Dear Carolina by Kristy W Harvey Page A

don’t want to drink because drinking is the coping mechanism you use when you want to run away. Somewhere, deep down inside yourself, you don’t want to run away from this pregnancy.”
    More like not craving that drink deep down in my soul was the bone God finally threw me even though He’d kept me right thirsty and nearly starved in the yard for years.
    When you’re poor like me and you come up in a small townlike Kinston, people, they want to help you. The church Momma got herself to when she was sober—the one that been praying hard for her all along—they brung over a whole mess a’ stuff for you.
    That sweet old pastor, I wouldn’t never in a million years have taken a handout from him. So it was Buddy, who been working on the farm for Graham long as I known him, that came a-knockin’ at my door with two big black trash bags flung over his shoulders.
    â€œWho is it?” I hollered.
    In the ignition crank before he answered back, I thought the damn craziest thing: It was Ricky. He was comin’ to wrap me up sweet and kiss me hard and tell me the only thing a girl wants to hear: “Baby, I’ve changed. Let’s make things right for our youngen.”
    And, oh my Lord, I had longed for him to come back like a farm boy pines for his first hunting puppy. But I wouldn’t let on. No. I’d act like maybe I’d be a little interested.
    When the voice said, “It’s Buddy,” I was still going on in my head like it were Ricky gonna be answering me. The mind is one tricky vehicle when it gets going good down a dirt road with a dead end.
    I hauled myself up off the couch where I’d been napping all day. I still got to feeling every now and then like I should be working. But it’s like how that old oak tree at the trailer park must’ve felt like the swing wrapped around its branches had always been there. We all just got to learn to adjust.
    Buddy dumped them giant black yard bags on the floor between the kitchen and family room with a thud like a pair a’ work boots going off over the side of the bed.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    He shrugged. “Just a bunch a’ old junk the church sent over.I brought it in trash bags ’cause half of it will probably be going straight to the Dumpster anyhow.”
    I sat down on my knees. My mind wandered to this yoga lady I flipped by on the TV earlier that mornin’. She said this sittin’ on your knees’ll make you be able to digest so good you can eat rocks. I said to the TV, like she could hear me, “I don’t care how thick a accent you got, lady, I ain’t buyin’ that nobody can eat rocks.”
    I got to pulling things outta that bag, and I wasn’t trying to look happy or nothing, but I held a beautiful soft white cotton dress with a tiny pink bow right to my chest like it were a baby its own self.
    I kept on pulling mess out, and I got to realizing that them clothes, they were all new. I wadded them all back in the bag, scooted it across the floor, and stood up, wiping my hands on my maternity leggings.
    â€œI don’t need no handout from your church.”
    Buddy crossed his arms. “You got some sort of baby fund stored up?”
    I peered right hard at Buddy, knowing that he was as straight a shooter as I’d ever run across.
    I went to get a glass of water and said, “I don’t think that’s any of your dern business.”
    Buddy knew well as he knew how to drive a cotton picker I didn’t have no baby money stashed away.
    He followed me into the kitchen and said, “I think it would be nice if you would offer me a cold cup of water too.”
    â€œThis one’s for you,” I said, shoving it at him all annoyed like. I darn near forgot about my condition for a minute, feeling that heat rising up my spine when our hands met. That was one damn fine-looking cowboy on my green linoleum.
    â€œSo how’s you giving