying to be quiet and she's all torn up at the same time. Her whole body shakes with her sobs and she falls against me, and I grab hold of her and hug her even though her elbow is pressing into my thigh because of the awkward way we are both sitting. I'm super uncomfortable. "Come on," I say. "Help me up, and we'll go down to the counselors' break hut and talk."

  When we get to the hut, we sit on the couch and Banner starts crying all over again, only louder now that we're inside and alone. I've set the loaves of bread on the coffee table.

  I ask her about the bread and where she got it, and she tells me that she got it from the kitchen. She admits to me that she sneaks out every night and takes two loaves and eats them at night and during the day.

  "I can't help it," she says. "I'm so hungry all the time. And I know the whole cabin hates me because I'm not losing any weight, and my parents are going to hate me even more than they already do because I'm so fat."

  I think of the Hollywood-type parents of hers. I brush the hair out of Banner's face and look into her eyes. She's serious. She believes her parents are going to hate her because she's fat. "Banner, they won't hate you," I say. "You know they love you. They don't really care how much you weigh. I'm sure they just want you to be healthy."

  "No, they don't. Why do you think I'm here? My parents put me here. They think I'm ugly—fat and ugly." Banner sits up and wipes her eyes. "My mom works for Vogue magazine, and my dad's a publicist. It's all about looks and image. That's what my mom says. She says, 'You can't get anywhere in this world without looks and image. You'll always be at a disadvantage if you're fat. People will hate you if you're fat.'"

  "But that's not true. Only dumb, ignorant people would hate you for how much you weigh. Only unimportant people."

  "Well, my parents are very important, and they hate me." Banner takes my hand and examines my wedding ring. It's just a silver band, nothing special, but she's looking at it like it's smothered in diamonds. "My father says no one would ever marry me if I'm fat."

  "What? That's so stupid. My great-great-grandmother is huge, and she's been married four times! And never from divorce. They all died before her. She's ninety-nine years old, so there."

  "I don't want to go home. Camp is almost over. I want to stay here. I can't go home. I can't. It's even worse there than it is here. I want to stay here. I want to live in one of the cabins all by myself. Then we can be neighbors."

  "But you know you can't do that, right? Nobody's here in the winter."

  "You'll be here," she says, and she strokes my arm. "I could live with you and take care of the baby."

  "Look, Banner, I don't think I'm going to stick it out here after the baby's born. Anyway, your parents wouldn't let you stay here. There's no cook here in the winter—there's nobody here. And despite what you believe, your parents would miss you too much."

  "Nobody would miss me. Nobody. My parents are divorced," Banner says, letting go of my hand and leaning her head on my shoulder. "They argue over who's going to have to take me for the weekend. I told them I wouldn't go to this camp unless they both took me. Big mistake; they totally ignored me and fought all the way here. Neither one of them wants me. They're too busy. The only time they talk to me is if they have something to say about my weight."

  "Well, okay, that sucks. You've got everyone picking on you."

  Banner nods, and fresh tears roll down her face.

  "Hey, now. So what? Don't just curl up and let everybody kick you around. Fight back, Banner. You know? Screw 'em. You'll show them."

  "I will?" She peers up at me with this trusting look in her eyes that breaks my heart.

  "Sure you will. Anyone ever gives me a hard time or tells me I can't do something or whatever, I just say, screw 'em, and then I show 'em. I just show 'em good."

  "Yeah, show 'em good." Banner nods and stares down at her lap.

  I look at the bread on the table, and I ask Banner how she ever managed to sneak past me every night. "I'm a light sleeper, and I'm always getting up to pee."

  "Yeah, I know. I wait until you're almost to the latrines, and I sneak out. Then I wait until your next trip and I sneak back in. Only tonight you were in your cabin, so I wasn't sure where you were, and then I thought I saw a bear or a moose, and I got scared and had to go a different way, so you caught me on the way back this time."

  I laugh at this, and Banner kind of laughs, and then we get to talking about bread and we each have a slice, and then Banner has several more. I watch her eat, and she looks so hungry, but I don't think it's for bread.

