Where We Belong (13 page)

“Yes,” I whispered, feeling one drop better that, at least for the moment, I had no decision to make. All I had to do was follow instructions.

“So be ready in ten minutes,” he said. “I’m serious.”

*   *   *

As threatened, he stood in my kitchen ten minutes later, in a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt, Levi’s, and blue Adidas flip-flops, shaking my father’s hand for the first time. A collared shirt would have gone a long way, I thought to myself, as my mother took off her reading glasses and put the
Chicago Tribune
down next to a plate of thinly sliced pineapple, complete with a raspberry garnish and dollop of yogurt.

“So how do you know each other?” my mother asked, her head cocked to the side, as she does whenever she meets a newcomer, trying to determine how the person fits into her world. Or in this case, doesn’t.

“From school,” I said, twisting my hair into a ponytail, unable to make eye contact with my parents, both of whom I loved and respected—and had never lied to in any significant way before Conrad.

They nodded, smiling, asking a few more questions, until the inevitable one from my father, the Michigan grad with a law degree from Yale. “So, Conrad, where are you headed next year?”

Conrad crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, leaning on the kitchen counter, as if to steady himself. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I’m not sure yet.”

I thought of his words in the yearbook—
Color me gone
—and that night in Janie’s yard. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was.

Conrad glanced down at his feet as my father translated the answer and came up with the best possible spin. “Ahh. A gap year? To discover yourself?”

“Something like that. Yes, sir,” Conrad said, his eyes darting over to mine as if to ask for help.

“So anyway,” I said. “We’re going out for a little while.”

“Oh. Where are you headed?” my mother asked, attempting to sound breezy when I knew she was consumed with curiosity, likely planning a course of due diligence on the phone with her friends.

“Green to Tee,” I said, regretting my choice of lies as soon as I saw my father’s face light up.

“Oh! You play golf?” my father said to Conrad. “We should play sometime. What’s your handicap?”

Conrad gave him a blank stare; it was like asking my father what he liked best about The Smashing Pumpkins.

“Let them go, honey,” my mother said, looking momentarily pleased that, at the very least, Conrad played golf. Maybe his family even belonged to Skokie Country Club where we had been members for years. She would find out soon enough.

*   *   *

Conrad and I silently drove across town, straight to the Jewel-Osco near his house, parking near the pharmacy end of the sprawling parking lot, already bustling with shoppers, mostly young mothers juggling shopping bags, carts, and small children.

“I’ll be right back,” Conrad said, leaving the radio and air-conditioning on.

Relieved that I didn’t have to buy the test myself, I slouched down in my seat, switching the stations, wondering what last song I’d hear before I got the bad news confirmed. TLC was singing “Waterfalls” when he returned with a plastic bag and a somber expression. I turned the radio off as he ducked into the car and handed me the bag filled with a jumbo pack of Juicy Fruit, a bottle of Dr Pepper, and a
Rolling Stone
magazine with Courtney Love on the cover. I pulled the magazine out of the bag, silently reading the headlines: “Live from Lollapalooza”; “Hole Is a Band; Courtney Love Is a Soap Opera”; and “How to Stay Cool This Summer.” Flipping through the pages, I did my best to ignore the last item in the bag.

“Do you like her?” I said, pointing to Courtney.

“I like her music. And I think she’s interesting—the subversive feminism and slut-diva image stuff. And her music is legit.
Live Through This
will stand the test of time. I mean, ‘Doll Parts’? ‘Violet’? Pretty brilliant stuff. But she’s a mess,” Conrad said, backing out of the lot. “I feel sorry for her…”

“Because she’s a single parent?” I asked, singularly focused.

“Because the man she loved blew his brains out…”

I nodded, then glanced out my window as he accelerated onto the main road toward his house. At some point, Conrad put his hand on my knee and kept it there, even as he took hard, sharp turns through his neighborhood, moving it only to shift gears as needed. When he pulled into his driveway, he took my chin and made me look in his eyes. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I got your back.”

I nodded, only vaguely hearing him, and said, “Is your dad home?”

