Originally written for the University of Texas Creative Writing Honors program in the spring of 2019.

—

“Susannah, you’ve got a phone call.”

I looked up from my book. Mrs. Houghton stood in the doorway to my room with a hand on her hip. She cocked her head at me and I set my book on the bedside table. I hadn’t had a phone call in weeks. 

“Who is it?” I asked. 

“Your mother,” Mrs. Houghton said. I followed her into the kitchen, where the black rotary hung on the wall. The receiver sat on the counter I’d washed shiny after lunch. I picked it up slowly. 

“I see you remembered the phone number” I said. In the living room, I saw Mr. Houghton cross his arms while Mrs. Houghton started setting the table for dinner.

My mother huffed the same way she did the time she caught me smoking behind the red oak in our backyard. “Don’t get smart with me, Susannah. I have bad news.”

I couldn’t fathom what could be worse than the news I’d delivered to my parents eight months ago, sitting in our living room back in Huntsville. The looks on their faces when I said I thought I was pregnant hadn’t left my mind since “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Your grandfather’s passed.”

Air caught in my lungs. “That’s not funny,” I said. Grandpa had been the only one to tell me it’d all be alright. I told him I was being sent away and he kissed me on the forehead and told me to write often—which I hadn’t been doing—and that he’d see me as soon as I came home. He didn’t say he was disappointed. My mother screamed herself hoarse at me, and my father didn’t say a word on the drive to Dr. Rumphf’s office, but Grandpa tried to smile when we got back home.

“I’m not joking, Susannah Grace.”

“But,” I started, resting a hand on my bulging stomach, “he was fine when I left.”

“He was old.” The line went quiet. Then, “Last night, in his sleep.”

My knees buckled. “Oh, god.” I couldn’t imagine him tucked into bed after praying my grandmother’s rosary, closing his eyes and never opening them again. “Oh, god.”

“We’re working on the funeral arrangements right now,” my mother said. Her voice was flat, like her father hadn’t just died. Like she was reporting the weather. 

“When is it?” I asked. I did the math in my head—it’d probably be the next weekend so all the family could get to Alabama. If I wore black with an empire waist and stood in the back—

“You can’t come.”

Mr. Houghton slammed his briefcase on the coffee table and I almost let out a sob. But he didn’t like it when I made noise, so I swallowed it and asked again, “How could you say that?”

“You’re eight months pregnant, Susannah,” my mother said. “And nobody knows.”

“I’ll stand in the back,” I said. My throat hurt with the effort of not crying. “I’ll wear a giant sweater. I’ll hold a carpet bag in front of my stomach. I’ll do anything you want.”

“I’m not about to let you ruin what’s left of your reputation by flaunting your stupidity to the whole town. Besides, it would only upset everyone.”

“But he’s my grandfather!”

“It’s incredibly selfish to make this about what you want,” my mother started. “And don’t pretend I’m the villain here. Remember what got you sent away in the first place.”

I took a wet, shaky breath. “I never wrote to him.”

“You never were one for sitting still long enough to put pen to paper,” she said. “I’ll see you soon enough. Be good.”

I stood in the kitchen clutching the receiver to my ear and trying to stay upright. Mr. Houghton came up beside me and put his hand on my shoulder. I sniffled, but before I could look at him, he’d put the phone back on the hook. “Pour me a glass of scotch,” he said. He was already walking toward the couch.

—

I went straight to bed after a silent supper: boiled Brussels sprouts and tuna casserole. As soon as I had the plates scrubbed clean, I ducked my head and pushed a boxed playpen in front of the door so I wouldn’t be bothered. 

The next morning, my eyes felt heavy. I’d dreamt of Grandpa and all the times I’d sat with him in his study while he read me books. He started with picture books, and then moved to Nancy Drew when I was old enough to hold the books myself. Once I started high school, he started clipping newspaper articles for me, because he thought every young woman ought to know what was going on in the world. 

“You’re a smart girl,” he’d say after we finished reading in the afternoons. “Don’t forget that, Susie Grace.”

I must have broken his heart. 

When I finally got up out of bed and into the kitchen to fix breakfast, my eyes felt gritty. I fried the bacon and scrambled the eggs still in my nightgown. It wasn’t worth getting dressed—I was forbidden from leaving the house. My bare feet were eclipsed by my belly, so I walked carefully from the stove to the dining table. Pregnancy was just so big. Before this, I hadn’t known just how large being pregnant was—the physicality of everything stretching to accommodate someone uninvited. And then the way your emotions had to stretch just as wide because of the hormones and complicated relationship with your unexpected houseguest.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Mrs. Houghton said as she breezed into the kitchen. Her dress was a dull mustard color, and she had on matching heels. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a beehive, showing off the pearl earrings Mr. Houghton had given her for their last anniversary. She was always wearing those around me and then made a big show of locking them up at night, like I’d be stupid enough to steal them. “Barefoot and pregnant is even worse than being a pregnant teenager.”

“I’m not feeling well,” I explained. “The call I had last night was about my grandfather. He passed the night before.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Houghton said. “I’m sorry, Susannah.”

“Thank you.”

“But that’s no excuse for looking like Mammy. Go get ready and then you can eat.”

I shot a look at Mr. Houghton. He said, “It’s a wonder you got pregnant in the first place” and barked out an order for more coffee, which Mrs. Houghton was quick to fill.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I waddled into the bathroom and pulled a brush through my hair until it hung in a dark curtain around my face. My eyes were still puffy, but I combed some black mascara through my lashes to distract. The pot of cream rouge next to the sink was almost empty—the one thing I always made sure to put on. It gave my face some life when all the life in me seemed confined to the baby. 

When I found out, I was completely shocked. Nick and I had only slept together once, in November. But I did something stupid over Christmas break when Nick was getting his college acceptances. All out of state. I didn’t tell anyone about Charlie, not even the doctor. It wasn’t a conversation I wanted. It wasn’t like he’d ever find out, what with moving to Montgomery to join the Air Force and all.

Nick, on the other hand.

“I’m pregnant,” I’d said. We were on a park bench near the church where we met years ago. 

He dropped my hand. “What?”

“I saw the doctor last week.” My palm fell flat against my belly even though I’d been trying not to touch it. Him. Or her. I settled on it. 

Nick scooted away from where he’d been sitting leg-to-leg with me. His mouth hadn’t closed. “But we,” he finally started, “only slept together the once.”

“I don’t know how far along I am,” I lied. Dr. Rumphf had told me: six weeks. 

“Are you saying it’s mine?” he asked. His whole face had gone pale and he looked nothing like the happy-go-lucky boy I’d met after Sunday service when I was 10. His mouth, normally upturned after the end of a joke, was a thin, straight line. 

“Who’s else would it be?” I asked. Slicked-back hair and piercing blue eyes entered my mind, taunting me. Begging me to stir up more trouble. 

Nick stood and began pacing. “Am I supposed to marry you or something?” he asked. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. The way he asked made my stomach sour.

“I have to go to college. You can’t keep me here with this, Susannah, I’m sorry.” 

“You sound real sorry, Nick.”

He glared. “Don’t act stupid.”

I got off the bench and set my hands on my bony hips. “Don’t call me that.”

He stopped and straightened his spine, gaining at least another inch on me. “Then don’t fucking act like this.”

