Full of Grace (23 page)

“As long as you’re living, you have a chance to change things,” I offer, but I know that it hasn’t even been true with my own father.  Sher just frowns.

“Let me tell you what’s worse.  What ‘living’ doesn’t change.  My father raped my mom when I was two.  He beat her, and he raped her, and then he tried to get me.  When he ripped off my diaper, my mom beat him with a baseball bat, until he was unconscious.  I was covered in his blood when the police came.  She almost went to jail for it.  I was stuck in the system until she was cleared and got me back. 

“And my father, he was in and out of jail in less than six months.  He got out for
good behavior
.  Six months for raping my mother and trying to rape me.  They said the jails were overpopulated.  He got lucky.”

Sher draws a shaky breath.

“But the week he got out, he raped someone else.  A judge’s daughter.  He got life without parole for that.  He was in prison for ten years when he escaped.  They’ve never found him.  We’ve always had to watch our backs, and try to stay hidden, in case he shows up.”

Sher folds up her whole body at the head of my bed, shaking so hard that I feel it through the mattress.

“I shouldn’t have burned the results.” I say as I reach out and rub her leg, up and down the calf.  She’s all folded up and it’s the only comforting thing I can do.  “We can get a copy from the doctor.  We’ll find out on Monday.”

Sher nods, right before she jumps off the bed and runs into the bathroom.  Her vomiting sounds more like screaming to me.

***

I make her warm milk, which she refuses.  She doesn’t cry this time, but she throws up, or tries to, three more times before the heaving exhausts her.  I rub her back and kiss her shoulders.  I put on music and we lie there until she passes out.

I slip out of bed and get my paper and pen.  I am sick from everything she told me and I can’t sleep.  Instead, I begin another letter.

Dear Baby,

Sometimes, what seems unfair is the thing that is most just.  It seems like some answers are so simple, so black and white, until you face the fact that life has details.

People say we can not play God, but don’t we play God by making our choices every day?  To choose to have sex, to choose to bring a child into a world full of grief, is a choice.  Would God always choose that?  Are only the ‘yes’ choices the ones God would make?  If God is only for life and only for living, why do animals attack and kill one another for food?  The animal that is killed for food feels pain.  So which is God’s choice?  The killing or the feeding?  If it is fair to kill in order to sustain, isn’t it fair to kill in order to avoid a life of grief?  Some people say yes.  And some say no. 

I don’t believe that God is a man with a clip board, administering a test and checking off the moments we pass or fail.  It doesn’t seem right, especially when God is the master at details.  And if God looks at the whole picture, shouldn’t I?  Is making the choice for or against abortion actually part of his grand plan?

Life isn’t fair. But neither is death and being subjected to either is cruel. 

Anyone who thinks that making choices is a simple thing—is a damn fool.

I slog through the junk in the closet and tuck the letter into the folder on the top shelf.  I replace the shoe box on top and stumble out.  Sher’s eyes are open.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting my shoes away,” I whisper.

“Really?” She grins weakly.  Even the slight smile, instead of the tears, begins to dissolve the rock in the bottom of my stomach.  “You’re actually putting something away?  This is a big moment for you.”

“It is,” I tell her, wanting to bring her back to full-giggle.  “I was thinking of color-swatching my clothes so I can organize them, you know…correctly.”

That gets it.  A tiny giggle bubbles up to the surface and it is like aloe on my fried nerves as I climb into bed beside her.

TWENTY THREE

Monday.

I hit the snooze five times.  I consider skipping my shower, skipping my breakfast, and skipping anything else I can, in order to stonewall Monday.  As long as we are in bed, Sunday still lingers and Monday isn’t happening.

It’s like hiding under the sheets from the monsters in the closet.  There’s a fifty-fifty chance the monsters are coming for us today.

When I finally swing my legs over the side of the bed, it’s not that I am ready to face the day.  It’s that Sher needs this from me.  One of us has to be calm and I don’t expect it to be her.  As I’m thinking it over, I feel her cool hand on my back.  Splayed near my spine, I feel the coolness of her touch spreading through me.  Maybe she is the one who will hold it together today.

“You’re going to be late for work,” she says.