  After our talk, and after I promise not to tell on her, we decide it's time to go back. I watch her go into her cabin, then I return to mine. I climb into bed, careful not to wake Lam, and for a few minutes I lie there thinking about Banner. I'm glad that I could make her smile and that she knows I'm her friend. It feels good to help somebody like that, really good.

  Soon I'm asleep again, and I dream about Banner's parents. They're ten feet tall and beautiful and all powdery and they say dahling all the time and they have diamond-studded cell phones. Banner's in the dream, too, dressed like Cinderella covered in soot, only she's wearing my orange maternity dress, and she follows behind her parents with a broom and sweeps up all the clouds of powder that falls from their faces.

  In the morning I get up to go pee and I think, Today's the day. This is the day I meet my baby and see Sarah and maybe my parents. This is the big day. I feel so—so aware, so different somehow. I hear myself on the way to the latrines saying hi to the kids I pass, and I call out, "Tie your shoe, Janet," and I'm so paying attention to what I'm saying, as though I'm watching myself on television, or like this is an out-of-body experience. I like hearing myself say "Tie your shoe, Janet," because it's what I say every time I see her, and I think, This is me. This is my life, with these campers, going to the bathroom, saying hi, hugging a camper good morning, telling Janet to tie her shoe. This is my life, and it's wicked cool.

  I notice everything I do and say, and everything feels so important, so wonderful and important. I feel so awake. I feel such a part of everything—of the whole world. I'm marveling at this as I make my way back to my cabin, and I think all these campers are beautiful and wonderful, and this day is just going to be perfect. I start to sing "Everything's Coming Up Roses," a song my mom and I used to like to sing together. I see a necklace hanging on our door latch. I'm still singing while I examine it. It's one of the ones some of the campers made in crafts out of clay. All it is is this piece of clay that you press your thumb into to make like an oval shape, and you pull it some at the top and form a little loop for the piece of rawhide to slip through and then you draw some kind of small design on the thumb print, or a symbol or a word, using a pin, and then you leave it to dry. It's the first craft I actually could do. I lift the necklace off the handle and notice the heart on the front. Lots of campers drew hearts. I turn it over and I see the initials B.S. I stop singing. It's Banner's necklace. She wants me to have it as a thank-you for last night. I slip it over my head and smile to myself and go back inside to get dressed. Lam is still sleeping, so I try to be quiet. I think about Banner and our conversation, and I feel the necklace hit my chest every time I lean forward and stand back up. Then something comes over me. I'm scared all of a sudden. I hear Banner's voice from last night saying, "Nobody will miss me," and I see the necklace hanging from my neck, and a chill runs up my back. I hurry into my sandals, go back outside, and make my way up to cabin seven.

  I step inside, and all the kids are busy with their cleanup duty. They're making their beds and cleaning the sinks in the back of the cabin, tidying up the closets, sweeping the floor, col lecting clothes and books
and junk and putting them away. It's all the normal morning stuff, and this reassures me. Everything's okay. Everything's normal. I look around for Banner, but I don't see her. The counselor's in the back with the girls doing sink duty, so I just call out, "Banner?"

  There's no answer. "Anybody seen Banner?" I ask. I wait and get no response. "Anybody seen Banner this morning?" I call out again.

  "I heard her get up around four to go to the bathroom," her bunkmate says. "I'm not sure she ever came back."

  I look at her bed, still unmade. It looks so empty. "Thanks," I say. "I'm worried about her. I'm going to go look for her."

  The counselor, Haley, hears me and turns around. "Everything okay?"

  "I don't know," I say. "I'm worried about Banner. She was really upset last night, and she's missing. I've got to go look for her. Tell the Lothrops, would you?"

  "Yeah, sure. I knew somebody was missing," Haley says.

  I hurry to the latrines, but she's not there. I check the kitchen, but she's not there, either. Then I decide to go to the counselors' hut, thinking maybe she went back to get the bread and just fell asleep. When I get there, the bread is still on the table, but she's not asleep on the couch.

  Where could she be? Did she run away? Did she give me this necklace as a going-away present?