“Act like what?” I asked. “I’m not over the damn moon right now.”

“Then you’re getting rid of it?” Nick asked. He looked me right in the eye.

I scrunched my face up. “I don’t have that kind of money. Or the connection. And my folks aren’t keen on their only daughter damning herself.”

“So?” Nick asked. He was pacing the length of the bench again, scratching the back of his neck. 

I blocked his path. We were maybe half a foot apart, but I crossed my arms over my chest instead of grabbing his hand. “I’m going away. To live with some friends of my parents who can’t have a baby in Decatur.”

“You’re not keeping it,” he said, and relaxed some of the tension in his shoulders. In the distance, I could see my parents driving up the road, with a steamer trunk tied down to the roof of the car. “So this isn’t permanent.”

“My mother promised me I’d be back to normal come next school year,” I said, voice measured.

“Will you be back after?” he asked. Our car honked at me from the curb. 

“I’ll come home.” I turned and walked towards the car. My steps were slow, and I almost hoped Nick might say something else or decide to hug me. He didn’t, so I slipped into a silent car to start my life with two strangers. Three, counting the it in my stomach.

“You can write,” I said just before I shut the car door. “It’s Frank and Emily Houghton, the only ones in Decatur.” He stood still, just watching, as my mother swatted my leg and told me to sit down like a lady.

I hadn’t heard from him since.

Every time Mr. Houghton brought in the mail with him after work, I waited to see if anything was mine. Some notes from my school friends, who all thought I’d been on an extended vacation with some relatives. A bill for a doctor’s appointment, addressed to me but set beside the checkbook on the kitchen table. Envelopes from the Air Force base in Montgomery that I asked Mrs. Houghton to return to the post office unopened.

Never anything worth my attention. 

I came back into the kitchen in an empire-waist dress a size too big that Mrs. Houghton had bought for me at a thrift shop on her way to Sear’s. Mr. Houghton was gone, but a stack of envelopes sat in his place. 

“A neighbor brought this by,” Mrs. Houghton said. She rose from her seat and straightened her earrings. “Looks like a letter for you wound up in their mailbox.”

I didn’t want to get my hopes up. For all I knew, it could have been junk mail with my name attached. But I took the envelope anyway. It was addressed to me, from Nicholas Sawyer. I nearly dropped it.

“Who’s Nicholas Sawyer?” Mrs. Houghton asked. She wasn’t looking at me. 

“A boy from church,” I said. 

“The boy?” she asked. She and Mr. Houghton had been trying to weasel the name of the father out of me since my first night. Didn’t know what good it would have done them, but I kept saying I couldn’t remember. Watching Mrs. Houghton’s face go purple was one of the only things I had to look forward to after I first arrived.

“A friend,” I snapped, pulling the envelope open. One page of lined paper inside, not longer than a few paragraphs. His looping letters were in grey pencil lead because he hated scratching out mistakes. “I’m going to read this in my room.”

Mrs. Houghton started to object, but I went back down the hallway, past the bathroom, into the spare bedroom before she could say anything. It was a going to be a nursery once I was out. Boxes had already started piling up in the corners of baby clothes and pieces of furniture. There was a basinet in the closet I tried not to look at when I got dressed every day, but any time I looked in the mirror I saw myself dwarfed by a future that wasn’t mine. Every day I had a little less space for myself.

I sat on the bed, still unmade. If Mrs. Houghton came in, she’d demand I pull the sheets tight and fold pristine hospital corners. I felt more comfortable around the unmade fabric, wrinkled from my fitful sleep. Before I read the letter, I propped my swollen legs up on the extra pillow and leaned against the headboard. 

Dear Susannah,

I almost wanted to stop. My name in his handwriting brought me back to writing notes at school or during church service. We passed them when nobody else was looking, and I had a hatbox full of them underneath my bed at home. 

Dear Susannah, 

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve seen your folks at church and around town, and I think they miss you. Even though they keep telling everyone that you’re on vacation with an aunt. Huntsville isn’t the same with you gone. I miss you.

I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ll be in Decatur on the 11th for a few hours, if you’d like to see me. I’ll sit in my car in the parking lot at the Wildlife Refuge right off highway 67 at noon. I’ll only wait a few minutes.

Sincerely, 

Nick

So he wanted to see me, finally. Anger and anticipation tangled themselves in my throat. It took him six and a half months to finally write. I crushed the notebook paper in my fist, digging my nails into his stupid words. Then the baby kicked. I hadn’t felt it kick all morning.

I uncurled my hand and smoothed the note on the bed. I could see places where he’d erased, trying to pick the best way to talk to me after so long. The word sincerely looked like it’d been written over the ghost of something else. If I looked closely, I could almost see love. If I blinked, it was gone. But he could have written before, or even called. I’d been so afraid he was going to break up with me, but that’s exactly where we were now.

And then there was the problem of leaving the house. Even if Mrs. Houghton hadn’t read my mail and resealed it before I got a chance to look it over myself, she was’t one to send me on errands. I offered to walk to the corner store for a bag of flour in my fifth month and got a fifteen minute lecture on my wild ways and how my job was to give them a baby, not to flaunt my mistakes all around town. Mrs. Houghton went red in the face from yelling and Mr. Houghton made a scene about the cream gravy being too runny at supper that night. 

The baby kicked again. I curled my hands around my belly and it kicked three more times. The 11th was tomorrow, a Tuesday. Usually the day Mrs. Houghton did the shopping. Maybe if I snuck out just after she left and took an express bus to the edge of town, I could do it. Maybe I’d see Nick and not want to sock him in the jaw. Or maybe I would, and he’d dodge me and laugh like we used to. 

Maybe I could get my life back.

—

I dreamt of Grandpa again that night. This time we were in the same park where I’d told Nick about the baby. He wrapped a liver-spotted arm around my shoulder and pulled me in close. 

“Quite the pickle you’re in, Susie Grace.” 

I rested my head on his shoulder. “Did dying hurt?”

Grandpa snorted the way he’d clear the pipe smoke from his lungs after supper. “Course not.”

A tear snaked its way down my cheek and curled around my chin. It dripped onto Grandpa’s oatmeal colored linen shirt, making a muddy splotch. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

“I’m still waiting on one of those letters you promised me.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said. Grandpa laughed. When I tried to pat my belly, the bulging bump was gone. My heartbeat sped up as I patted my abdomen, searching for any sign of it. “Where did it go?” I asked. 

He was suddenly across the park from me. “Come on,” he said, motioning for me to follow him.

“But where did it go?” I shot up out off the bench and felt like my middle had been hollowed out. My thumb curled into my navel and nearly pushed through the skin into nothingness. 

“Alright, Susie. You can stay here, but I’m heading back.”

“Wait!” I tried to walk but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. 

He waved. “Can’t wait for that letter.”

I woke up. 

My eyelashes were nearly stuck together with crusty dried tears, but when I forced them apart I was met with the shape of my bump. I rubbed back and forth along the dark line through my navel while I tried to calm my breathing. The baby kicked in rapid succession.

I hadn’t ever spoken to it before. The idea seemed stupid—useless, even, because I wouldn’t be around afterwards for it to remember the sound of my voice. Why get it confused before it’s even born? But I wanted to talk to someone. 