“No. We’re good.”

He opened the door, swung himself out of the car, and when I didn’t move, he jogged around to the passenger side, opened my door, and took my arm. “Come on now.”

When we walked in his house, he handed me the pink box and pointed toward the bathroom door. “Go. Now. Just do it,” he said.

“But I don’t have to pee.”

He exhaled patiently, reached into the bag once again, grabbed his Dr Pepper, opened it, and handed it to me. I took a few swallows, then handed it back to him.

“I still don’t,” I said.

“Come here,” he said, leading me over to his couch, making me sit, putting his arm around me and giving me a kiss on the forehead.

I bit my lip, my whole body filled with sick, numbing dread. “I don’t know why I’m taking this test. I already know I’m pregnant.”

“You don’t know,” he said.

“I’m four days late. My boobs are sore. And I’m about to puke.”

“You’re nauseated because you’re scared. Your boobs hurt because you’re about to get your period. And—couldn’t your cycle be off because you’re all worked up?”

“My cycle’s off because I’m
knocked
up,” I said, biting my nails, a habit I had broken in junior high.

“Look,” he said. “You’re going to go take that test—and either one of two things is going to happen.”

I stare at him, waiting.

“It’s either going to be negative. And you’re going to be relieved beyond belief and we can celebrate…” He smiled, then leaned over to kiss my neck, lingering when he got to my ear.

I pushed him away and said, “Or?”

“Or you’re pregnant,” he said. “Which would suck. But we would deal with it.”

“How?”

“How would you want to deal with it?” he said. “I’d do whatever you wanted to do.”

“I can’t have a baby. I’m going to college.”

“Right,” he said. “So we’d find a clinic, somewhere out of town—way out in the burbs or in Indianapolis. Somewhere where we’re not gonna know anyone. And … and I have plenty of money saved from working—so we’re covered there … And I’ll be with you the whole time, holding your hand.” He put his arms around me and said, “And then I’d take you back here. To my bed. And feed you chicken soup and sing to you.”

Staring at a spot on his wall, I heard him say my name twice, then three times. I finally looked at him.

“I’d do anything for you, Marian. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, even though I wasn’t so sure.

“
Any
thing,” he said again as I stood, pink box in hand, and headed toward the bathroom, gripped with fear.

Once alone, I sat on the closed toilet seat and read every word on the box twice, including the words “unsurpassed accuracy.” Then I followed the directions as precisely as I could, wondering how I could have ever thought that the SAT would be the most important test of my life. All the while, I prayed as hard as I’ve ever prayed, especially during that torturous, brutal, heart-pounding, ear-ringing three-minute waiting period, my eyes moving rapidly between the stick and the second hand of my watch.
Please, God, do not let a pink line appear,
I repeated, over and over and over.

But it did. So gradually that at first I could almost convince myself that it was an optical illusion. Then brighter and more vivid, until finally, it was darker than the control line, capillary action making a lighter pink halo around it. I had my answer; there was no wondering or praying or hoping left to be done.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I knew that no matter what I did from here, I would never be my old self again. Nothing would ever be the same again. I slipped the stick into my purse and opened the door to face Conrad and the rest of my life.

“Well?” he said, his skin and lips colorless.

At that second, something came over me that I will never fully understand. Maybe it was denial. Maybe I was protecting him. Maybe I was beginning the painful process of pulling away from him. Whatever it was, I forced a small smile and said, “Guess what?”

“What?” he said.

“False alarm.”

All the air in Conrad’s body seemed to escape as he kneeled to the ground, his hands clasped. Then he stood and made a whooping sound of a cowboy in an open plain full of buffalo. He followed that up with a high five that made my palm sting and a slap just as hard on my ass. “I told you, girl!” he shouted. “Man! I told you!”

“You were right,” I said, as he wrapped his arms around me.

Then we separated and he looked at me, deep into my eyes, as he said those words for the first time, clear and unmistakable as the second pink line. “I love you, Marian.”

