And now Marissa is crying, her face screwed up, mascara running. “I’m sorry. I don’t think that! I don’t think that at all. I came here wanting to make things better!”
Angel is so, so tired. Gently, without rancor, she says, “Thanks for trying, Mom.”
“Why can’t I make things better, Angel?”
They stand looking at each other for a long moment, Marissa’s eyes full and imploring. Angel almost relents and steps forward to hug her, but then her mother turns away, gripping the top of her purse as if it’s a life preserver.
THINGS WERE TENSE after Mike found out about her pregnancy, but as Angel’s stomach grew, mostly he just ignored her. One afternoon, however, she let herself into the house to find that Mike was working from home. He was at his drafting table, which took up a wall of the living room, absorbed in his silver laptop. He was spooning blueberry Greek yogurt into his mouth, mawing it distractedly. He’d just showered, probably after a run; his hair had grown out and was wet, curly at the nape. He was in his faded jeans, the heels of his cowboy boots hooked on the rung of the stool. When he finished the yogurt, he stacked the container inside another empty one beside him, then ripped the foil off a third and started in.
“Hey,” Angel said. “That’s my yogurt.”
Mike didn’t look at her. Spoon still in hand, he typed a few words.
“Mike. That’s my yogurt.”
“I’m working, Angel.” He scooped another bite, spoon rasping the plastic.
“Okay, I’m just saying you’re eating all my yogurt.”
Very slowly he set the container down and turned to her on his swivel stool. He swallowed with exaggeration and then asked, “Do you do the grocery shopping?”
“Yes. I went with Mom. I picked that yogurt, because I need protein and calcium.” She indicated her stomach.
Very slowly, as if she were a foreigner, Mike said, “Do you, with your hard-earned income, purchase the groceries for this house?”
“No,” said Angel.
“Then don’t fucking interrupt me when I’m working to tell me I can’t eat food I bought.”
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying please don’t eat my yogurt that my mom bought me.”
His face went rigid. “You think your mother’s salary covers all the expenses in this house? You think it paid for your computer? You think it’ll cover your little teenage pregnancy? It sure didn’t cover a box of condoms, did it?”
“Why you gotta be such a dick?” Angel was electrified by her daring. She’d never sworn at an adult, never challenged anyone so directly. “You shit on everyone. Sorry your boss doesn’t think you’re as smart as you think you are. Sorry you’re not some big-shot architect, but ever think it’s maybe ’cause you’re just not that good?”
And then he was up and moving swiftly toward her. Angel backed up, but there was nowhere to back into, because the couch was behind her. Mike kept advancing. He put his hands around her neck. He didn’t squeeze; the gesture might have been a performance for someone else’s benefit. Her hands flew up to meet his.
“You piss me off so fucking much,” he said softly, and shook her, like a cartoon throttling.
Angel was more surprised than anything. Strangely, she wasn’t scared, not yet, though that would come in the moments after. Some part of her was exhilarated, because despite the fact that he was looming over her, his hands almost gentle around her throat, despite the fact that he was bigger and stronger than her, she understood that she was the powerful one in this scenario. She’d enraged him.
Her hands were on his, clutching at them, and even now she remembers the odd intimacy of the pose: his shampoo smell, the dryness of the stretch of skin between his thumbs and forefingers, his trimmed nails smooth as river stones, the rough spots on the knuckles of his thumbs. His face was almost touching hers, his mouth contorted, his even, yellowing teeth bared, each whisker rooted black in its pale pore.