“Um,” I tried, patting my navel with mechanically stiff palms. “Hello in there.”

I expected it might kick, but nothing happened. 

“You probably don’t know who I am,” I said. I had to whisper or Mrs. Houghton might check up on me. “I guess I’m your mother.” I’d never said the word aloud; it felt strange tripping off my tongue. “Forget I said that.”

I rolled over on my side, cradling my belly with one hand. “I’ve never thought about being your…you know. I don’t think I want to be.” Two kicks landed in my ribs. “Don’t know if I’d be good at it.” My eyes traced the eggshell walls in the almost-nursery. I imagined Mrs. Houghton rocking the baby to sleep and putting it down where my bed was. “But I would have painted your room a prettier color.”

When I finally got up, it was just after Mr. Houghton left or work. Mrs. Houghton sat at the kitchen table in her pearls and smart sweater set. She narrowed her eyes at me as I walked past her for a glass of water. 

“I’m not feeling well this morning,” I said. I kept my eyes on the ground. 

Immediately, she was up. “What’s the matter?”

I gripped my water glass tighter. “Just some lightheadedness. If it’s alright with you, I think I’d better stay in bed today.”

She crossed the floor with a downturned mouth and concern clouding her normally unfazed eyes. Her hand brushed the back of my forehead in a motherly gesture. “You don’t feel warm.”

“Like I said, I think it’s just a touch of vertigo. I’ve been pretty upset lately, what with Grandpa and my mother—”

“Maybe I should take you to see Mal,” Mrs. Houghton said. She crossed her arms. 

“I can still feel the baby kicking,” I said. My hand went to my belly and I pressed my palm against the underside. One kick, in solidarity. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Sometimes an upset stomach can feel like kicking even when the baby isn’t moving.”

I nodded. “I promise, I’ve felt it kicking.”

“Don’t call my baby an it, Susannah.” Mrs. Houghton relaxed, latching onto the disrespect I was showing her baby. “You can go lie down, but I’d like you to clean the living room before Frank gets home. I’ll be running errands today, so there won’t be anyone to remind you.”

“I’ll try,” I said. 

“Don’t try,” Mrs. Houghton started, “just do what I’ve asked you.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

She collected her bag and gloves from the end table next to the sofa. “Why are you still standing here? Go lie down already.”

I turned towards the back bedroom and curled my hands around my belly. “I hate her,” I whispered as she opened and shut the front door. 

It kicked again.

—

I hadn’t been on a bus by myself since before I got pregnant. I had just enough change for the ride to the park, but I was sure I could bum a few quarters off Nick one I saw him. As the bus pulled away from the stop—a block and a half from the Houghton’s residence—I pulled my coat tight around me. It was a size too big and much to warm for the stale air and wimpy breeze from the cracked bus window. I kept my eyes on the spot under the seat in front of me.

Trees and people and other cars on the road blurred between stops. I missed being one of them, outside, able to do what I wanted. It was a risk even being on the bus, and I knew that if Mrs. Houghton—or God forbid, Mr. Houghton—found out, I’d be in so much trouble they might lock me in my room til the baby came. But it had been so long since I’d been alone, away from the watchful eye of a parent or guardian. My heartbeat picked up in my wrists with each stop that brought me closer to the park. 

A man sat beside me at the next stop. He was smoking and reading the paper when he sat down, and didn’t even look my direction. The smoke wafting from his mouth turned my stomach upside down. Everyone smoked, even Mr. Houghton, but it had only taken me saying it upset my appetite for Mrs. Houghton to banish his nighttime cigarette to the back porch. She didn’t want me giving her a skinny baby because I kept throwing up.

I hadn’t thrown up in weeks, as morning sickness had largely abandoned me around the fifth or sixth month. Nothing we ate was exotic enough to cause me discomfort—Mrs. Houghton’s casseroles were seasoned sparingly with salt and smothered in pale cream sauces.  The cigarette smoke trailed down my throat, circling my lungs and getting caught underneath my sternum. I tried breathing through my mouth, but then I tasted the ash and nicotine I used to love coating my tongue. 

If I said something, he’d notice my young face and lack of a wedding ring. 

If I said nothing, I’d vomit all over him. 

The bus lurched to a stop and sent the meager contents of my stomach (toast and a glass of milk for breakfast) rolling upwards. I swallowed, but my throat stalled halfway through. 

“Excuse me,” I started, measuring each word against how likely it was I’d hurl. “Can you move or put that out?”

The man cocked his head at me. “It’s a free country.”

I clenched my fists around the spine of my book. “Yes, but I’m…” 

“You’re what?”

I hadn’t said it to a stranger yet. Most expectant mothers brought it up in causal conversation, at the grocery store or at a husband’s work function. If a stranger bumped them walking down the street, an outraged, “I’m pregnant!” would force an apology and create a protective bubble around her midsection. I wasn’t allowed to be that woman. 

But if it were impersonating that woman or ruining my only coat? 

“Sir, I’m pregnant!”

The words bubbled out of me like I’d been holding them in for months. He looked me up and down, noticed the curve of my stomach and the way I’d tried to hide myself in the very back corner of the bus. When his eyes landed on my hands, I knew I was in for it. 

Instead he mumbled a, “Jesus Christ,” and moved up two rows. I could breathe again. The baby kicked twice and I couldn’t help but smile to myself. 

Two stops later I walked off the bus, past the smoking man who wouldn’t look me in the eye. I didn’t care. It was a three block walk to the park entrance, and I had about fifteen minutes to spare. My pulse raced with each thud of my shoes against the concrete sidewalk. I knew it was difficult to conceal my shape while standing, so Nick was going to see all of me. I wasn’t showing at all when I left town. 

Crossing the park’s threshold had me second-guessing myself. It had been so long, what if he wanted nothing to do with me? What if this whole meeting was to tell me whatever we’d had was over forever? What was I even going to say? My hand drifted to my bump, but I felt nothing. On my own. 

Nick’s truck was in the far corner of the lot. I  tilted my chin up. That truck was familiar territory: somewhere in the back seat there was still a pair of my panties that had slipped between the seat and the cab too far down for either one of us to reach. He drove us out to the fields on the edge of town and let the radio play loud enough so nobody would hear us all over each other. We didn’t go all the way that night, but that didn’t keep the hickeys off my neck. The October air was too warm for the scarf I wore to school the next day.

I knocked on the window. 

Startled, Nick turned and looked at me with wide eyes. There was a wrapped something in his lap that he was scrumming his fingers against incessantly. The boy always did fidget. 

I waved, not knowing what else to do. 

After a minute of nothing but us staring at each other through the glass window, he reached over and unlocked the passenger side door. I thought maybe we’d walk around or find someplace shady to talk, but he motioned for me to climb in. 

“Hi there, Susannah,” Nick said while I maneuvered myself and my stomach into the cab of the truck. Sun from the window warmed my skin like dough left to rise on the kitchen counter. 

“Could you?” I asked, and he rolled down the windows before I could motion to them. 

“So,” he said. His eyes moved up and down over me like he was seeing me for the first time. I knew I looked different: bigger breasts, wider hips, huge swollen stomach—not to mention ankles that wouldn’t fit into any of my old Mary Janes. In the back of my mind I thought about unbuttoning the top part of my sweater, like old times. I didn’t. 

