by Jana Scott
(Still in progress)
By August, she’s sick and thinks she’s dying from cancer. Nausea in the mornings. She doesn’t make it to the bathroom anymore and throws up red cranberry juice across Charlie’s quilt. Wedding gift from his mother. Hands shaking and stained with liquid, she pushes the sheets back with her legs and rolls to the carpet below. She trips over the suitcase handle under the bed. The phone is feet away. She lies in an embryo of pain until the nausea subsides and passes. Softly, she rubs her vomit-covered fingertips into the carpet. Gentle, easy circles unti l the redness blends with the white. Pink—for a girl
She calls Charlie, and by the time the screen door creaks open she’s taken a shower, perfumed the carpet, and soaked the comforter in cycle one of the washing machine. His face twitches with sympathy and says she still looks beautiful with her hair wet and uncombed. She is sorry, it’s over now, and she digs her sneaker into the carpet. He kisses her neck and her eyes close. She smells midnight three days ago and again last night, and then sawdust in his hair from the sofa factory. He lifts her chin and kisses her—this time on the lips. She tastes mouthwash and Wrigley’s gum and pulls away. He lets his hands drop and watches her eyes water. She takes his hand and guides it to her stomach. She watches his eyes carefully as they widen and then turn to meet hers. “I love you Chris,” he
says and spins her around in circles until the sickness returns, and she doesn’t
tell him in time to put her down.
You meet her in July after two years of proselyting on Barcelona’s beaches. You watch her ftom the pulpit; she flips her hair and glances at the wall clock. Ten minutes until sacrament meeting ends. Hot, in heat. You’ve seen her before.
You tell her your name is Charlie, like Chaplain but minus the mustache. She laughs and asks you for another Dr. Pepper, or do you drink those, being a good Mormon and all? You wink at her and order two cokes instead. Never give in. You smile and wonder if she’s used to the cafe scene, or just knows she’s your first date since your mission. She watches you and catches your eyes on her. She looks away. She’s a game and you’re winning.
On the way home, you sing Garth and tell her you lived in Florida four years ago and wore a thirty-pound Mickey Mouse costume one August and wiped kids’ running noses off your shoulder for your summer job. You ask her if she’s interested and she blushes. You jump her pawn. “Checkmate,” you say as you pull into her driveway. “What?” she wants to know. Confused. You laugh and run your fingers through her hair. She flinches. “See you tomorrow,” you say and leave your Queen defenseless and backed against a corner in her driveway.
In August she sleeps by the toilet and wears maternity dresses before she shows. Kao, her best friend, knows she’s pregnant and sends her a card from Utah and a picture of her in the mountains wearing a backpack and 120 pounds of muscle. Chris feels her bulge. Charlie works double shifts on the weekends and comes home to shepherd’s pie and frozen chicken stew left thawing in Ziplocs on the counter. He finds her sleeping on the used sofa factory couch, a gift from his high school girlfriend turned barmaid, who, on last account, was working for “Easy Pete’s” a block east of the San Diego Naval Base. Charlie slams a cabinet door shut to wake her up. He waits for her eyes to shift to him before he smiles and says, “I’m sorry honey, go back to sleep.” She pushes herself up on the cushions and smoothes her hair. “No, it’s okay,” she says and follows her husband to the kitchen.
She dumps a can of chicken soup into a microwave dish. Costco brand. He takes off his shoes and waits at the table. She pours his milk and sits across from him as he eats. “Priesthood basketball game tonight. You coming?” he asks. The nausea builds. “Uh, no,” she says and holds her belly. “Can you wash the dishes?” she asks and hobbles to the bathroom.
She wakes up at two-thirty, finding him next to her smelling like sweat and the boys’ night out. Same as the night before. His sleeping arms are draped across her chest and they become heavy. She rolls to her side, the lingering sweat making her stomach ache. She watches the Seth Thomas on the wall tick slowly . . . the beats in synchrony with her heartbeat . . . her child’s silent breaths. She rubs her stomach and feels the gentle swelling rise, forming a small knot across her abdomen. She sighs and reaches for her clothes.
In the kitchen she finds the sink full and Charlie’s dishes still lying on the table. She moans and frowns. Filling the sink with soapy water, she reaches for his cup, then plate and silverware. His dishes from breakfast and lunch the previous day join them. Then the beer mugs filled with Pepsi and Kool-Aid from yesterday’s living room baseball party with the sofa factory’s movers and shippers. She washes each article and hangs them to dry in the racks. Her stomach begins to ache. Her head throbs . . . its power drips slowly downward, through her garments, leaving a puddle of tears on the floor.
His mother calls at nine the next morning. “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” she says and laughs. “Of course not,” Chris responds and rolls over in bed. His mother pauses. “When I was pregnant,” she says, “I made casseroles on Saturdays and froze them. When I was sick, I thawed them for Charlie’s father. Soup can’t sustain a man,” she adds. Chris sighs. Charlie tells his mother everything.
