Crazy Horse's Girlfriend (9781940430447) (16 page)

We waited in silence for the doctor. She came in with a nurse and they stitched the small wound in my leg up. It only needed two stitches. When she was finished, the nurse left and the doctor told my mother that I had to fill a few forms out and that hospital policy was I had to fill them out alone, as there were some confidential things that she had to ask me. My mom cocked her head at the doctor suspiciously.

“But she's a minor. And I'm her mother.”

The doctor smiled tiredly and said, “I know. Hospital policy.”

My mom sighed and pet my head, looked down at me, her dark eyes deep with concern. She left.

The doctor pulled one of those goofy looking pastel colored hospital chairs over and sat down by my bed. She smiled, her light brown eyes large, sweet. She had freckles all across her nose, and I thought about how young it made her look.

“I think you know why I asked your mother to leave.”

“Yeah. Is it… OK?”

“Yes. But you're sixteen. And I was sixteen too once and I remember how that felt. And I want you to know that you have options.”

I nodded. “I know. I've been meaning to make an appointment. To, well, to not have it.”

“I somehow thought so,” she said. She pat my hand reassuringly, and I noticed that she had freckles on her hands too.

“You're a good doctor,” I said, feeling sad. “I'm glad that I got you.”

“Me too Margaritte,” she said. “I like your name.”

“Thanks. It was my grandmother's.”

“You know, I'm Cuban. Are you Latina? That was my auntie's name.”

“No. I'm Indian. Dad's white though.”

“Oh, I see. Well, in any case, smart brown girls need their lives, their whole lives. Someone helped me back when I was a kid in Florida. A teacher. He gave me a copy of this,” she said, pulling the book that Mike had let me borrow out of my Salvation Army book bag. The corner of it had been peeking out the top. I looked at it and laughed and she laughed with me and she pulled a card out of the pocket of her lab coat. Handed it to me. Women's Clinic, it read. I held it. This card I would keep.

“I have a friend there, a good friend. Her name is Lisa. Tell her Cristina sent you. Not that they wouldn't treat you right even if you didn't. And if you need a ride, here's my card.” I took that too and looked up at her. “Thank you,” I said.

“Of course. Well, I'm going to sign you out and you can walk out that door. Well, wheel out the door. Here's a prescription for antibiotics. Make sure to pick them up, OK? That wound in your leg isn't too bad, but things like this can develop infections.”

“I will.”

“Bye, now.” She smiled and left. I got dressed.

I liked that lady and had slid her cards into my book bag after I'd gotten dressed, feeling cold, determined. I loved Mike, but I was not going to be trapped. But as determined as I felt, I felt strange too. As I was leaving I checked myself out in the mirror above the sink, the antiseptic smell of the soap drifting up. It was sharp. It smelled like something that cleaned death out of things. The whole hospital smelled like that, like that and alcohol. A clean, silver, cold smell. You could nearly taste its metal on your tongue. I slid my hands onto my stomach. I squinted, looking into my own dark, wide eyes and turned to the side. I pulled my hands off of my stomach and inhaled the smell of death. I walked out the door.

 

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7

 

I lay in my bed, turning the card that the doctor had given me over and over in my hands until it was crinkled and worn. Until it looked like I'd had it for forever, stuffed into the back of a wooden drawer somewhere. Mom and me had barely talked on the drive home from Saint Lutheran's, more out of exhaustion than anger, filling my prescription at the Safeway and getting home to Dad snoring lustily from their bedroom. I told Mom that I was going downstairs and she nodded silently, walking like a soldier at the end of a long, winter war to her bedroom and shutting her door with her head down. Jake was downstairs, sitting on my futon, his face in his brown-black hands. When he heard me he lifted his head up and out of them and we hugged. We talked for a while. Jake had wandered around that night, finally ending up at Megan's around 4:00 AM, though he told me he couldn't sleep at all for worrying about me. It showed. His eyes were red, bloodshot, like he'd been smoking weed for hours and hours. He told me that his parents knew that it hadn't been his fault. They knew how my dad was. My auntie was always telling my mom that she was praying for him. Jake asked me if I was OK and again, I thought about telling him about the baby, about what I was going to do about it. But something stopped me and I let Jake hug me and leave. I knew what I had to do first. I knew that I had to tell Mike before anyone. I picked up the phone and dialed his number, my heart hammering in my chest. His mother picked up and as usual, sounded extremely displeased to hear my voice. Mike picked up in his room.

“Hey.”

“Hey! How are you? I tried calling earlier but no one answered. I thought we were going to hang today? I was all set to come down the mountain and get high with my hardcore girlfriend.”

“I'm sorry, Mike. I got in an accident.”

I could hear Mike sitting up in bed, fast, his bedsprings jostling noisily. “Holy shit! What happened?”