“It’s nice to see you,” I said.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Few months,” I tried, tilting my head down and smiling up at him the way I used to. He didn’t bite. 

“How have you been?” Nick asked. He was looking past me out the window. 

“Oh, y’know,” I said. “Just pregnant and trapped in a house I can’t stand.”

He cracked a smile. Always did like my smart mouth. “They treat you okay?”

“Like their own Cinderella. Nothing but cooking and cleaning for me.”

“So kinda like your parents, then,” he said. 

“Sort of, but my folks were always trying to run me out of the house so they could get some peace and quiet.”

“I remember that,” Nick said. He looked at me like he used to. Then he went more somber. “I heard about your grandfather, and I wanted to say I’m so sorry.”

I chewed my bottom lip. I hadn’t gotten a real condolence from anyone yet, and I hadn’t expected it to be from Nick, of all people. I also hasn’t expected us to get serious so fast. Thought we’d go back and forth longer and play like nothing was wrong. I wanted the escape. “Thank you,” I said. “Maybe you can go to the funeral since I’m not allowed.”

He exhaled a long phew. “Jesus, Susannah.”

“Mother’s wishes. And I can’t exactly give her shit from all the way out here.” 

Nick looked down in his lap and then back at me. “It’s not that far a drive. You could sneak if you wanted.”

My forehead wrinkled. “I can barely be here, Nick. I don’t get free time.”

“Even inmates are supposed to get outside time,” Nick said. I knew the dimples and toothy grin were coming. They were his favorite weapons every time we went head-to-head. “Maybe you oughta sweet talk the warden.”

I tried to keep the corners of my mouth from curling up into a smile. But it was Nick, so I didn’t stand a chance. “I really missed you,” I said. My voice went quiet, like the first time I told Nick I liked him, two years ago. “I really, really missed you.”

His head dropped. “I missed you, too.” Then, “Got you a present.” 

I took the wrapped thing from his lap and undid the careful tape. A book, navy and green with white and black text greeted me. The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care by Benjamin Spock. The smile slid off my face. “What the fuck is this?”

“I know you’re not keeping him, but I thought you might want something to read,” Nick said, brows raised in sincerity. “Y’know, if you’re ever curious about how he’s doing…afterwards.”

“Him? I asked. “Afterwards? You were so hellbent on me being normal when I got back—why the hell would you get me this? You want me reading up on a baby I don’t get to take care of during study hall?”

“It’s present, Jesus Christ—” he started.

“How could you possibly think I’d want that reminder?”

“Susannah, I was just trying to—,”

My eyes stung, but I blinked back tears. Pregnancy hormones turned me into a garden hose any time I got mildly annoyed. “Trying to make sure I never forget what a whore everyone thinks I am?”

“When have I ever called you that?”

I balled my fists in my skirt. “You asked me if it was your baby, Nick. You had to have thought I was getting around.” The baby kicked and I wanted to shout. 

“Listen,” Nick said. He put his hands up. “I just remember that fucking Air Force recruit sniffing around you and I didn’t know if he’d…God, I don’t know.”

“You thought I cheated on you,” I said, right palm pressed to the spot the baby had kicked, begging it not to do it again. 

“I didn’t,” Nick said. “Not really.”

I cocked my head. 

“I know you wouldn’t do that. I know he’s mine, okay?”

I had to turn away and look out the window. Clouds in the distance had gone dark navy, full of rain. The wind was blowing them our direction. “Him,” I said, finally. “So you’ve thought about…him.” My hand crept in his direction but I pulled back. 

“Course I have.”

“ Then why’d you wait so long to write?” I asked. 

“You coulda written me,” Nick said. “I didn’t move.” I was about to say something smart when he asked, “So do you want the book or what?”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t see myself reading it in the living room like Mrs. Houghton read her baby books, making notes and underlining in her fountain pen. She’d try to read a passage to Mr. Houghton after work, but he waved her off every time and went back to his scotch. “Well I don’t know what you’ll do with it,” I said. “But would it have killed you to get me something I’d actually want?”

“I thought whiskey would be harder for you to sneak back into jail,” he said. Nick took the book from me and set it on the dash, but left one hand on my knee. My fingers finally traced his knuckles, darker than mine from his summer job doing yard work for old, widowed church ladies. He flipped his hand palm-up and curled his hand around mine like we’d done a thousand times. 

Then he was kissing me, and it was just like it had been before, except my lip were fuller because my face was fatter. Nick’s free hand traced my cheek, then brushed down my neck towards my waist. I sighed—it had been so long since I’d kissed anybody and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the contact. I let a hand curl into his hair, relished the way it felt coarse and short between my fingers. Nick’s hands brushed against my stomach and everything went tense. 

My breath caught in my throat. His mouth stilled against mine. 

Slowly, very slowly, Nick pulled his hands away. Then his mouth. He rested his forehead against mine and kept his eyes closed. 

“What—?” I started. 

“Susannah,” he cut me off, “I can’t do this.”

“You kissed me.”

He leaned back. I missed the feel of his face near mine immediately. “Maybe…once you’re not,” Nick started, “like this anymore.” 

“Pregnant?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said. “Once you’re back to normal.”

I reached for the book again. It was thick, with lots and lots of chapters. “But I won’t be normal again,” I said. I hadn’t ever admitted that out loud before, but as I said it I knew it was true. 

“Sure you will. Once you’re home without him.” . 

“No,” I said. “No, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Susannah. I just can’t do this. With you. Right now.”

“But you kissed me, Nick. You wanted to see me—you’re the one who gave me a damn baby book!”

“I know!” He ran a hand through his hair and dropped his gaze from me entirely. “But I thought maybe you wouldn’t be different. That you wouldn’t…feel different.”

“I’m eight months pregnant and you thought I’d be exactly the same as when we fucked? How the hell’d you figure that?”

Nick tuned the key in the ignition, roaring the truck to life. “Can’t I just take you home? Do we have to do this now?”

“You said you’ve thought about it,” I spat. I was more mad than I’d been in months, through everything the Houghtons slung at me. At least I knew they only tolerated me. “Thought about what exactly, if you’re running like a wuss?” 

“You mouth off like this to those people?” Nick asked. He pulled the car out of the parking lot and onto the road. I hadn’t told him I was ready to leave. “And you don’t expect them to be bad to you?”

“That’s it,” I said, grabbing the door handle. “Let me out of the damn car.”

Nick hit the breaks. “What?”

“I can’t be in this fucking car with you right now.”

“So you’re gonna walk home, in your condition?”

I felt a scream building in my lungs. “So now you know what’s best for me?” He was right, though. I couldn’t well make it back to the house in the heat like this. But I couldn’t back down.

“I’m driving you home and that’s it, Susannah.” Nick drove another half mile before I opened the door and nearly hit a tree growing close to the road. “What is wrong with you? You expect me to think about this fucking baby and want it and want you, but you act like a toddler having a tantrum.” He leaned over me and slammed the door shut. “Have you ever considered you’re too immature to be a mom?”

I crossed my arms and started straight ahead, like I wanted to bore holes through the windshield. “Maybe if I weren’t surrounded by people who assumed they knew what’s best for me, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.”

Nick swallowed a laugh. “You think so?”

“Maybe I’m what some kid needs, Nick.”

