Leap of Faith (3 page)

Mom slides off the examination table. The paper gown rustles as she moves. “You’re paying for the ultrasound. I’m not wasting my money on that. It’s your fault I’m even here.” She tosses the vitamins onto my lap. “And I’m not taking these.”

My eyes roll. “I’m sure Dave will pay for an ultrasound of his child.” I tuck the vitamins into her purse. “Are you going to find out what it is?”

Her eyebrows lower as she fastens her bra. “It’s a baby, Faith. I thought you knew that already.”

“A girl or a boy—hello?”

She shrugs. “Who cares? All I care about is this whole thing being halfway over. Eighteen more weeks until I’m ten grand richer.”

The nurse knocks and pokes her head in just as Mom finishes getting dressed. “All set?” she asks.

“As set as I’ll ever be.” Mom snatches her purse from my lap and follows the nurse out of the room.

Down the hall to the right, the nurse gets Mom situated on another table and pulls the waist of her pants down below her belly.

“This will be warm,” the nurse says, and squirts some clear jelly on Mom’s stomach. “You can come in,” she says to me, motioning me in from the doorway. “Are you hoping for a brother or a sister?”

I take a few steps farther into the room as the nurse presses the probe to Mom’s stomach and the screen comes to life with a black-and-white image of a tiny, moving baby. “Either’s fine.”

Transfixed, I stare at the screen in awe. It’s actually a baby, not a blob or a clump of cells, but a baby with arms, legs, everything. Its little hands wave around like it’s swimming. Tiny feet kick.

The nurse takes pictures and measurements. Mom has her eyes closed. It looks like she’s sleeping.

“Do you want to know the sex?” the nurse asks.

“I do,” I say. “I want to know.”

The nurse looks to Mom, who makes a grunting noise. “Sure. Whatever.”

I can’t take my eyes from the screen. The nurse maneuvers the ultrasound wand to try to get a look between the baby’s legs. The baby squirms, making it difficult.

Finally, the nurse says, “There. It’s a girl.”

“A girl,” I whisper. She’s beautiful. I can already tell she looks a little bit like Hope.

“Okay,” the nurse says, and takes the wand off Mom’s stomach. “We’re all done.” She gives Mom some tissues to wipe the slime off her belly.

“About time,” Mom says, yanking up her pants. “Let’s go, Faith. You should be satisfied now.” She throws her purse over her shoulder and leaves the room.

“Thanks,” I tell the nurse.

She turns on her stool and holds out black-and-white photos for me to take. “Don’t forget these.” Her forehead’s creased. She’s concerned. For me. Or the baby. I’m not sure. Maybe both.

I take the photos and stuff them into my pocket. “Thank you.”

• • •

“I don’t think she looks like me,” Hope says, holding the ultrasound pictures over her head, toward the light.

We’re lying on our beds. I’m trying to figure out how to bribe Mom to take the prenatal vitamins. Maybe I can dissolve the vitamins in coffee.

“Why do you have these, anyway?” Hope tosses the pictures toward my bed. I catch two, but the third falls to the floor.

“ ’Cuz the nurse handed them to me. Mom doesn’t want them.” I stretch my arm out, reach the picture on the floor with my fingertip, and slide it over to myself.

“Why do you?” She hoists one leg in the air and reaches for her toes, stretching.

I shrug. “I don’t.”

“You kept them.” She switches legs.

“You can’t just throw something like that away. I’ll give them to Dave next time he comes over to bang Mom.”

“Eww. Don’t say that. You know I can’t stand to think about her and men . . . right in there.” She points toward Mom’s room with her toes. “Four and a half more months and I’m out of here.”

I sigh and roll to my side, facing her. “Don’t remind me.”

She lowers her leg. “You’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m here all that much now.”

“No, but I know you’ll be back every night. I’m not alone in this hell.”

She laughs. “So, it’s a case of misery loves company, is that it? You don’t want to suffer alone?”

The corners of my mouth turn up. “Maybe.”

“I’ll sneak you into my dorm room overnight a few times this summer, okay?”

“Gee, thanks.” I roll my eyes. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She gets up and flips off the light. “It’s all I can do. I’m sorry. You know you have to find a way out of here, right? I don’t know how I’m going to get through even one semester without worrying about you.”

I dig my feet under my blanket and pull it up to my shoulders. “I know. I’ll think of something. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll always worry. I love you, Faithy.”