“Well—”

“Hold on,” Mike said, irritation in his voice. And though he clearly attempted to muffle the phone with his hand I could hear every word.

“Mom, no. Mom, I'm on the phone. Mom, something just happened to my, uh, my friend, she got into an accident so can I just not come to dinner tonight? I'll eat leftovers. Mom, I don't know yet, for God's sake, I just got on the phone. Mom… really. Later.” I heard the door shut, hard. “I'm sorry. Go on.”

“Well, so remember we were all going to dinner last night?”

“Yeah. The family affair.”

“Right, so, my dad got rotten drunk, as usual and hit my mom while he was driving in a rainstorm and Jake tried to stop him and we ended up in a ditch. I had to spend the night in the hospital and Dad got a DUI but we're all OK.” I could hear Mike sighing deeply on the other end.

“I hate,
hate
that your father does this to you. And I hate that your mother won't leave him.”

“I know. I tried to talk about that with her in the hospital but she wasn't having it.”

Mike was silent for a while and then he said, “Something has to change.”

I took a deep breath and my stomach turned, hard. “The thing is, something has. Mike, what are you doing tomorrow? We should hang out.” I could hear breath on the other end. A heavy, pained silence.

“Are you—are you breaking up with me?”

I laughed. “No, no that's not it at all. It's just that we gotta talk.”

“Sure. Well, my parents will be gone all day tomorrow; they're off for another couple of days actually on another one of my father's business trips. So come up anytime you want.”

“Cool. Well, I'll have to sneak out, so, ten at night OK?”

“Sure. We'll have gin and tonics and talk about whatever your lovely little head wants to talk about.”

I laughed weakly. I knew he was going to freak the fuck out. That nothing would ever be the same between us. That all of this unexpected beauty was over.

“OK. Well, I'm gonna get some sleep. See you tomorrow.”

“OK. Night. Love you.”

“Love you too.” I said, and hung up.

After a day of staying in the basement as much as I could, I crawled out the window around 9:00 and drove up towards Mike's house, the twists and turns on 103 mirroring my insides; my head, gut. It was dark and I felt dark, ominous, like somehow all of this was my fault and I was about to spoil everything. I felt like a rotten, stupid thing.

I found myself at Mike's door about thirty minutes later, barely remembering the majority of my drive, my hand hovering over the knob and then floating down. I had been standing there for ten minutes, doing the same thing, over and over like the crazy-ass motherfucker I was when the door swung open. It was Mike.

“Margaritte! You weirdo. How long have you been standing here?” he rubbed his nose, sniffed and took my hand, drew me in and shut the door.

“I
—
do you have a cold?” he looked sweaty and high strung.

‟
Oh, yeah, no… no—well, actually, yes I do. But I'm fine. You're the one to worry about! Sit down.”

“OK,” I said, walking over to the couch and sitting down.

“You want a drink?”

“No! Well, I mean, yes. I don't know. OK… ” I said.

He laughed that little sophisticated laugh of his and walked into the kitchen. He came back with two drinks and handed me one. I set it down on one of the big, pale, wooden end tables. Mike scooted over towards me and put his arm around my shoulders and leaned his head against mine.

“My poor girl. I wish you could just live with me.”

“Yeah.”

“So what happened to you that you had to spend the night in the hospital?” He asked, lifting his head and kissing me on the cheek.

“I'll show you,” I said, pulling away from him a bit. I felt strange, like I was letting him kiss me when I knew that his affection didn't belong to me anymore. I stood up, pushed my jeans down enough so that he could see the stitches. He touched the area around it, gently. I pulled my jeans up.

He shook his head and looked into my eyes, which began to narrow with anger.

“I want to punch him, I really do.”

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

“What is wrong with your mother?”

“I don't know. She's always telling me that he's getting better. Hardly. He just lets up occasionally, before he totally blows.”

“I think I should tell my parents,” Mike said, taking my hand. “We could… do something.”

I looked back at him in horror. “No. Please don't do that.”

He looked confused. “Are you protecting him? I don't understand.”

I sighed. Closed my eyes. Put my head in my hands. So much was wrong. Mike put his hands over mine. He pulled me to him. I couldn't believe that he didn't know that I was pregnant. I felt like I was carrying it around on my face. Maybe he did know. But he probably would have pulled away from me if he did. I felt so confused.

“Mike, what would happen is that social services would be called. And then they would take all of us, me, the twins, and put us in foster homes. Ask Julia about those. They're horrible. Most people take as many kids as they can for the money, and don't do a fucking thing but sit on their couches collecting checks and eating Ding Dongs. And that's if you're lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Julia was raped by one of her foster fathers. She was twelve. She got… pregnant.” I'd forgotten this part of the story and now regretted bringing it up. “She had to get rid of it.”