“Our kid?” he asked, keeping his attention on the road.

“My baby,” I said, for the first time. 

—

The rest of the drive back was silent. Rain started and stopped a few times, but Nick dropped me off without incident. “Good luck with all that,” he said, then sped off. I raised my middle finger as I watched him disappear down the street. But as soon as I stepped foot on the porch, I was in it. Mr. Houghton was leaning against the back of the house with a cigarette between his teeth. I stopped suddenly, shoes bumping against the porch.

“Out for a walk?” he asked me. His eyes roamed up and down my body, and I was too frozen to pull my coat closed.

“I thought you were at work,” I managed. I hadn’t ever spent much time with Mr. Houghton one-on-one. If he ever spoke to me at all, Mrs. Houghton was close at his side, watching. I felt him looking, though. Sometimes. When I’d first come out of the bedroom in the morning, still in my nightgown. Stretching in the kitchen, palms flat on my arched back. 

He took a drag. “Half day. Boss’ daughter’s birthday or some shit.” Smoke leaked from his mouth and floated upwards into the sky. “Have a nice time sneaking out?”

I didn’t know what to say. If I told the truth, he’d tell his wife. If I lied, he might be able to tell. I just wanted to go back inside and lie down. “I just wanted some fresh air,” I said. “So I went around the block.” Mr. Houghton squinted at me. “I know I’m not supposed to leave, but it was just a walk.”

“That explains the purse,” he said, nodding at the bag at my side. A book inside that he hopefully couldn’t see. 

I clutched my bag closer to me and squared my jaw. “Don’t tell your wife, please.”

“And why should I listen to what the little tramp has to say?” Mr. Houghton asked, standing straight up. 

“I’ll tell her you’ve been looking at me,” I said. “And I don’t think she’d like that.”

“You live in my house—I can look at whatever I want to in my house.”

I tilted my chin up. “You’re old enough to be my father,” I said. 

Mr. Houghton took a step closer. Too close to me for my comfort. “You’re having my damn baby, aren’t you?”

Here was the second man who wanted to remove my part of this baby in the span of an hour. I felt just like I had when I flung Nick’s car door open. “You mean my baby.”

His eyes went wide. In three long strides he was less than an arm away from me, towering over my curved frame. “This baby won’t even know she’s been adopted.” 

I felt a kick between my ribs. “You’re just mad because you couldn’t fuck your wife right, aren’t you. So you have to steal a baby from a teenager who didn’t even try.”

Mr. Houghton slapped me across the face. All five fingers spread out, stinging my cheek. “Don’t talk to me that way, or so help me—”

I bit back a whimper and rocked up onto my toes. “Don’t tell your wife I left or I’ll tell her you laid a hand on me. And that you leer at me like a sailor on leave.” He fumed as I walked by, up onto the porch and into the house. I went all the way into my bedroom, shut the door, pushed the new changing table in front of it, and fell backwards onto my bed. 

I cried until Mrs. Houghton got home and called me for supper. Mr. Houghton kept his eyes on his plate and barely said a word the whole meal. 

—

The next week was a blur of chores: eat breakfast, clean up breakfast, tidy the living room, scrub the kitchen shiny, straighten my room up, cook supper, wash more dishes. My baby kept me up at night, kicking morse code into my ribs each time I tried to get some sleep. That’s when I could read, pouring over each page of Nick’s book like it could be stolen away at any moment. I was so sleep-deprived I heated up a lasagna for breakfast the next Tuesday. Mrs. Houghton complained til I threw it out and promised to fix another one for dinner, since she’d worked so hard on it over the weekend. 

After the eggs were eaten and the plates were cleared, I felt a twinge in my stomach. Almost like a cramp, but longer. I wanted to ignore it—I wasn’t due for another two weeks—until I couldn’t. 

“I think my water broke,” I said, eyes locked on a shiny puddle slowly pooling across the black and white linoleum. Like egg whites, before they’re whisked into meringue. I could just make out my reflection: swollen face, hair a mess, cluster of bumps across my chin. I was an inflated fifteen year old with amniotic fluid dripping down her paper thin stockings, stretched too far across rounded thighs and ankles filled with extra blood. 

“Oh, Christ,” Mr. Houghton said. “Emily! She’s leaking all over the kitchen!”

Mrs. Houghton hissed a, “Shit!” from the other room. She rounded a corner with a tea towel in hand. “Well, Susannah, looks like it’s time to go.” I didn’t know where to move, so I took the towel from her outreached hand and dabbed uselessly at my legs. “Sweetheart, they’ll get you cleaned up at the hospital. Let’s dry that spot on the floor.”

So I crouched. Crouching was easy, what with the weight of my baby forcing me downwards. I felt him slosh against my stomach and put a hand there like he might leak out. With my other hand I wiped the black tile, then the white. When I looked up, the Houghtons were readying their things. Like they forgot I was there. Like in all their haste to make sure their bags went into the station wagon, the very reason they sprang for the four-door was inconsequential. 

I clenched the towel in my pudgy fist. My whole abdomen quaked and shook and my pelvis slowly caught fire. The hand not ripping the towel in two shot out in front of me to keep myself upright, my palm landing in the residual slick. “I can’t—” I tried, breath catching around a contraction. “Mrs. H, I can’t—”

“Oh fuck, would you go help her?” 

Mrs. Houghton dropped the pillow she was carrying towards the front door. “That a girl, just relax,” she said, grabbing my elbows and lifting. “You’re alright.” 

The tea towel lay in a crumple on the floor. 

“Now go get your things and meet us in the car. And try to do something about that hair, Susannah. We’ll be in public, after all.” I nodded and waddled to the back bedroom. Mr. Houghton narrowed his eyes while I walked by.

My train case sat on the polished cherry vanity. I had wiped it clean of dust just the other morning. I sat on the tufted ottoman in front of the mirror and pulled a drawer open for my brush and hairspray. With my thumb hovering over the spray, another contraction wracked my body. I dropped the canister and watched liquid leak from the nozzle. Mrs. Houghton wasn’t going to be pleased with that. 

Once my hair was fixed, I grabbed my case, coat, and pillow. In the car, Mr. Houghton told me to leave the pillow. “You’ll get one at the hospital.” Before I could ask why he and Mrs. Houghton were taking theirs, I was hit with another contraction. He made me walk back in and put it back where it was on the twin bed. I tried to breathe but my baby was insisting that I didn’t. 

Back in the car I gripped the back of Mrs. Houghton’s seat. “Susannah, please don’t. You’ll tear the upholstery. I grabbed my leg instead, blunt fingernails tearing right through my drying stockings and braced my feet against the floorboards. Mr. Houghton drove like a nineteen year old on a backroad rather than the thirty-seven year old man on a busy street he was. 

As I slid around he told me to sit still so I wouldn’t get the whole back of the car dirty. 

The drive felt like it took hours, though I knew from appointments that we were only a few miles from the hospital. Every pothole sent my baby further south. Every stoplight brought on another contraction.
“Should someone be timing them?” I asked once a particularly intense one had passed. I’d read that someone should time contractions in Nick’s book. 

“Can’t you do that, dear?” she answered from the front seat. “I’m afraid I get a little queasy if I look down in a moving vehicle.” I tried to count, but the erratic lane changes and sudden stops made me lose my place. Once we pulled up to the front of the hospital, I had no idea how long it had been since my last one. Or how many I’d had. 