“I’m not going.”

“Listen,” the mattress dips behind me as she scoots up to sit.  “About that.  I hope you don’t mind.  I think I have to do this by myself today.”

“No, I’m going with you,” I tell her, twisting so I can look her in the face.  She was scared to do it alone yesterday and I’m not going to make her do it alone today.  I wish more than anything that I hadn’t burnt the results.  Her eyes are swollen, her make-up in smeared all over, she doesn’t look like a girl.  She looks like a glop of misery, with one tiny limb reaching out to my back.

“I want you to go to work,” she says.  “I will let you know when I come home, but I might get back late, okay?”

Late.  I know what she means.  She is planning on going to the clinic if the results say Trent is the dad.  I can’t okay it and I can’t deny her.  I can’t play God either way.  She’s got to go this one on her own and knowing it, things fall inside me- my spirit, my soul, my mood—and I can’t catch any of it in time.  Monday has shattered me in ways I don’t know how to fix.

“Then come back as soon as you know,” I tell her, as I stand up from the edge of the mattress.  “I’ll wait here.”

“No,” she says.  Her tone is sturdy.  “Go to work.  You don’t need to think about this all day.”

“How am I going to think of anything else?”

“Go to work, Landon,” she repeats.  She resurrects another weak grin, but there is no reassuring giggle.  “It’ll be okay.  I promise.”

We both know it could be the biggest lie we’ve ever hoped to come true.

***

I am right.  Work is a disaster.  I can’t think of anything but Sher.  It’s disturbingly easy to picture her opening the envelope and seeing Trent’s name instead of mine.  I do absolutely nothing all morning long, even when my boss asks for a rush update on a client’s project.

“What the matter with you, Grace?” he asks.  Instead of his usual, lean-in from the door, he walks to my desk and stands there with one hand in his pocket and one wrapped around his coffee mug.  “You’re not with it at all.  I keep telling you, you’ve got to delegate some of these projects.”

“I’m just catching up,” I say.  I’m not going to go into all of it with him.  He doesn’t need to hear me explain the messy web of my personal life.  Not this guy, who generally shares three sips of coffee with me while standing in my doorway, asking for updates.  Our bonding consists of quick-fire problem solving, and high-fives over finished projects.  His name is Ted.  I don’t know if that stands for Theodore or if it’s just Ted.  It doesn’t really matter.  He’s my boss. 

I splash a sip of coffee down my throat and tap my temple as I grin.  “Just a temporary glitch in the mental software, Ted.  Nothing to worry about.  What’s the hottest thing that we’ve got to get out today?”

He rattles off something.  Who the hell knows what.  A client’s name, I think.  Five or six words that identify the project.  I nod, numb.  The second he’s gone, I ring my co-worker down the hall, Mike, who’s been scrambling to climb onto my rung of the ladder for months.  I repeat the client’s name, the project description, and delegate the day’s work to Mike.  Thank God.  I hang up and glance at the clock.  Eleven in the morning and I’ve completely cleared my desk.  I’ve got my entire day open for worrying.  I slip my cell phone from my pocket for the fiftieth time.  Still no messages.

I call Sher.  The phone rings and goes to her voice mail.  I listen to her whole bouncy message that goes on too long because she can’t stop giggling.  I hang up without leaving any message and call right back.  If she answers and yells at me for bugging her, I’ll tell her the call dropped and I had to call right back.

But it goes to voice mail.  I listen to the whole message without skipping ahead this time.  When it beeps, I say, “It’s just me, Sher.  I wanted to see how things are going.  I…uh…I…I’ll see you in a little bit, I guess.”

It wouldn’t be fair to say everything I want…that I think I’m falling in love with her too.  She’d probably think I was holding her hostage emotionally.  Maybe I want to.

Another hour goes by without any call and when lunch comes, I grab my keys.

***

I make it home in record time.  As I climb the steps, John, from next door, is walking down.  He raises his nose and sniffs the air.

“Sher’s not cooking today?” he asks and he glances at his watch.  “It’s noon?  Oh, that’s why.  You’re home early.  We don’t usually start smelling dinner until three or four.”

