Life and Other Inconveniences(59)

Genevieve came out for the funeral. Told me to “be strong” and made me wear the black Mary Janes that were too tight.

For the first few days, my father and I stayed with my mother’s parents, sleeping in my mother’s old bed. We went home the next week, and everything was different. Everything was wrong. My once-cheerful room where my mom had read to me and made my stuffed animals talk in squeaky voices . . . what had happened? She’d loved me, and she killed herself! The kitchen where she’d made such delicious food now smelled like hot dogs and burnt toast, courtesy of my father. Papers piled up, and everything was sticky and grimy.

I wanted to move in with Pop and Grammy, but after a few weeks, my father told me I’d be visiting Connecticut.

He left out the word forever. He left out the words by yourself. He neglected to say goodbye, but instead just said, “Try to be brave.”

So. I had no plans to forgive him for abandoning me, and he didn’t seem to care much. Why? How did a person not care about his child? I mean, yes, my father had suffered, losing his brother, his father and then his wife. But you’d think (or so I thought, as a child, then a tween, then a teenager swamped with feelings 24-7) that those losses would make him love me all the more.

They didn’t.

As for Genevieve, she was utterly inscrutable. She was doing her duty by me, and she made sure I knew it. Things that I thought would make her happy didn’t. For instance, when I was put on the varsity swim team my freshman year, she told me to stop gloating; I had an unfair advantage, since Sheerwater had a heated pool we kept open eight months of the year. She’d go for days without speaking to me for no apparent reason, Donelle simply shrugging if I asked why Genevieve was mad at me. Then again, I sneaked in after curfew at least once a week after I started dating Jason, and she never said a word. One time, when I thought I’d be grounded for sure, since it was after one a.m., she said only, “Make sure the door is locked, won’t you?”

So uncomplicated was a joy. Uncomplicated meant I could breathe. My shoulders would drop an inch when I was with Jason, and my teeth, which I clenched at night, didn’t hurt as much. Jason’s eternal good cheer, good looks, good kissing . . . what more did a teenage girl need? His parents liked me, welcomed me into their home, and all the love I gave Jason was returned right back to me.

He wasn’t like other boys. He never was crass or rude or gross—no fart jokes, no filthy bathroom, no crude comments about women or sex. Instead, he’d tell me I was beautiful. I was fun. I made him so happy. He loved me.

You have to understand . . . no one said those things to me. Donelle was kind, but not loving in the way a parent might be. Pop was gruff, more after my poor grammy died. I needed someone to love. Anyone, really.

Jason filled that gaping hole in my heart. We didn’t go for more than half a day without speaking, and with few exceptions, we did something every weekend and several times a week. On the appropriate holidays, he’d get me something lovely—a delicate bracelet or a journal or fancy chocolates. He held my hand all the time, in the halls of school, in front of my grandmother. We were voted cutest couple and prom royals.

Almost three years of blissful first love without a single fight, without tears, without drama. After all those years of feeling lost, I’d finally been found.

Then my period was late. I told myself it was the stress of graduating from high school, though we’d basically been killing time since Memorial Day. But I knew. One time without a condom, even with me on the Pill, which I forgot to take one time. One time.

When I was ten days late, I told Jason, and he came over with a pregnancy test he’d bought two towns over. We didn’t say much; Genevieve was at some luncheon in New York, Donelle was repainting the laundry room, and Helga was banging around in the kitchen, brewing coffee, a smell I usually loved and now made me want to puke.

Jason, pale and silent, sat on my bed. I went into the bathroom like it was a prison cell, pulled down my pants, prayed that the test would be negative and peed on the stick. Before the waiting time was even up, the two lines showed loud and clear.

My heart thudded against my ribs. I was pregnant, all right.

Not real convenient.

In August, I was supposed to leave for Smith College to double major in marketing and economics. My times had qualified me for the swim team. I was going to live in Cutter House, a special interest residence where we’d only speak French. My roommate and I had coordinated our comforters. Even Genevieve approved of my future.

Which did not include a baby.

Oh, God. What was I going to do?

Suddenly, I wanted my mother so, so much. Forget that she’d killed herself. I wanted her, hugging me, stroking my hair, telling me it would be okay. I wanted the mother who’d tucked me in so perfectly every night, folding back the covers the perfect amount and kissing my forehead, nose and lips, then doing the same to Cookie Monster, who slept with me every night.

I put my hand over my stomach, where cells were burgeoning and reproducing, practically tap-dancing with life.

I was pregnant. God! This was terrible. Almost laughably wretched. Jason, too, had a bright future . . . well, a good solid future. He planned to major in business and go into his family’s construction company. He wasn’t a twit, but mature wasn’t a word that leaped to mind when I thought of him. Fun. Happy. Nice.

Young.

So I should probably make things easy and not stay pregnant. My brain—and heart—bounced away from the uglier words.