I took Mrs. Houghton’s arm as I got out of the car to steady myself. I squeezed hard when I felt my stomach tighten around my baby again. My knuckles white against her Kelly green long sleeve. “Susannah,” she chided, “you’ll pill the fabric.”

So instead I nearly broke the handle of my train case from gripping it so tightly. When we got to reception, Mrs. Houghton spoke for me.

“Hello, my niece seems to be in labor.”

The nurse on the other side handed us a stack of papers. “Her name and date of birth?”

“She’s Susannah Campbell, born May 19th, 1940.” I shrank behind Mrs. Houghton when the nurse’s eyes widened. 

“And are you her legal guardian?”

Mrs. Houghton took a sharp breath. “No, but she’s my sister’s daughter who’s come to visit for some fresh southern air—my sister’s family lives in New York, you see—and we thought she’d be back with her mother before the baby arrived.” I wondered how many times she’d practiced the whole speech in the mirror, making sure it sounded natural, but not messy. 

“Well,” the nurse started, “take a seat and fill these out. We’ll come for you with a wheelchair in a few minutes.”

The two of us found Mr. Houghton sitting in the corner of the waiting room, back from parking the car.  “So?” he asked when Mrs. Houghton took the seat beside him. 

“No problems.”

Then she turned to me. “Susannah, would you like to call your mother?” I hadn’t spoken to her since the news about Grandpa. I knew I’d have to soon, but at the thought of telling her that it was finally time, I had another contraction.

“No, thank you.”

“Alright,” she said. “Frank can call her once you’re admitted.” 

So we sat in the waiting room. My hands cradled my belly like they’d been trying to since my fourth month. Sometime in the last week I’d finally let myself give into that motherly impulse I had been so desperately avoiding. After all, I knew I would only be this way for a matter of hours. A day, tops. Come next Sunday, I would be home pretending this had all been a vacation with an aunt I hadn’t seen in years. 

Hands curled around my baby, I let myself imagine what leaving here with him would be like. His father wheeling me to the car like the ladies I was watching, all cooing and smiling at the bundles in their arms. With perfect hair and the perfect house to go home to. My baby, with a name. 

“Ms. Campbell?” a nurse asked. I blinked up at her. “We’ve got a room ready for you.”

Mrs. Houghton helped me stand and watched me negotiate my bulging stomach through the aisles of chairs, wanting to fold in on myself. I waddled behind the nurse with a hand on each hip feeling enormous. 

The room was clinical white like I’d expected, but the bed was alarming. Sideboards and stirrups and all sorts of restraints. Like something out of a horror film. 

“The labor process can be rather aggressive,” the nurse said. “There’s a gown for you to change into. Your doctor should be in to check on you in a few minutes.”

Mrs. Houghton asked, setting her bag down in the chair beside the window. She sat and said, I’ll be watching the birth, no need to be shy.”

I paused unbuttoning my sweater. “You’re what?”

“A mother ought to see her baby be born, Susannah.”

I knew this. We had discussed this. Mother and Father at the dining table deciding that I’d live with Frank and Emily Houghton, old family friends. That they’d take the baby and I’d never have to worry about it again. But last week it got twisted in my mind and I started calling it my baby. “I might feel more comfortable if—”

“I’m watching my baby come into the world and that’s that.”

I bit down on my lower lip. “Fine.” I shrugged my sweater off and pulled up on the hem of my blouse. She stared right in my eyes the whole time. This whole six months and I’d never seen her look so proud. So ready to claim what was actually mine. I knew my stockings were ruined but it was a welcome distraction to lean down around my girth and inspect them. 

Then, another contraction. 

I reached out and grabbed the edges of the bed for support while Mrs. Houghton murmured an, “Oh, dear.” A deep breath later, I felt her palm on my lower back. I shuddered. 

“I’m fine,” I said through clenched teeth. 

“Nonsense. Let me help you.” Let me steal your baby. 

I panted and grunted through it, standing upright as quickly as I could once it was over. Mrs. Houghton lingered, but I was headed straight for exhausted and peeled my stockings and panties off together. The thin cloth gown rubbed against already sore nipples and I frowned.

Dr. Rumphf knocked at the door while Mrs. Houghton sat back down. “Come in,” I called, pulling the worn hospital blankets up around my legs covered in goosebumps. 

“How are we doing?” he asked. His latex gloves snapped around his wrists. “Emily, so good to see you. Would you mind stepping out while I examine Susannah?”

“Is that necessary?” Mrs. Houghton asked from the armchair by the window. 

“Afraid so. Hospital policy.”

She curled her mouth into a smile. “Mal, she’s fifteen. Can’t I—”

“It’ll just be a few minutes,” he said. 

Mrs. Houghton rose with little urgency and made her way towards the door. “I’m going to make sure Frank called your mother,” she said on her way out. 

“Great,” I said when the door closed behind her. “Because what today needs is my mother.”

Dr. Rumphf motioned for me to fit my heels into the same stirrups I’d been forced into for the past seven and a half months. “Chin up, Susie,” he said, pulling back my gown so he could see. “You’re almost out of here.”

“I know, but I think I’m going to miss him.”

“So sure he’s a boy?”

I squirmed while he examined me. “Wouldn’t want a girl.”

“And why’s that?” he asked, not looking up. 

“This is why, Doctor.” 

He chuckled and told me to relax. That I was six centimeters. “You’ve still got a ways to go. But I’ll go ahead and have the nurse get you started on some pain killers, alright?” 

I couldn’t answer because another contraction hit me and stole the breath from my lungs. I shot my fist out in a crude thumbs up with my eyes screwed shut. I felt like one of those snakes we’d learned about in middle school, the ones with the great big mouths that swallowed neighborhood cats and squeezed them through their throats. 

“And don’t worry, you’ll get to hold him before the Houghtons take him home.”

I didn’t want to think about him leaving me. I wanted to keep him in my arms, or even my womb if that meant the Houghtons didn’t get their paws all over him. “Thanks, doc.”

As soon as he left, Mr. and Mrs. Houghton were back. “What did he tell you?” she asked. 

“That I’m six centimeters. And he’s going to get me some painkillers.” 

Mr. Houghton scoffed. “Women have been giving birth for centuries. Do you really need drugs?”

“She’s fifteen, Frank. Her body isn’t ready for this.”

They carried on like that until the nurse finally reappeared with an IV full of a pale bubbling fluid. I flinched when she stuck my hand. 

“What’s in here?” I asked. The edge of my vision was already feathering and it had only been a minute. 

“Twilight Sleep,” the nurse said. “That way you won’t feel the birth.”

My mother had told me about Twilight Sleep. The aim was to keep mothers from remembering the pain of birth. I wanted to remember it. My last moments with my baby, and I wanted to make sure I could commit them to memory. Mother and Father hadn’t said anything about me getting to see him again. The Houghtons didn’t seem awfully amicable to the idea, so I hadn’t dared bring it up. But I already felt lighter when the next contraction hit. 

Then the nurse strapped me into the restraints: legs in stirrups, arms loosely suspended from the wall above me. They hung limp by my sides until I tried to move them past the sides of the bed, in which case the restraints pulled taught. 

“Why’s that?” I asked, tugging. 

