don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I did,” she argued, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “Being noncommittal isn’t a good trait.”
“I’ve been with one man mother,” I reminded her, “we’re hardly even in the same league.”
“That’s right,” she bit back, “fixate on my shortcomings as a means of distracting from your own.”
“What?” I shook my head. “God do you even hear yourself sometimes?”
I looked up at the clock and stood up, pulling my cross body purse over my head. “Look,” I said, waving a hand at her. “This has been fun but can I go now?”
She rolled her eyes and stood up, sashaying for the door and holding it open for me. She was probably the only woman in the world capable of making Manolo Blahnik's appear comfortable. “Next week then,” she said, flipping through the calendar on her phone, “I have a free slot on Tuesday at 5 p.m.—should I be expecting Stephen as well?”
“I’ll ask him,” I sighed, unwrapping a piece of gum and sliding it between my teeth, “I’m glad you can work me in.”
“Oh Venus…” She reached out to me and pulled on my jacket, attempting to smooth the wrinkles in it and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I could read her expression without even trying. That was the problem with having shrinks for parents. They knew exactly how to look at you to get inside your head. They could say so much without saying anything at all. “You remind me of myself sometimes,” she finished.
“Oh god.” I grimaced and pulled away from her. “Please don’t ever compare us to each other. We’re nothing alike.”
She sighed and crossed her arms over her perfectly ironed dress, which was not so ironically the same exact shade of red as her lipstick. “You’re right,” she said, holding up her hands.
I raised an eyebrow at her and popped my gum against my front teeth, keeping my eyes focused on hers. Her expression softened and she cleared her throat.
“You’re every bit the tragedy your father was.
T H E N
The appointment was on a depressingly beautiful Friday afternoon. I was silent the entire way there and the entire way home and Stephen kept his tail planted firmly between his legs and focused on the road. We didn’t talk about it at dinner, which was take-out Chinese that I promptly threw up. We didn’t talk about it as we were brushing our teeth and changing into our pajamas. And we didn’t talk about it once we were in bed.
I dreamt about a young girl with my unruly hair and Stephens’s eyes and I awoke in a cold sweat, stumbling into the bathroom as a sharp pain seared its way through my lower abdomen.
“Damn it,” I whispered, looking down between my legs.
Crimson dripped onto the white linoleum. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and balled it up, using my foot to rub it up as I removed my underwear and tossed them into the trash. The woman at the clinic warned me about this but in a haze, I had forgotten to put on a panty liner.
When I looked up Stephen was standing in the doorway with an expression on his face that shifted back and fourth between shock and horror. “I’m sorry,” he gawked, breaking the stillness, “I shouldn’t have made you…”
“No.” I shook my head. I wasn’t about to give him the meek satisfaction of taking credit for this. “God, don’t even say it. You didn’t.”
He stretched out his arms to me and attempted to pull me to his chest but I wouldn’t let him. The words I had been storing inside of myself since we arrived home poured out of my mouth like foam. “You just never asked me what I wanted.”
He frowned and held me at an arms length, brushing his fingertips over the wetness on my cheeks. Was I crying? I hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, clenching his jaw and looking away from me.
A dam inside me broke and I lashed out at him, pounding a balled up fist against his chest. “You never once asked me if I wanted our baby!” I yelled,
“I’ve been with one man mother,” I reminded her, “we’re hardly even in the same league.”
“That’s right,” she bit back, “fixate on my shortcomings as a means of distracting from your own.”
“What?” I shook my head. “God do you even hear yourself sometimes?”
I looked up at the clock and stood up, pulling my cross body purse over my head. “Look,” I said, waving a hand at her. “This has been fun but can I go now?”
She rolled her eyes and stood up, sashaying for the door and holding it open for me. She was probably the only woman in the world capable of making Manolo Blahnik's appear comfortable. “Next week then,” she said, flipping through the calendar on her phone, “I have a free slot on Tuesday at 5 p.m.—should I be expecting Stephen as well?”
“I’ll ask him,” I sighed, unwrapping a piece of gum and sliding it between my teeth, “I’m glad you can work me in.”
“Oh Venus…” She reached out to me and pulled on my jacket, attempting to smooth the wrinkles in it and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I could read her expression without even trying. That was the problem with having shrinks for parents. They knew exactly how to look at you to get inside your head. They could say so much without saying anything at all. “You remind me of myself sometimes,” she finished.
“Oh god.” I grimaced and pulled away from her. “Please don’t ever compare us to each other. We’re nothing alike.”
She sighed and crossed her arms over her perfectly ironed dress, which was not so ironically the same exact shade of red as her lipstick. “You’re right,” she said, holding up her hands.
I raised an eyebrow at her and popped my gum against my front teeth, keeping my eyes focused on hers. Her expression softened and she cleared her throat.
“You’re every bit the tragedy your father was.
T H E N
The appointment was on a depressingly beautiful Friday afternoon. I was silent the entire way there and the entire way home and Stephen kept his tail planted firmly between his legs and focused on the road. We didn’t talk about it at dinner, which was take-out Chinese that I promptly threw up. We didn’t talk about it as we were brushing our teeth and changing into our pajamas. And we didn’t talk about it once we were in bed.
I dreamt about a young girl with my unruly hair and Stephens’s eyes and I awoke in a cold sweat, stumbling into the bathroom as a sharp pain seared its way through my lower abdomen.
“Damn it,” I whispered, looking down between my legs.
Crimson dripped onto the white linoleum. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and balled it up, using my foot to rub it up as I removed my underwear and tossed them into the trash. The woman at the clinic warned me about this but in a haze, I had forgotten to put on a panty liner.
When I looked up Stephen was standing in the doorway with an expression on his face that shifted back and fourth between shock and horror. “I’m sorry,” he gawked, breaking the stillness, “I shouldn’t have made you…”
“No.” I shook my head. I wasn’t about to give him the meek satisfaction of taking credit for this. “God, don’t even say it. You didn’t.”
He stretched out his arms to me and attempted to pull me to his chest but I wouldn’t let him. The words I had been storing inside of myself since we arrived home poured out of my mouth like foam. “You just never asked me what I wanted.”
He frowned and held me at an arms length, brushing his fingertips over the wetness on my cheeks. Was I crying? I hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, clenching his jaw and looking away from me.
A dam inside me broke and I lashed out at him, pounding a balled up fist against his chest. “You never once asked me if I wanted our baby!” I yelled,
Similar Books