“Love you too.”

In the morning, I make a pot of coffee, dissolve two prenatal vitamins in it, and leave a note, pretending to be a wonderful, thoughtful daughter who just happened to make her mom coffee before she left for school.

She’ll know something’s up, but I don’t think she’ll know what. She’ll drink it.

I ride with Brian and Hope again, staring out the window in the backseat, listening to them make plans for the weekend. Again, I’m nagged by the urge to call Jason. All I do is work and go to school. I need more in my life, and not just because I want to have somewhere else to go besides home.

Strands of Hope’s golden hair glint in the winter sunlight streaming through the windshield. A pang of sadness reverberates through me. I don’t want her to go. I hate that she’s eighteen, graduating, and moving out. I hate that the track team starts practice over the summer and she has to be there the third week of June. I hate that she’s brave enough to go out and live her life.

I wish I was brave.

chapter

four

The car’s trunk is about to burst, and so is Mom’s stomach. The doctor put her on bed rest, and she’s pissed. Now that she can’t drive and has no reason to deny me using the car, I’ve spent most of spring break driving around to get away from her.

“Do you need help with that?” the woman asks. I’m at a yard sale and bought a stroller for the baby.

“No, I’ll get it in here.” I shove a car seat and a Pack ’n Play to the far sides of Mom’s trunk and jiggle the stroller in between. “There. Got it.”

“Hope your baby likes it!” she calls, and waves over her shoulder, walking back up the driveway.

“I’m sure she will.” I get in the car and turn the key in the ignition. I don’t think about what I’ve been doing all spring break, hitting yard sale after yard sale, collecting baby items. I just do it. I haven’t let myself admit why, though. That would be admitting I’m fucking crazy, and really, I don’t know that yet, because I don’t have a plan, because I won’t let myself think of one.

It’s this circular thought process that’s gotten me through the last week.

The one thing I do know is that this baby isn’t going to live the fucked-up life I’ve had for the past sixteen years. In the past few months, I’ve memorized those ultrasound pictures down to the last detail and driven past Dave and Angel’s place probably a hundred times.

I’ve seen drugged-up partiers passed out on their porch. I’ve seen the cops parked outside twice. I’ve seen enough drug dealers and whores for a lifetime. My little sister
will not
live there.

Not to mention, Dave’s still screwing my mom.

I’ve seen Angel’s own “visitor” come by their duplex late at night when Dave’s at my house. Those two don’t want a baby. They don’t even want each other. It’s obvious they were high when they made the decision to bring my mom into their effed-up plan.

My knuckles had gone pale, I’m gripping the steering wheel so tight. This baby is weighing heavy on my mind. I can’t ignore it.

Hope said I have to find my own way out.

I’ve found it.

I just can’t think about it.

Because that would be admitting I’m fucking crazy.

And the circle of thought continues all the way home until I’m inside and faced with my mom—out of bed and stoned on the couch with a can of beer in her hand.

Before she can say a word, I stride into my bedroom and close the door. It’s best to avoid her when she’s trashed. She likes to pick fights.

I lie down and close my eyes. My room is blessedly pitch black. It’s been warm for late April, and the crickets are loud outside my window, but they’re lulling me to sleep. It’s that time right before you pass out when you’re not sure if you’re dreaming or still awake. That’s why Mom’s voice doesn’t seem real at first.

“FAITH!”

“Huh?” I sit up and rub my blurry eyes.

“Faith, for Christ’s sake—get in here and help me!”

I stand and trip over my blanket, which is tangled around my feet. “I’m coming!”

She wails and I dart across the hall, dragging the blanket and tripping into the living room, where she’s still sprawled on the couch. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She pushes on the back of the couch, trying to get up. “Well, help me! Shit, Faith, what good are you?” Then she cries out again.

“Holy shit! You’re in labor!” She’s two weeks early. I grab her hand and try to tug her up. She grimaces in pain. I wish Hope were here. She’s much better at dealing with Mom. “I’ll call Brian’s house and tell Hope to come home.”

“Just get me in the car!” I grip her hand with both of mine and pull her to her feet. “Ahhh!” she shrieks.

“Okay. It’s okay. Breathe.” I wrap an arm around her back.

“Shut the fuck up, Faith! Just get me to the hospital.”