“Labor can be violent, sweetheart. We don’t want you to hurt anyone, or yourself.”

I ground my teeth.  

“Will anyone be with you for the birth?”

Before I could ask if I had a choice, Mrs. Houghton said yes. The nurse handed her a set of scrubs that she turned her nose up at. “Just slip them on over your clothes, dear.”

“How long until I start pushing?” I asked. My head was swimming, like I’d been nodding for hours. “Soon?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’ll happen in its time,” the nurse said. “We’ll come check on you in a while.”

When the next contraction hit me I only felt the pressure, but my arms flexed against the restraints anyway. Mrs. Houghton sat in her armchair and watched disdainfully. She told me a few times to stop, but I didn’t know what I was doing that I could possibly stop. Those thousands of years of birthing instinct coupled with the drugs dripping into my veins had turned me into something almost feral. I tried to kick but couldn’t get my foot out of the stirrup. 

The blinding white of the hospital lights above me turned red in my eyes. I squinted, trying to get away from the brightness. When I could stand to look again, I saw Charlie and Nick. They were glaring at each other. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. 

“S’annah,” Charlie started, “you’re looking plump.” He gave me a once-over. “Big tits, though.”

“For breastfeeding, you fucking moron.” Nick said. “Don’t you know she’s pregnant?”

“My kid, huh?”

“Well it sure as hell ain’t mine,” Nick said. He frowned at me. Then socked Charlie in the jaw. “And I’ll thank you for fucking my girl, Airman Snuffy.”

“Nick, you don’t know that,” I added. My belly tightened. My baby knew I was lying. 

“Susannah, my dad’s an M.D. I know how this shit works.”

“We were sleeping together!” 

“Goddamn slut,” Charlie spat. He rubbed at a purpling spot on the side of his face. I wished it weren’t true; my baby deserved better than Charlie Wilson as a daddy. 

“What, did she force you at gunpoint to slip it in? You’re not off the hook.”

“It wasn’t worth it,” Charlie answered. “She didn’t put on much of a show.” 

I swung my fist toward him and the restraint dug into my wrist with a sting that made me hiss. Nick came to my side and took my hand in his. His thumb soothed across the red marks from the restraint. “You really fucked it up, Susannah.”

“You were going to break up with me,” I answered, turning away from him as best I could. His brown eyes glowed too bright.

His grip tightened. “I was heading to school in the fall. What was I supposed to do?”

I tugged, but my wrist didn’t budge. “You were going to leave me for one of those stupid coeds.”

“I thought about visiting.”

“You were doing what you had to do so I did what I had to do.”

“Did the two of you actually go through with it?” Charlie asked. The glint off his white teeth made me sweat. “‘Cause she cried afterwards. Climbed on top of me first, though. I don’t get it.”

“Stop talking,” I grunted while my belly tightened again. My breath caught in my throat, stalled by the pain heading lower and lower. I couldn’t bear to look at anything anymore, wanting more than breathing to just stop hurting. I pressed my eyes together so tight I thought they might never open again. When they did, Charlie and Nick were gone. 

Dr. Rumphf and a team of nurses took their places. 

“Susie, I need you to calm down and stop thrashing,” he said. “On your next contraction you’ve got to push.”

A hand mopped the sweat from my brow. “That’s it, Susannah. Just breathe.” It was Mrs. Houghton, pressing a cold compress to my fevered forehead. 

“Where’d they go?” I asked. 

“Who, dear?” a nurse asked me. 

“The,” I started, sucking in a huge breath, “boys.”

“It’s the drugs. They’re working,” Dr. Rumphf said. “You’re going to push in just a few seconds, alright?”

“Take a deep breath,” Mrs. Houghton said. Her voice was soft in my ear, like a secret. A secret that she could hold compassion in her hands instead of condescension. I wanted to slap her in the face. 

“Okay, Susannah, push now!”

I tucked my chin to my chest and bore down. Then looked up and saw Nick again. There were flowers on my bedside table and blue helium balloons in the corner in place of Mrs. Houghton’s bag.

“Where did you go?” I asked. My lip wobbled. 

“I was here the whole time,” he said quiet. “You nodded off.”

“No, I was pushing.”

“You already did that.” He walked to my bed with a bundle in his arms. “Remember?”

But I didn’t. Not at all. When I held a hand against my belly it was still rounded like it was a minute ago. Nick smiled at me the way he hadn’t since I told him about the baby. He had a suit on, with a gold band on his left ring finger. He looked nothing like the Nick I’d just seen, fighting with Charlie. 

“Where’s Charles?” I asked. 

“Who?” He tilted the bundle of blankets so I could see the baby’s face: ruddy, with a nose flattened from the birth canal. A curl of hair, dark like Nick’s. His big blue baby eyes looked up at me with contemplation. “Do you want to hold him?”

The worst pain I’d felt so far ripped through my abdomen, settling at the apex of my thighs. I couldn’t open my mouth to answer, because I knew if I did I’d scream. Something was tearing—I couldn’t tell what, but if I moved at all I was sure I’d come apart in halves. I shook my head as delicately as I could .

“Why not?” Nick asked. “He’s your son. Our son.” 

The baby’s eyes drooped shut. I felt a tugging, an intense pulling sensation like my guts were being turned to rope and someone was belaying from my midsection. “Susannah, you need to hold our son. How are you ever going to be a mother if you don’t hold your own baby?”

“But I can’t—” I answered, choking around the last letter into a shriek. I needed to hurt something like I was hurting. I wanted to fold up into myself and never open my eyes again, and never feel this much pain ever again. My hand shot out and grabbed Nick’s arm under the pale blue hospital blanket he was cradling. I dug my blunt nails in hard as I could, but he didn’t scream. Didn’t move. And I didn’t feel any better. 

“Susannah, I’m disappointed,” Nick said. His eyes were red. Instead of waiting for me to answer him, he shoved the baby into my arms. It burned. “Meet our boy.”

I looked down at the warm wriggling lump cradled in the crook of my arm. His eyes were also red this time. My thumb brushed across his soft cheek, and he opened his pink mouth to scream at the top of his baby lungs. 

When I looked back up to Nick for help, I saw. Dr. Rumphf. He held a pink and purple mass of limbs by one leg. “Good job, Susie.” He smacked its bottom and I heard another cry. “You’ve got a girl.” 

My head hit the pillow behind me and I felt an aching emptiness where my baby had been.

__

When I finally came to, my whole lower half felt disconnected from my body. I was in a different room—soft pink walls with more natural light streaming through the curtains. My arms and legs were free. The scratchy, drafty gown I’d last been in had been replaced with my cotton pajamas, looser than they were when I last wore them.

I was alone. Mrs. Houghton and her things were notably missing, so for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe. Deep. My lungs filed my whole chest cavity and I could feel my organs shift around my newfound emptiness. 

There was a knock at the door. I took another deep breath, anticipating the room getting smaller. 

“Sweetie, we’re gonna get you ready to leave now, okay?” It was a nurse, different than the last one. And not Mrs. Houghton. 

“Today?” I asked. I’d just given birth and they were ready to turn me away?

“We’ve got a three day policy,” the nurse said. She closed the blinds. “I just need to check your stitches.” 

“I have stitches?”

