and I tell her.
Only, once I do
I realize it’s not true.
What I really feel
is robbed.
She stole
the straight-shooter I knew,
left behind this double-talker
who can teach me, what?
How to lie to my kid
when the time comes?
“You know why I told you
the truth now?
So you’d know
I understand what
you’re going through.”
I roll my eyes
and stomp out of the room
for emphasis.
I needed you to be my rock, Mom,
is what I’m thinking,
a hefty boulder that could
bear my weight,
not some small, smooth stone
washed up on
the same shore as me.
“Always tell the truth,”
Mother used to say to me.
Who’s the liar now?
One week since Mom’s
big confession,
and I’m still asking
how did I miss the signs?
The way it seemed
she was in school forever,
first high school, then college,
Grandma filling in the blanks
of her absences.
There I was thinking
my mom’s just going back to school
as an adult,
me patting her on the back,
proud that she did it,
proud that she looked young as
all her classmates.
Talk about stupid!
Guess the last laugh’s
on me.
I can’t hate her now.
I need her too much,
especially since
she knows what it takes
to do this mom thing,
to have a kid
when you’re a kid.
It’s not like
they teach this stuff
in school.
She lied to me, yeah.
But it must have been hard,
homework at the table
squeezed in between feeding me,
and running off to work
at night.
I might have noticed, except
she more than made the grade
as mom.
Hardly ever complained,
now that I think about it.
How’d she do that?
Okay, so she lied to me.
So what?
She loved me up one side
and down the other.
Nothing hypocritical
about her hugs,
now was there?
Dead on my feet,
too many nights of no sleep,
and teachers wonder why
I nod off in class.
This forced exile
on my back
is too tough to take.
I daydream about detaching
this protrusion,
setting it on a table
at bedtime.
Jesus, I’m begging you.
Please let me sleep on my side
just one night, Lord.
Just one!
I swear,
I’d do anything you ask.
Try me.
I feel funny
sitting in youth group,
the half moon of my belly
putting space between me
and everybody else.
But that’s okay.
I’d rather sit with Mom anyway,
feeling the cozy blanket
of her love
warming me up
in the pew.
Folks at church
treat me better
than I imagined.
Sure, I get a couple of looks,
but mostly it’s ladies saying,
“We’re praying for you, honey,”
or “Let me know
if there’s something I can do.”
You’d think I grew
a few extra mothers.
Some days,
it’s enough
to make me cry.
I don’t think
it’s their words, exactly.
I don’t know.
Maybe it’s God
reminding me
I’m not as alone
as I thought.
Last night’s news
was a shocker.
A fifteen-year-old girl I know
was killed by a drunk driver.
A drunk driver!
It’s not like I knew her well,
but still.
Our volleyball team
played against her’s
last season.
I can see her now,
standing at the serving line,
alive as anything.
It’s crazy.
You could be scoring points
for your team one minute,
and the next,
suddenly not be.
That’s when it hit me:
There are worse things
than being fifteen
and pregnant.
Mom makes sure
I see the doctor
once a month.
“Are you taking your vitamins?”
“Yes.”
“Any spotting?” she asks.
“No.”
“Good! Let’s hear that heartbeat.”
It all gets to be routine,
until she suggests
a sonogram.
No biggie, I tell myself.
She spreads some jelly
on my belly,
hooks me up
to a monitor,
and-voila!
Something moves
on the screen.
Little elbows,
little hands,
little feet,
little toes,
doll-sized head,
perfect mouth,
perfect nose.
It’s a baby!
A real, live baby in there!
A baby!
And it’s mine.
Early Saturday morning,
I speedwalk to the park
bouncing the ball of my belly.
I head straight for the VB court,
then sit on the sidelines
like some old fogey,
and stare at a stranger
serving up what used to be
my game.
I raise my arms
like memory,
imagine I am helping that ball
clear the net.
I never met a volleyball
I didn’t like,
only now, it doesn’t like me.
That’s silly, I know,
but try telling that
to my heart.
At the Saturday matinee,
Sethany and I surrender our tickets
and make a beeline
for the popcorn concession.
With prying eyes sizing up
my supersized belly,
I’d just as soon skip it.
But Sethany says,
“What’s a movie
without popcorn?”
So, I stuff my shame
and feign nonchalance better
than any Oscar-winning actress.
Thankfully, we get in a line
that moves in record time,
and we’re soon enshrined
in the blessed twilight
of the theater, where
for 141 minutes,
plus previews-
I get to be
just another kid
in the dark.
I lay on the dressing table,
wrapped in a thin gown,
and yards of awe.
Obviously,
I’m no stranger
to basic biology,
or human anatomy.
I understand the work
of lung and aorta.
So explain to me
why the sound
of a simple heartbeat
suddenly seems more
like magic.