Unexpected Setback

They say that pregnancy lasts nine months. The reality is that it lasts forever, and doesn’t last long enough. It seems like there’s this little alien being who has hijacked your body, and ruthlessly wrecks the place, week after week after week, with no regard at all for the original inhabitant, yet forty weeks is nowhere near enough time for a twenty year old to prepare herself for becoming a parent.

I saved up money. Squirreled it away in an envelope, inside a book, hidden in the space between the tops of the kitchen cabinets and the ceiling of the single-wide trailer we always seemed on the verge of losing. See, the boyfriend, Eric, was an addict. He wasn’t addicted to any one particular thing, though. It was almost like he was just addicted to… being addicted. He did have his favorites, though. First, he was the only person I think I’ve ever known who was actually capable of being addicted to weed. He smoked like a freight train, most days. It was wake-and-bake, every morning, then roll a couple of joints for the workday, then smoke a blunt or a bowl or three every evening. He regularly puffed his way through a half-ounce in less than a week.

Then, there was the gambling, which seemed to always be a presence. Sweepstakes machines, video poker machines, pool, and “friendly” poker games were his siren song. It was not uncommon for bill money to mysteriously go “missing,” the day before the bill was due. My family was already getting tired of bailing me out, and I was getting to the point where I was ashamed to ask for help, anymore.

So, I hid my money.

I was working at a newspaper, doing the graphics for the business ads. It was mindless, boring work, for just a little over minimum wage, but everyone seemed to think it was somehow the best job I’d ever had. Aside from having insurance (which cost about 20% of my pay), it was anything but. I was low man on the totem pole, and had discovered I was pregnant within my first month on the job, so I was a pariah. I brought my lunch, most days, and ate it alone in the bathroom, or in my car, to avoid the passive aggressive barbs or outright insults hurled by my co-workers.

But I was saving a little money. And I had some, already hidden, that I’d withdrawn from my bank account, after I learned that Eric had figured out my PIN.

Then I got sick. Just a sinus infection, at first, but it became pneumonia, seemingly overnight. My doctor hospitalized me, and took me out of work, shortly after my release. He’d decided my workplace was unhealthy, when I didn’t get any better.

By then, I had managed to fill my envelope with almost three thousand dollars. I figured I could trade in my two-seater for a more kid-friendly car, and still have enough money for a crib, and a stroller, and a car-seat. I knew better than to expect anyone in my family to throw a baby shower for the black sheep.

I was eight months pregnant. It was January, and freezing cold. My sister had come up for a visit, and we were supposed to go out to shoot pool with Eric. Then, she and I were planning a trip to Asheville, to shop for baby things. I climbed up from a stepladder, to the counter-top, and pulled down the book. Pulled out the envelope.

It was empty. All of the money I’d saved was gone. And there was only one possible culprit. So, little sister and I went looking for him. He wasn’t at the pool hall, where we were supposed to meet. A friend of his told us he’d gone to Mike’s house, for the poker game. Heart in my throat, stomach in knots, I herded my sister back into the little Datsun 280z, and sped out of town, tires lifting off the pavement on some of the hilly back roads. I pulled into Mike’s driveway, flashing my headlights and honking my horn. I’d managed to work myself into a fury, on the drive, and fairly flew out the driver’s side door, yelling for him, before the car had even come to a complete stop. There was still dust in the air, from the gravel drive, when I climbed onto the porch, and waddled my pregnant self through the kitchen door, the stereotype of a trashy pregnant girl in a redneck soap opera.

How much is left? I demanded.

His friend, rising from his chair, held up a hand. Wait just a minute, now…

HOW MUCH?  I yelled.

He’d lost almost all of it. There was a little under two hundred fifty dollars left. Out of three thousand. I was less than four weeks from my due date. I felt like throwing up.

Instead, I turned and walked out the door. A part of me wishes I’d just kept going. I didn’t, though. I waited, pacing like a nervous cat in the driveway, for him to make his excuses and come out. There was an argument. There were shouts and arm-waving, but I don’t remember the words, except one. He called me the c-word. At that point in my life, that was the most insulting thing I could imagine. My hand was caught in the sleeve of my sweater, and it connected with his jaw before I even knew I was swinging. For a moment, we just stood there, both of us stunned, jaws and eyes wide open, as a thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

When I spoke, my voice was flat, cold, toneless.

Get in the car, or you will never see me, or our baby, again.

He argued that there was no seat for him. Jaw clenched, eyebrow raised, I pointed to the hatch.

I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna…

I cut him off, and told him he would, or we’d be gone. I shouldn’t have given him the chance.

He folded himself into the hatch. I drove us home. Nobody spoke a word, the entire ride.