“Most do,” the nurse said. “Here, slip those bottoms off, dear.”

I slid them down my legs and saw a great big pair of underwear almost like a diaper. “Those too,” the nurse added. When I hooked my thumbs in the waistband I saw dried and wet blood.

She knelt by my bed and told me to breathe. I stung. “How long have I been here?” I asked, staring at the ceiling. 

“Since Tuesday, sweetie.”

“And it’s Thursday?”

“Friday, actually. I checked you yesterday, but you weren’t ready.”

“You were here yesterday?”

“I’ve checked up on you a few times,” the nurse said. She told me to pull my clothes back on and I did, wincing. “But your stitches look better.”

“Can I see her?” I asked. I felt restless, looking for something to hold. My breasts were full and aching. 

“Oh, no you can’t.”

“Why not?”

The nurse pursed her lips. “The Twilight Sleep does that. It’s perfectly normal, but you’ll be missing pieces of your memory for a bit. It’ll come back to you, very slowly.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. I was hot all over, with all the hair on my body standing up. Something had happened. “Where is my baby?”

“Sweetheart, your mother is outside. I’ll let her explain.”

I hadn’t spoken to my mother since she told me about Grandpa. I wanted to cry but my eyes wouldn’t water. The nurse gave my shoulder a soft squeeze and left as quietly as she’d come. 

“Susannah Grace,” my mother said as she walked into the room. “Come on, we’ve got the drive home.” 

“Where’s my baby?” I asked. I just wanted to hold her once. Once and I’d be fine. Once and I could go.

“We talked about this before you went away,” she sighed. She sat a bag of my things at the foot of the bed and pulled out a sundress and sweater. 

I stood, wobbly. I stepped into the dress and worked up my new stomach as best I could and tried to smooth the lumps of extra skin and fat down. The sweater didn’t button like it used to. “Can I just see her once?”

My mother’s hands gripped her hips. Mine were wider now, like hers. “She’s not yours.”

“I know, but I want to look at her just the once.” I tried to keep my voice steady so she’d listen to me. But in my mind I was screaming at her. 

“What good would that do but get you more upset?”

“I’m not upset!” There was a pounding in my head. “Why won’t you let me see her?” My mother frowned. My blood ran cold. “Is she alright?”

“Yes, she’s fine.” She tipped her head down. “Frank and Emily left with her yesterday.”

My stomach flipped on its side. I couldn’t remember eating in the past three days, but I felt something rising in my throat. “They took her?”

“You knew this was coming., Susannah”

“They didn’t let me say goodbye,” I said. My hands shook. I crossed my arms in front of where she had been just four days ago. 

“This is for the best. For both of you. So neither of you will get confused about who her mother is.” A wave of nausea hit me and knocked me to my knees. I curled around the garbage can beside my bed and hurled. “You’re not.” 

I wiped the acidic drool from the corner of my mouth with my sweater sleeve. “That’s not true,” I said. “I am her mother.”

Mine scoffed. 

“You took her from me!”

“You signed the papers, dear. Legally, she’s Mary Houghton now.”

I hated that name. Mary. A biblical name for their little miracle, born of a teenage whore. What a sick joke. I hoped someday she’d hate the name just as much as I did and rebel, using her middle name or completely new one. After the shock subsided, I realized:

“I didn’t sign anything.”

“Yes, you did. Right after they sewed you up.”

I screwed my eyes shut and tried to remember how holding a pen, scratching my name into paper. I didn’t. “I don’t remember signing anything.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t. The Houghtons wanted to get the paperwork out of the way as soon as you were conscious again so they wouldn’t run into any problems.”

“You mean so they could run off with my baby,” I said, pushing up off of my knees. My mouth tasted like vomit. 

“I told them they ought to get it done fast. I know you, Susannah. You like to make a fuss. And after all, they spent all that time feeding you and shuttling you back and forth from doctor’s appointments. They deserve that baby.”

“They’re cruel people is what they are,” I said. “And so are you.”

“This is not my fault, Susannah Grace. We’re adults. That means making the decisions you’re too immature to come to. Now put yourself together so we can leave. I don’t want you looking like you just gave birth when we get back to town.”

“I’m an adult now. You can’t tell me what to do.”

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “Talk back to me one more time and so help me,” she said. I could see the tendons in her neck straining against her skin. 

“What are you gonna do to me that’s worse than what I’ve been through?” I asked. She came towards me and I dodged to the side. My insides sloshed around but I didn’t stop. “You made me miss Grandpa’s funeral. And now you’ve taken the one person who would love me no matter what and given her to the people who’ve treated me like a pregnant bitch for seven months.”

“Love you no matter what?” she asked. “Then explain how you’re here shouting at me in the maternity ward after I did exactly what I needed to do to save your reputation, Susannah. Riddle me that.”

My mouth fell open, half in shock, half in disbelief. Did she really think all of this was for my own benefit? 

“Don’t say another word. I’ll be in the hall when you’re put together.”

The door slammed behind her and I was left completely alone. I kicked the trash can just because I could, spilling tissues and letting my own vomit spill onto the speckled linoleum. I watched it flow for a minute, saw how it covered the spaces between the tiles and pooled in the more uneven spots. It made me queasy all over again. 

So I went to the bathroom and brushed my hair that hadn’t been washed in days. I pulled it into a bun on the top of my head and inspected my face. Swollen, with a burst blood vessel in my left eye. That and the bleeding in my underwear were the only markers that I’d given birth at all. Underneath all of that was the same plain teenaged face. Rosy cheeks. A cluster of white head bumps across my chin. I splashed water on my face and gathered my things. 

In the hallway, a different nurse was waiting with a wheelchair. My mother stood, not speaking, to the side. She nodded at me. 

“Can’t I please just walk?” I asked the nurse.

“Hospital policy, darling. Take a seat.”

They wheeled me out of the hospital like I’d come in: empty-handed, scared, and sad. When we got to the threshold, I stood despite the nurse’s complaints. The family car sat in the lot apart from the others just like after my first doctor’s appointment with Dr. Rumphf back home. Daddy had parked away from everyone else so we wouldn’t be seen. I waited beside the passenger’s door for my mother to catch up. 

She unlocked the car and we got in silently. I buckled the seatbelt around my deflated stomach. The key turned in the ignition and we were on our way. I reached for the radio dial, but she swatted me away. 

“I’ll bring you to see Mal in six weeks to make sure you’re back to normal,” she said, eyes never leaving the road. 

“Normal,” I repeated.

“He has to check your stitches.”

“Right,” I said. 

We merged onto Highway 72. I saw the mile marker for Huntsville. 25 miles after we crossed Wheeler Lake. The trees and boats out on the water blurred by, same as they’d always been. After the bridge, my mother finally turned to me.

“School starts in two weeks.”

The eleventh grade loomed on the horizon, but it seemed pointless now. “Okay,” I said.

“Nobody knows.”

“And I’m not to tell anyone,” I said, finishing her thought. 

“As far as they’re concerned, it never happened,” my mother said. 

I looked down at my lap. My hands curled in my sundress and I wondered how I could miss someone I’d never met so intensely. My whole heart felt like it’d been hollowed out, to the point that I didn’t even care if Nick wanted me back. He didn’t know me anymore. Nobody knew me anymore. “You’re right,” I echoed. “It never happened.”