She spends the morning ironing his Sunday shirts and dusting the corners of the den she had hoped to use. The desk is old, vacant. She flips through an Ensign lying on the coffee table. Cover of a mother holding a baby. Her calling. Charlie’s dream. She puts the magazine down. Her eyes shift toward the wall. There she finds Charlie’s diplomas lining the walls. High School, Lifeguard, Eagle Scout and Most Valuable Player-Stake Soccer Team. Undefeated Champs-’79. She pulls her hair back, looking for hers. Young Woman of the Year. Most likely to Succeed. Merida High School. Honor Student. Gold seal attached, tassel hanging off the side, gathering dust. “Chris Andrews” it reads. Calligraphy ink still fresh. She follows the framed papers and watches as the print grows larger, overshadowing the fineness of her own. Charlie Robinson. Mr. Charlie Robinson. Robinson, Charles. The name unchanged throughout her husband’s career. Chris Robinson. She pulls at her wedding ring, tight around her swollen finger. Chris Andrews. Chris Robinson. A changed name, a changed life.
Your mother fixes you cold sandwiches and washes your football uniform while your father takes you hunting in the mountains and drives you to the college basketball games. Your sisters play the piano and take art lessons, and you wrestle and find a dog under the Christmas tree when you are ten. Your mother reads romance novels about Southern belles and shows you pictures of cover models with clean-cut haircuts and bulging muscles. She tells you to be just like them. Brave, strong, a provider. You turn sixteen and bring girlfriends to Sunday dinner. “I want to cook,” you tell her. She waits in the living room until the smoke alarm sounds and then tells you to leave, to let her do it. You smile and serve your date a casserole that your mother denies she made. “I love you, “your mother tells you and musses your hair. “My wife will be like you,” you tell her. She smiles and raises your allowance.
She has Cup-0-Noodle waiting for him when he comes home that night. “Is this it?” he wants to know. “Budget,” she tells him. “I should have gone to school . .. ,” she mutters. Charlie sits back in his chair and closes his eyes. He pushes his hair out of his face. She
expects an outburst but he turns to her and rubs his temples. “Don’t start Chris,” he says. “You didn’t have to marry me.” She turns away. He eats his soup. She washes his dishes.
He sleeps with white gym socks covering his toes-naked chest mummified between the blankets. She smiles and watches his fitful sleep. She kisses his chin and he stirs and then turns on his stomach. Unable to sleep, she rises and eases herself to the carpet below. She pulls the suitcase from under the bed. She pulls the flaps back. Her childhood. Vocabulary flash cards, freshman year homecoming corsage, sixth grade birthday cards, I-love-you notes from her father. She finds the envelopes from Skip at the bottom, postmarked Guatemala. “Remember how you couldn’t go to the bathroom in public places by yourself … always made me stand outside? Couldn’t see that people were looking at you because you are beautiful, not ugly. And you wouldn’t buy a dress until Kao saw it, made sure it looked right. Be yourself Chris, before you be someone’s wife …. ” Chris folds the letter and puts it in the suitcase. Sighing, she looks upward at the wedding picture glowing on her dresser. White lace and covered canvas hiding teenage acne. She reaches for it, to hold the innocence, but stops. Holding her breath, she closes the flaps and slides the suitcase under the bed. She moves to the hallway where the light shines through the facade of happiness. There she sobs.
In Barcelona, on Mondays, you watch bullfights and Flamenco dancers with black pointed tap shoes and hand clickers. You play the piano in high-o from the street urchins with dirty fingernails and split ends and give them complimentary books if they’ll tell their parents about the men in dark suits.
She dates Skip, a skinny lacrosse player from across town. He’s in her
ward and brings petunias to her when she turns sixteen. She works three to
seven cleaning rat droppings from the floors of the day-glo, neon-signed pizza
parlor in the college district, and she thanks God that shes making enough to
pay far a new sweater every month. She eats egg yolk shakes on Saturdays to
grow a bra size before graduation and the trip to Mexico with her friends
afterward. She wears tank tops because she has the body and Skip tells her he
likes them. She takes the S.A. T before her cap and gown come in the mail and
she sweats in front of 500 friends at Senior Awards. Class President.
Skip asks her to Prom, but he buys a stereo and runs out of money a
week before, so he cooks spaghetti far her at his house and feeds it to her with
chopsticks. She loves him and tells her mother that she is getting married, shes
never met anyone like him. Her mother laughs and says she is too attached.
Skip leaves on his mission two weeks later.
He shaves with slow, even, perfect strokes. He hears the door creak open
and watches his wife’s swollen body reflected in the bathroom mirror. Two months
left until the baby, thank goodness. He is tired of pregnancy. She smiles when she
notices his glances and stands beside him, leaning on the counter for support.
She is huge. “Hey beautiful,” he coos and ruffles her hair. “You look like an
angel.” She smiles. “Have you seen my toothbrush?” she asks, opening drawers.
He nicks his chin . “Damn!” he mutters and reaches for the Kleenex box. She sees
the toothbrush’s tail lying beneath a mound of wet towels on the floor. She tries to
bend over, using the counter for support. “Charlie,” she says, out of breath. “Can
you get that for me?” She motions her head toward the ground. He nods through
the mirror. “Uh, just a minute,” he says and dips the razor in the sink. He starts to
shave the other side of his face.
