Читать книгу This Fragile Life - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 16

Camp fills up my time and thoughts, and I’m glad for the distraction of kids and art and craziness. I’m tired of being inside my own head, of constantly thinking about this baby and what will happen in about seven months. Ramon lights up when he sees me, and tackles my knees. I hug him, smoothing his silky dark hair, feeling that strange tug of longing and love that scares me with its sudden intensity.

I’ve enjoyed most of the kids I work with, although some have been complete pains in the ass. But even with the sweet ones I’ve been happy to leave them at the door, to forget them almost completely when I’m out of the classroom. To let them go, which I do, easily, freely.

A few have touched me, but it’s only now that I realize I’ve always kept a little distance, been a little aloof, Martha-style. Or maybe it’s my style. I can’t think of too many people I’ve let close in my life; even my parents and sister are distant. But maybe that’s them.

In any case Ramon draws me in. Makes me want something nebulous I’m afraid to name and almost resent. I don’t want to feel this much. I don’t want to wonder.

That afternoon he’s picked up by his mother rather than his older brother, and she looks about five years younger than me. She’s wearing a sundress of cheap cotton, her dark hair pulled back in a long ponytail, and her face is tight and pinched. She nods tersely at me as I say goodbye to Ramon, and he hugs my knees again.

She clucks, kind of bemusedly impatient, and I smile. “Ramon loves to draw.”

She glances at me, completely nonplussed, and then reaches for Ramon’s hand. “Vamonos, Ramon.”

He follows her obediently, his little hand in hers, and something twists inside me. I don’t know her circumstances, but I know enough about the demographics of the kids here to guess that she is probably low income, without insurance, living in a tenement. Just like me. And she has at least two kids. She did it; why can’t I?

I’m totally different from that woman, I tell myself. I have more choices, and I chose this. Adoption. Martha and Rob as parents, me making them happy. Me being happy because motherhood is not part of my life, my plan.

Except I’ve never really had a plan.

And watching her I can’t quite ignore the little kernel of envy I feel burrow down inside me. Of resentment. I feel as if I wasn’t given a chance to try to be different, to come up with a plan. I didn’t give myself one, and it’s too late now.

That evening my friend Liza calls me and asks me to go out. I say yes even though I’m still tired and nauseous, because I want just a little of my old life, my old self, back.

We meet at a bar on Hester Street, a dark cave of a place in the basement of a restaurant, with throbbing music and flashing lights. I have a headache within minutes of my arrival. Liza is there along with a couple of other mutual friends, people I know from art showings and yoga classes, dance festivals and the 4th Street Food Coop. They’re all like me, working several jobs to feed their passion, happy and rootless.

Except I’m not like that any more.

I force the thought away because for one night, for a few hours, I want to forget about it all, and just be me again.

Except just minutes into the evening, I realize I don’t know who that is any more. I listen to them talk about vacations on Fire Island and an art installation in Thompson Square Park, a new restaurant in Chelsea, some performance art on Mulberry Street. It’s my world, the world I loved and lived in, and now it feels as foreign to me as the moon, as barren as a lunar landscape. And I hate that, because I don’t want to change. I don’t want to feel dissatisfied with a life that once made me so happy.

At least I think it did.

And yet already I am changing; I fight it, but still it happens.

Liza goes for drinks and she raises her eyebrows when I say I just want orange juice. She comes back with some lurid-colored girly drink for herself and hands me my juice.

“Pushing the boat out tonight, huh?”

I just smile. She narrows her eyes. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

I almost choke. “What?”

“No alcohol, you look like shit—sorry.” She shrugs. “What am I supposed to think?”

“Come on, Liza. Jump to a few conclusions, why don’t you?” I take a sip of juice and look away.

“You are,” she says, and even with the blaring techno music I can hear the quiet certainty in her tone. “If you weren’t, you would have totally laughed it off. But you didn’t.”

And I know she’s right. I handled that completely wrong, at least if I intended on keeping it a secret. But I don’t know if I really want to any more.

She leans forward. “What are you going to do? You’re keeping it, obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“If you’re not drinking.”

“Right.”

She leans back, a little smile on her lips. “So…Mommy.”

I flinch. I can’t help it. And I’m not prepared for the lightning shaft of pain that slices through me, leaves me breathless. Mommy.

No, that’s not me. That will never be me.

And as Liza looks at me curiously I try to feel the relief that thought should give me. It doesn’t come.