  I step out of the hut and look about. Could she have taken off into the woods? I hear all the campers cleaning and talking in the cabins, and occasionally a counselor calls out some kind of order or reminder for the day. It's all happy noise, and it's comforting, and I try to get into my earlier mood. I look toward the lake. Someone's left a raft out. Probably Lam, or maybe Banner took it out and left it. I head down to the lake, remembering how much Banner likes to swim. Maybe she just went for a swim and now she's in the bathroom down there. Don't they say the simplest explanation for something is the most likely? I make my way down the steep path through the pines, and I notice that the air smells sweet. It's still cool like it is most mornings and evenings, but since I'm pregnant I like the coolness. I don't even need a sweater or a jacket the way I usually would if I weren't pregnant. I think for a second how the next time I climb down to the lake, my stomach will be flatter and I'll have had a baby. Me, a baby. I wrap my arms around my belly.

  I come out into the clearing, and I stare out at the lake. The thing I thought was a raft now looks more like a shirt. Another chill runs up my spine, all the way to the top of my head. It's a Camp WeightAway shirt, and it looks all puffed out—bloated, almost as if...

  I hurry now to the far end of the lake, near the boys' camp. "Banner!" I call to her, because now I'm sure that's who it is. "Banner! Please, no. Banner!" I hold my baby from underneath my protruding belly and I run. "Help, somebody!" I call out. "Somebody help me!" I keep running, and as I get closer I can see the hair, all that beautiful hair fanning out around her head.

  "Eleanor?" I hear somebody call, and I look up. It's Leo. I wave, then point at Banner. "It's Banner," I say. "Help! I think she's..." I can't say it, but I don't have to. In a flash Leo's in the water, swimming out to her, and other counselors and campers are coming out of their cabins to see what's going on. One of the counselors thinks to go ring the big bell, and suddenly people are streaming out from every direction.

  Leo reaches Banner, and he rolls her over onto her back while someone from shore tosses him one of those orange rescue tubes. I'm standing on the edge of the lake watching and crying and feeling hysterical. I can't believe what I'm seeing. I keep saying no, and I can't shut up. "No! Banner, no! No! Please, no. Come on. You're all right. Please, you're all right." I'm slobbering all over myself with my tears and snot, and Leo's got his arm across Banner's chest and he's pulling her in while other counselors are diving in and swimming out to them. People on my side of the lake join me, and I hear the FIL's voice behind me and he's calling out orders, and then Banner's on the shore and we can hear sirens, and everybody crowds in while Leo, Ziggy, and Jen take turns doing CPR and mouth-to-mouth. It's obvious by the colorless tone of her skin and her open stare that she's dead, but they keep trying because otherwise we'd all just be standing around staring at a dead body, waiting for the ambulance.

  The MIL is ordering the counselors to get their campers back into their cabins, and I realize I don't have campers I have to take back to a cabin. I don't have the excuse of leaving, but I can't take it. I can't stand looking at her. I don't know what to do. I want to leave, but I can't make myself move. I don't know where to go, back to my cabin to sit there by myself? No, I need to stay. Stay put. Stay still. Stop crying. I wipe my eyes. I've got to stay. I've got to see the ambulance come and hear the medics say it, that she's dead, because I can't believe it. It just doesn't make sense. She was smiling when I said good night to her. She wasn't that unhappy, was she? Everybody loved her dance, and she could do the splits. Why would she do this? I hugged her good night, and she was smiling. I had made her feel better. I had showed her I was her friend. How could she do this? I just can't believe it.

  A police car arrives with the ambulance, and then it's hustle-bustle while they get out all their life-support stuff and a stretcher or whatever it's called, and rush over to Banner and check her out, but they shake their heads, and I know it's hopeless; Banner is dead. Campers are crying, and little ones are screaming and want their mommies, and counselors are yelling for the kids to go back to their cabins, but nobody is listening. It's all so crazy and surreal, and I just have to get away. I have to get out of this place. I look around for Lam and find him leaning against the camp flagpole, chewing on his thumb. I scramble up to him, calling to him as I climb, but he doesn't hear me until I'm almost in his face.