Fighting the urge to throw her to the floor and go back to bed, I grab her packed bag from her bedroom and help her out to the car.

She screams, cries, and cusses all the way to the hospital. I drive fast, actually hoping I’ll get pulled over and the cop can drag her butt to the maternity ward.

I pull up in front of the emergency room doors and hop out, flagging down an orderly with a wheelchair. “My mom’s in labor!”

It all happens really fast. Before I know it, she’s in a gown, hooked up to monitors, and almost ten centimeters dilated.

I don’t know if Dave and Angel want to be there for the delivery or not, and I don’t want to ask. Instead I say, “Should I call Hope?”

“For what?” Mom says, relaxed now from her epidural. “We aren’t keeping this baby. It’ll all be over soon.”

I nod. “I know. Just thought I’d ask.” She doesn’t mention Angel and Dave.

The doctor and a nurse come in to check her and say it’s time to push. “Are you staying?” the doctor asks me.

I shrug. “I guess.”

The doctor smiles. “It’ll be a good learning experience for you.”

Yeah. Contraception 101. Not that I’ll ever let a guy devirginize me. Especially not now that they’ve got Mom’s legs hoisted up and she’s baring all. Not a chance. I’ll never be in that situation.

“Come stand by me,” the doctor says, motioning me over.

“I don’t want to look.” I can feel the repulsed expression on my face.

“It’s a baby. There’s nothing gross about it.”

I have no interest in seeing my mom “down there,” but I inch a little closer so the doctor will leave me alone.

“Okay,” she says to my mom, “on three you’re going to—”

“I know how to do this!” Mom snaps. “I’ve had two already!”

“One. Two. Three. Push!”

Mom crunches practically in half and groans as she pushes. Her face turns red, then purple as the doctor counts to ten.

“Good,” the doctor says. “The next contraction should be coming . . . right . . . now! Push!”

Mom bears down again. Her face turns red, then purple while the doctor counts to ten. This routine continues for forty minutes. A second nurse comes in pushing a baby scale.

“Her head’s right here,” the doctor says. “Come see,” she says to me.

Oh, God. I don’t want to look. But she won’t stop crooking her finger at me. The look on her face is so intent and excited, I take a few steps closer and peer over the doctor’s shoulder.

“See her hair?” The doctor rubs the top of the baby’s head with her finger, ruffling the wet, dark, feather-fine hair.

My mouth is open, gaping at the baby’s head. She’s right there, ready to come out and be a person in the world. It’s actually kind of awesome.

The doctor tells Mom to push again. Three more times, and the baby’s whole head and shoulders emerge. On the fourth push, the doctor pulls the baby free.

The nurses start rushing around, swabbing the baby’s mouth, wiping the white goo from her face.

The baby starts screaming at the top of her lungs and flailing around.

“Want to cut the cord?” the doctor asks me, shoving a pair of surgical scissors into my hand.

“Uh . . . okay.”

She shows me where to cut, and I squeeze the scissors around the cord. It’s hard, like cutting through rubber.

Once I cut the baby free from my mom, they clean her, weigh her, wrap her in a pink, white, and blue blanket, and tug a matching knit hat onto her head.

The nurse hands her to me and announces, “Six pounds, four ounces, and twenty inches.” She glances over to my uninterested mother, then back at me. “Does she have a name?”

I look down at the baby in my arms. Dark blue eyes. Brown fuzzy hair. Red, puffy cheeks. “Addy,” I whisper.

Once you name it, it’s yours.

Someone said that once.

I don’t remember who, but it’s true. I named her. She’s mine.

• • •

The next day at two o’clock, they release Mom and Addy, since Mom doesn’t have insurance. I went home last night while Mom was sleeping and packed a duffel bag full of everything I own, which isn’t much. This morning, I took a shower and told Hope that I love her. She was in a shitty mood and just said, “Whatever, Faith. You’re so strange sometimes.”

An orderly comes into Mom’s hospital room with a wheelchair, which pisses Mom off because she can walk to the car on her own. She wants to know how much she’ll be charged for the dumbass who pushes the wheelchair.

The plan is for Dave and Angel to come over as soon as we get home with the baby and take her.

Too bad for them.

She’ll never get there.

I carry Addy, all bundled in her blanket, down the hall to the elevator. The man pushing Mom follows. We all ride down to the ground level together.