“Maybe later,” I say, jogging up past him. The truth is, I don’t know if there will ever be anymore dinner smells wafting down the stairs.  I don’t know if Sher will come back, or if she does, if she’ll even stay.

I get my key in the door fast, so I don’t have to talk to any more neighbors.  Inside, the apartment is silent.  It just smells clean.  Her shoes are missing.

I dump my keys on the table and grip the back of a dining room chair.  I lower my head and close my eyes.  The feeling of her being gone is the only thing that crawls up my arms.  The idea of coming home to this all the time—to rooms that don’t have her giggle in them, to everything exactly where I left it, and the smell of…nothing…in the air—it’s going to hurt.  I know it already and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I can’t chase her down and I can’t make her come back.

Something thumps the kitchen wall.  I lift my head.  It didn’t come from the kitchen.  It came from what’s on the other side of the wall.  My bedroom.

The possibilities race through my head.  What if Sher’s here, packing her bags?  Or if Trent’s here, making love to her?  If Trent’s here, giving her trouble.  Or if something just fell from the massive heap of crap in my closet.  That’s most likely, but I move fast for the bedroom door, almost hoping it’s Trent, so I can beat the Bull-Ring out of his nose, just to get some of this anxiety out.

There’s no one in my bed.  I let the air rush out of my lungs.  The bed is made, the dresser drawers are closed.  Everything is in its place, except one thing.

The closet door is ajar and there is a small pile of my stuff heaped outside. I step closer and that’s when I hear it.  It is a muffled sound, a sniffle.  I lay my fingertips on the door and push it open the rest of the way.

Sher is sitting, cross legged on the floor, junk and shoes and papers spread all around her.  The shelves are clean and it takes me a minute to recognize my folder.  She found my letters to the baby.  Sher glances up, one letter in her hand and her eyes streaming.  She smiles at me.

“Are you okay?” I ask softly, kneeling down beside her.

“No,” she gives me the saddest sniffle-giggle I’ve ever heard.  She holds up some of my letters.  “I’ve been reading.”

“I see that.”

“I went to the clinic too.”

“You did?”  I ask.  My guts are knotted as I glance at her wrists, looking for a plastic surgery band.  Nothing.  She couldn’t have gotten an appointment and done it so fast.  Couldn’t have.

She reaches behind her and pulls a tissue from a box.  There’s quite a load of them crumpled up behind her.  From the size of the heap, she’s been in here a while.

“I went and got the results.  And I wasn’t sure what to do,” she blows her nose.  My heart sinks.  “The only place that I wanted to come back to…to hide…was with you.  I don’t know what to do.  Where am I going to go, Landon?  This is the only place where you are.”

She reaches over and picks up a long, brown manila envelope from the floor.  A twin of the first, her name is written on the front.  The envelope shakes in her grasp.  “I got copies of the results.”

“It’s not my baby, is it,” I whisper, the knot in my gut migrating into my throat.  She begins to sob as I take the envelope from her.

“I don’t know.  I couldn’t open it,” she cries.  My heartbeat bounces against my ribs. “I was going to read it by myself, but I’m scared.  I don’t want it to be Trent’s baby.  I want it to be yours.  I didn’t answer you when you called, because I couldn’t open the envelope.  I thought I’d clean out your closet to try and calm down first, but then I found your letters…” She breaks down, bawling.  I scoot closer, sitting beside her and wrapping my arm around her shoulders.  “It’s not fair to you, I know it…but I can’t read it all by myself.”

“You don’t have to,” I tell her, squatting down beside her.  “We don’t have to read them at all, Sher. I don’t want any answer that’s going to make you leave.  We can just burn these in the sink, just like the other ones, and no one ever has to know anything.”

“No.” She shakes her head.  “I have to know.  And so do you.”  She rubs her face, hard, with the heels of her palms.  “Just do it, okay?  I’ve been sick all morning about it.  Please.  Open it.”

I nod.  My whole life is ripped in two the moment I slide my thumb under the flap.  There is right now, and two seconds from now, when we have our answer.

We. 
Let it be
we,
I think to myself as I slide out the papers.

I scan the legalese to the 99.9% accuracy line.

I read it three times, silently, in my head.