Mike looked sick. “I can't… there has to be… ”

“I know. Why do you think me and Jake starting selling? There's no way out, unless you're smart and go to college, or find a way to make money. And we found a way.”

“I'm afraid for you, Margaritte. You're only sixteen years old. What if he… before you make it out?”

“I know. I worry about that too. He loves us, he can be sweet, and sometimes I think he'll be fine. But then he blows. Something will set him off and he drinks and then shit goes down.”

Mike was silent, pulling at a long piece of thread poking out of the couch. He pulled at it a few times and then with one violent yank, it came out. He rolled it between his fingers and then threw it on the floor and looked at me. I could feel his anxiety, his feelings of utter frustration.

“This is why I'm so angry at the world. Why I tell my parents that everything is useless. Why I think college is futile,” Mike said. “They always say that if I want to change the world, if I'm so angry at it, well, I should become a lawyer. But they say that hoping that I'll change my mind and become a corporate lawyer. And what if I don't? What if I specialized in social law? It doesn't seem like much happens that can change anything. I'd just be one guy, fighting for some small aspect of the law that in the long run, would change something in such a miniscule, insignificant kind of way, that—”

“Mike,” I said, interrupting him. “Wait. Stop. I have to tell you something before I lose my nerve.”

He blinked, rapidly. “What?”

“Remember I told you on the phone that I had to tell you something.”

“Oh. Yes. That. That's why I… that's what made me nervous,” he said, sitting back and running his hands through his hair. “What's going on Margaritte? Just… tell me. I can take it.”

I took a deep breath. I knew that I had to tell him. I knew that after I did, this was over. All of it was gone.

“Mike, I'm pregnant.”

His smile melted from his face. I closed my eyes. He was gonna flip out completely.

“Really?” I opened my eyes. “Margaritte, really?” He got up off of the couch. He fell at my knees and looked up at me. I couldn't have been more surprised. This was not what I expected. This did not make sense. I thought we would cry, pretend that nothing would change, share the cost of an abortion, a ride to the women's clinic, a few weeks of awkwardness and then, awkward smiles in the hallways.

“You're not screwing with me, are you? Please tell me you're not!” He said, tears in his eyes.

“I'm-I'm not… ” I looked down at him. I didn't know what else to say, he had shocked me into silence. I put my hands on his head and he leaned into my lap.

“This is wonderful. I'm going to go get some of my dad's cigars!” He jumped up and ran over to the hallway, disappearing. I just sat there. A few minutes later Mike came out with a cigar in hand.

“I know you can't have one but,” he said, sitting next to me, “here's to us!”

“But Mike—”

“No! Wait! Let me light this first,” he said desperately, his hands shaking.

“OK.” That's when I noticed something on his nose. I leaned in. It was white powder. I stood up.

“Are you fucking doing coke?” I asked, horrified.

“What? Oh, Margaritte!” he said, laughing, “C'mon. It's just a little nose candy. It's no big deal.”

“Mike, how much of this have you been doing?”

“Margaritte, stop fussing and sit down. You're making more of this than you should. Coke is nothing. And we should be celebrating!”

I sat back down, hard. My head began to swim.

“Mike… ” I said, trying to focus and rubbing my forehead, my eyes down, “We can't keep it. I can't.”

“What?” he sounded desperate, insane. “Don't you dare say that! How could you even say that! Tell me you're lying.” He pulled anxiously at my arm.

“Let go!” I yelled angrily. “I'm sorry Mike, but you and me are too young. And the coke… I can't believe I didn't… why now, I… ”

“Just say you won't do it!” he looked crazy, wild-eyed.

“Let go of me!” I pushed him away.

“No Margaritte! No! Please!”

I put my hands over my eyes and shook my head. I was exasperated. “Let's just calm down,” I said, removing my hands and looking at Mike. He was breathing hard, sweating.

“And for fuck's sake, no more fucking coke while I'm here.”

He kept staring at me, into me, desperation in his long black eyes. He sat down on the couch. We were silent. I sighed heavily and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of my jacket and just so I wouldn't have to hear it, didn't light one up, but handed one to Mike.

He took it, walked into the kitchen for an ashtray, and smoked while I sat back with my eyes closed. After I felt like he'd calmed down, I turned to him.

“Mike. Why do you want me to have a baby? We're sixteen.”

He was silent for a while longer, finishing his cigarette. He ground it out on the ashtray and sat back. “Because… because it would be mine… ours, I mean. Just ours.”

“Yes, of course it would be ours but how would we afford it? Where would we live? How would we go to school and make it through the next two years with a child? Not to mention that we could… either one of us… I mean, have one later in life. When things are better. Safer.”