As I lay there watching Dr. Oldman set up the ultrasound equipment, I tuned out his small talk about his daughters—there were five of them, all named after famous mountain ranges—and forced myself to wonder why I really didn’t want Billy to come with me to the appointment.
Yes, it was true that there was a never-ending list of things Billy and I needed and that most of those things were tied to money. At night we’d strip naked and cuddle in bed, taking turns being big spoon, and going on and on about how dope life would be if we had a bottomless bank account.
No question, we’d quit our jobs. Mom had been good to us, we’d buy her her own place, one with a front- and backyard, a kitchen worthy of her skill, finally by the ocean, close enough that if she opened the windows sand would get blown in by the sea breeze. With Mom taken care of and our schedules open, next we’d buy a new car, something fast and flashy and gas-inefficient, red or yellow, maybe a sharp electric blue, good-fucking-bye to that goddamn Festiva. Billy had a book of U.S. maps. We’d pore over the pages and debate where to drive first, where we wanted the baby to be born—“How cool would it be to say you were from Zzyzx, California?” We’d go back and forth for a while until Billy would shrug and smile. “Let’s just go everywhere, literally every city in America. I want to go everywhere with you. The baby will be cool no matter where he’s from.”
This was all talk, though, something to occupy our minds and fill our sleep with big, bright images. Billy was content with our life, what we had was more than enough for him, and I was pretty sure it was enough for me too. We would find ways to make money and get by. He could’ve definitely skipped work to come with me to our baby’s twelve-week ultrasound.
In the week leading up to the appointment, every time I pictured Billy standing by my side and holding my hand, sweat would begin to collect on my upper lip. Mom always told me that this was how she knew when I was nervous, Dad used to nervous-sweat too. She remembered on their wedding day standing at the altar before him, hoping that he’d wipe his lip with the back of his hand before he kissed her.
Even just picturing Billy next to me at that moment in the clinic, I could feel the lip sweat forming. He would’ve been his lovely, charming self, making small talk right back with Dr. Oldman, asking polite questions while also being funny—“What’re your daughters’ names? I can only guess one: Sierra Nevada. You didn’t name one Kilimanjaro, did you?” Their joint laughter echoed in my head, and I felt the pits of my shirt begin to grow dark and wet.
Dr. Oldman must’ve noticed the sweat. “Hey, now, there’s no reason to be scared.” He patted my shoulder warmly. “This is a happy day. Let’s go take a closer view of this baby.”
He pressed the transducer against my belly and rubbed the gel around. I couldn’t look at the screen, so I closed my eyes and imagined more of what Billy would be saying if he were there—“Doc, are there ways we can make the baby left-handed? Lefties are harder to pitch to”—I didn’t know when I started being able to predict what Billy would say or why, even in my imagination, he annoyed me.
My thoughts were turning poisonous. I wished I had my iPod, something to help keep me steady, my mind a little fuzzy and unfocused. I was so stupid not to bring my iPod. I was about to ask Dr. Oldman if he had a CD player, a boom box—anything that could play music, any kind of music, preferably something heavy on beat, light on lyrics—when his voice cut through the air: “There! Open your eyes, see for yourself.”
The image on the screen was grainy and the baby didn’t look much like a baby, didn’t look like a plum either. I could tell that it had a head and a body and feet, but if I squinted a little, it became nothing, a smudge on a screen.
“Everything looks great. Your baby is healthy, has toes and everything,” Dr. Oldman continued. “Would you like to know the sex?”
“No.” I said it too quickly.
I tried not to squint, kept my eyes wide open, struggled not to blink, stared at this thing—no, this Fully Formed Human Being—growing inside me.
“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it? The creation of life.” Dr. Oldman looked close to tears. “These are the moments that make my job worth it.”
I felt bad for all my bad thoughts about Dr. Oldman, about Billy, about everyone. I wanted to be the type of person that walked with their back straight, the dirt under their fingernails pure. I didn’t want to be a chain saw, I wanted to be a plastic baggie. No shredding, just holding. I wondered what animals lived under the shadows of my bones. I hoped they were animals of nobility—lions and eagles and horses with long manes—and not what I feared—vultures and wolves and drooling hyenas. I spit in a customer’s pizza last week because he called me a bitch over the phone, but maybe he was having a bad day, maybe he spilled coffee on his favorite shirt, stubbed his toe, missed the bus to work, someone close to him died, maybe I really was just being a bitch.
Dr. Oldman rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat. “Sorry, you just remind me a lot of my youngest.”
I thought, This is your chance, this is where you can start, ask him about his daughter, how we’re alike, is her name Appalachian? I knew he wanted me to ask, I could see it in his clear brown eyes. I just smiled weakly. “It’s okay. Really.”
* * *
—
I LEFT THE CLINIC with an armful of pamphlets and a list of prenatal vitamin brands. It was only 10:00 a.m., it felt like it was 2:00 p.m., my sweating was only going to get worse. I threw the pamphlets, the list, and the ultrasound photo into the nearest trash can. I was halfway to my car when I stopped, sighed, ran back, fished out the ultrasound photo, and stuffed it into the front left pocket of my jeans.
The inside of the Festiva was boiling hot, the steering wheel hurt to touch. This was my nineteenth summer in Los Angeles. I should’ve known to park somewhere shaded.
I opened all the car’s doors and paced in circles around it. My shift at Eddie’s wasn’t for over two hours and I had no idea what I was going to do with that time. Everyone I knew was always bitching about how they wanted more free time and I wanted to shove them in their chests, hard, tell them how lucky they were that each of their days contained boring, beautiful structure.
I kept replaying the last thing Dr. Oldman had said to me before I left the office. He’d hugged me tight. “Congratulations on the end of your first trimester. It’s only just beginning.”
He’d said it with both rows of his crooked, yellow teeth showing, said it to excite me. But the words just banged around the inside of my head and made me feel lopsided, like I was dehydrated, even though I had just finished a whole bottle of water.
I blinked hard and then opened the car’s trunk, searched every corner of it. Nothing. I checked the glove box. Nothing. The overhead compartment. Nothing. I was about to give up when I reached under the driver’s seat and felt my fingers brush against glass. I curled them around the body and pulled out a half-full bottle of Evan Williams.