I opened my mouth, but he stopped me, putting his finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t say anything. I just—I wanted to say it. Whether we had good news or bad. I
really
love you.”

7

kirby

The following
morning, I cave and call my parents. It is a little before seven Central time, and because they are the most predictable people on the face of the planet, I can picture exactly what they are doing. I know my mother is sitting at her dressing table, getting ready for morning mass, and my father is puttering around the kitchen, listening to
The McGraw Show
on AM radio. On the third ring, they answer the line together, one hello echoing the other. For one weak moment, as I hear McGraw’s gleeful chortle in the background and can nearly smell my dad’s Jimmy Dean sausage cooking up in the griddle, I am overcome with inexplicable homesickness. But the feeling passes almost instantly, replaced by the familiar blanket of animosity. I suddenly can’t wait to tell them where I am.

“Turbo Kirbo!” my dad bellows. His voice is relaxed—probably because I’m not around. “How’s the Yellowhammer State?”

My mother chimes in with her first accusation. “Why haven’t you answered our calls?”

“I e-mailed
and
texted you guys,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Well, you should have called, too,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say, pleased that I don’t sound the slightest bit sorry.

“Are you having fun?” my dad asks. “I saw that it was eighty in Mobile yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say.
And about sixty in New York.

“Are you remembering to put on sunscreen?” my mother says. “And reapply every few hours? You’re so fair, honey. You don’t want to get burned.”

I think of Marian’s complexion, now knowing where I get it, and therefore hating it a little less. It looks good on her—so maybe it will on me one day, too. Wondering what I’m waiting for, I walk to the window and push the blinds open a few inches, just enough to get a view of the street below, already buzzing with morning activity, traffic, people—which couldn’t be more different than my quiet street.

“How’s Charlotte?” I ask. It is a red flag—I never ask about my sister—and my father seems suddenly on to me.

“She’s fine. She’s sleeping. What’s going on, Kirbs?”

I turn and cross the room, sitting on the bed, relishing what’s to come. “Um, guys. I’m actually not in Mobile with Belinda and her mother,” I say, listening to the satisfying sound of stunned silence.

“Where are you?” they finally ask in unison.

“New York City,” I say, holding up my middle finger and pointing it toward my phone. If this isn’t payback for what I overheard, I don’t know what is.

“New York City!” my mother shouts as if I’ve just said the front line in Afghanistan.

“What are you doing in New York?” my dad asks, trying to counteract her hysteria.

“Is Belinda with you?” my mom demands. “Is her mother?”

“No. I’m alone … Well … Not exactly alone … I’m at my birth mother’s apartment,” I say, closing my eyes and wondering how it’s possible to both cringe and gloat.

“What in the world?” My mother’s voice trails off and I can see her staring into her dressing table mirror, her hair still wrapped up in large pink and medium purple Velcro curlers, always removing them right before she leaves the house, sometimes even waiting until she’s in the car, much to the disapproval of my sister and me. “Why?”

“Why, what?” I snap, thinking that it has to be the dumbest question ever posed.

“Why are you … there?” she says.

“Why do you think, Mom?”

“Honey,” my dad says, although I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or my mom. And then, “We understand why you went. Why you might want to meet her. But you should have told us. We could have helped you.”

“I didn’t need your help,” I say. Which obviously is the truth.

“I know. But we would have liked to … at least …
support
you.”

“Yeah,
right,
” I mumble.

I can hear my mother breathing—and I would bet my iPod that she has begun to cry.

“How did you get there?” my dad asks.

“I took the Greyhound,” I say, thinking of the lyrics to “America,” the classic Simon and Garfunkel song about the couple boarding the Greyhound in Pittsburgh; my favorite line—which seems appropriate now:
I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.

“Well,” my mother says, her voice cracking just as I predicted. “Do you like her? Or … not?”

There it is,
I think. What this journey is all about to my mother. Not my need to understand who I am and where I came from, but rather
her
need to be the one who saved me from a selfish woman. The kind of woman who gives away her baby.

“She’s awesome,” I say. I can’t help myself.