  "Lam, I've gotta get out of here. It's almost time to go, anyway. Can you take me now? Please? I've got to go now!"

  Lam sees that I'm a wreck. I can't stop crying and I'm shaking all over. He puts his arm around me and guides me back down the hill toward the parking lot. Everybody's so busy watching the medics that nobody notices us slipping behind the ambulance and getting into Lam's car.

  "Get me out of here, Lam. Fast!"

  Lam backs out slowly, but as soon as he's clear of the ambulance and the other cars, he floors it, and the tires spit out rocks and dirt and we tear out of there, down the narrow dirt road leading out of the camp and onto the paved streets—away, away from that terrible, horrible scene.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I CAN'T STOP crying. Lam drives all over town, up one back road and down another, and we say nothing to each other. I cry and he drives.

  It's all my fault. I know it is. I review our talk in the break hut, and I remember how I told Banner to show 'em. I meant for her to get mad and get even, but I didn't say that, did I? No. I said show 'em. Well, she showed them all right—her way, not mine. I'm a murderer. I killed her. I cry harder, and Lam pats my leg and tells me it's okay.

  I scream at him. "No, it's not okay. It's never going to be okay. She's dead. She's dead and I—I..." I can't even bring myself to say it. I lean forward into my hands and cry harder.

  Lam pulls into the Bethel movie theater parking lot and stops the car. He reaches across me to the glove compartment, rifles through the junk he's got in there, and pulls out a joint. "Come on, you need to calm down," he says.

  I rock side to side and keep crying, and I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe. Lam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter and lights up. He takes a pull, then hands it to me.

  I stop crying and take the joint. My chest is still heaving. My face hurts. I've got snot running down my nose. I wipe my nose on my shirtsleeve and stare at the joint. I try to calm myself.

  "Go on, you need it," Lam says. "It can't hurt the baby now. It's coming out today, right?"

  I don't know what to do. It's tempting. It's so tempting. I try to clear my head and think. Would it be okay? Would the baby be okay? The nurse practitioner said not to have anything to eat or drink after midnight the night before the C-section. Would this count as eating?
Would I have to tell them that I smoked a joint? Would it make me throw up when they give me anesthesia? I bring the joint closer and remember the good old days when Lam and I used to get stoned. Wait. No. What am I thinking? It's crazy. I can't. I'm going to have a baby. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want my life to be about getting stoned anymore.

  There's a rap on Lam's window and I look over, and wouldn't you know it, it's the Bethel police.

  "Shit!" I say, flicking the joint on the floor.

  Lam swears, too, while the policeman motions for Lam to roll down his window.

  Lam rolls it down and the policeman steps back. "Very aromatic in there. Can I see your license?"

  Lam digs in his pocket, pulls out his wallet and gets his license, and hands it to him. The guy looks at it for two seconds. "Would you get out of the car, please?"

  "It's not what you think."

  "Get out of the car, please. Both of you."

  This cannot be happening. The very first time I've held a joint in months, and I get caught. And we know better than to park in an empty parking lot. Police always come check that out. We're so stupid.

  I climb out of the car and come around to where Lam and the policeman are standing. Lam is cradling the back of his head with his hands. I put my hands behind my head, too.

  "Oh, brother, would you look at this?" the policeman says when he sees I'm pregnant.

  "I didn't have any. I was holding it, but I didn't smoke it."

  "You can tell your story over at the station. Get in the car." He gets behind us and herds us toward the car. Lam gets in, but I stop. I'm crying again. I turn to the policeman.

  "I've been good to my baby. I've been so good and I'm scheduled to have a C-section this morning. I'm supposed to be at the hospital, and they said don't be late."

  "Yeah? Then what are you doing here? This is not the hospital parking lot."

  "A girl—A girl—I can't—and Banner's—Banner's..." Now I'm really crying, because it's like my whole life is flashing before my eyes. I see my parents' angry faces, and the juvenile detention center, and the judge, and me sniffing cocaine and dancing on a table, and the camp, and the MIL's angry face, and Kenya, and me with dysentery, and the orphans and their crying, and my crying, and the whole world crying.