Evangeline twisted her mouth and shrugged. What would the nurse on the line think of her? She was sixteen and pregnant and bleeding for a while and not calling. She’d had enough judgment thrown at her for a couple of lifetimes. Even her own mother had thought she was beyond help.
Lorrie gave a stern nod at the phone, and it was strange, because Lorrie was so clear and certain in her directive that Evangeline felt she had no choice. The on-call nurse asked the same questions as Lorrie, and it comforted Evangeline to know that someone smart about pregnancies lived next door. The nurse made Evangeline repeat back that she’d call her doctor’s office first thing in the morning.
As she hung up, Lorrie said, “Tomorrow’s my day off. I can take you whenever you need.”
Evangeline thanked her, and Lorrie stood to go. At the door, she said, “Call me first thing when you know the time of your appointment. My number’s by the phone. And if things change or you just wake up scared or anything else, call me, okay?”
Evangeline agreed, and Lorrie, as if sensing hesitation in her, said, “Anything else you’re worried about?”
“She said I should have called the day it started.” She glanced up, tried to gauge Lorrie’s face. “Said sometimes these things can be serious. You don’t think I hurt the baby, do you?”
Lorrie pulled Evangeline to her. Her arms were as dense and strong as bundles of knotted wire, and Evangeline felt a dull pain from the pressure on her ribs. Still, being held like that, like a child deserving comfort, made her want to cry.
After a moment, Lorrie pulled away, held her at arm’s length and said firmly, “You didn’t hurt the baby. You’re doing right by that little one. Next time you’ll know, is all.”
37
Day of My Death
I keep thinking of my mom. Can’t help it. She set up in my head when I was a little kid, and ever since then those mom eyes of hers have watched my every move. It used to make me angry, how she was in there judging me all the time. When I was twelve, I started yelling at her, defending myself against things I’d only imagined she’d said.
Once, when I wasn’t invited to a party at Jackson’s house, I shouted that she was the reason no one wanted me around. “Who wouldn’t be weird if their mom was always telling them what a loser they are!” My real mom never once said anything like that, but the mom in my head did all the time. My real mom listened for a while with this patient look on her face, then held up a hand. When I stopped ranting, she said, “I’m not sure where you’re coming up with this stuff, but here’s the deal: Every mother screws up her children one way or another. It’s up to you whether you stay that way.”
That thing about it being up to me? Whether I fixed myself or not? That’s the one thing she really did say that made me the maddest. Because it’s not that simple. It’s true if you look at it one way and not true if you look at it another. Not that I’m mad about it anymore. I don’t have time for that. But it does make me sad—thinking she might believe I made a choice about what I became.
But my mom is like that herself. She can look like one thing from a certain angle and something completely different from another. There are things about her I’ll never understand, like how she could be so strong and so weak at the same time, particularly when it came to my dad.
I keep thinking back to when I was eleven and my dad showed up with a scorching red RAM 1500 truck we couldn’t possibly afford. He’d rustled up the down payment by raiding a small college fund Mom had socked away for Nells and me. Mom had to be furious, but I didn’t blame him. His old truck was a gear-grinding, oxidized navy Chevy with ruined seats and a rear end beat to hell. It wasn’t worth shit, so he said we’d keep it and I could have it when I turned fifteen. Back then, I thought it was a helluva deal.
The RAM was repossessed six months in, but we still had it that day in the grocery parking lot, the one where my mother was smacked to the ground. And like that, my room is smelling like hot pavement and car exhaust from that August afternoon.
This is no abstract theory now. I’m there, standing on that simmering tar, living it like it’s something new. When Mom falls, my old English teacher, Ms. Grainger, rushes over, and so does a guy, all muscles and shaved head, who’d been loading groceries into a neighboring car. They slip hands under each arm, guide her up. Mom tries to shrug them off, saying, “I’m fine. I’m fine. I can’t believe how clumsy I am.”
Ms. Grainger steps back, gives Mom some space, but the man’s not having it. He’s got these huge hands, veins bulging, and one has a grip on Mom’s upper arm. He’s holding her away from Dad, saying, “But he hit you. He knocked you down.” With his free hand, he’s digging out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”
The weird part is, Mom seems genuinely confused. She swipes an arm across her face as if dazed, says, “No. No. It wasn’t like that. I tripped. He swung his arm to catch me. He was trying to catch me, you see?”
The man is struggling to dial one-handed. He stops when she says that. Now he’s the one confused. He looks at the teacher standing there.
“I’m not sure,” the teacher says. “I didn’t see how it started. It was her falling that caught my eye.” Those eyes that did the catching? Well, they’re squirming around like they don’t believe a word coming out of her own mouth.
“But your face,” the man says to Mom. “You’re bleeding.”
“I hit the rear gate on the way down.”
My father’s arms hang limp at his sides, his eyes teary like they always are. He steps toward Mom, and the man pulls her back, as if even with some boxer guy holding her, Dad might take another swing at her.
“Let me help my wife,” he says. He says it all kind of submissive, and you couldn’t imagine a man like that—so soft and weak and pleading—hitting anyone. “She tripped. I couldn’t catch her in time. I’m worried about her. Please, I need to get her to the doctor.”
The man lets Mom break away. She goes to Dad, leans into him a little, laughs, and says, “I’m such a klutz.”
Dad touches the bruise forming near her mouth. “Let’s get you seen, okay?”
They’re so convincing that even I’m starting to wonder if I saw it right. The man turns to me with that question on his face, and I look away. Ms. Grainger leans into Mom, whispers, “Give me a call, Lorrie, if there’s anything you need. Anything at all.” Mom winces as if pinched, and the teacher, embarrassed, retreats. The man shoves his phone into his pocket, raises his hands in surrender, says, “Okay. Okay.” He looks Dad over, then Mom. Both of them are ignoring him now, and he turns back to his car.
We drive home in silence. We’re supposed to pick up Nells at a friend’s house, but Dad says he’ll get her later. Mom’s face keeps bleeding. She daubs at it with a corner of her sweater. No one mentions a doctor again.
* * *
—
THERE’S NOTHING AFTER THAT. A screen gone blank. I stop and rewind. Replay it, slower this time.
I’m thinking I must have felt it—that first tiny hole, the one that let evil slip in—when Dad hit Mom. I stop there, but I’m wrong. It’s nothing so simple as hating Dad or feeling guilty for not protecting Mom.