Spring 2010
By Tina Mortimer
The day of the procedure is warm and smells of freshly cut grass. Wisps of puffy white cottonwood seeds float above my head and collect in the corners outside of my parents’ split-level house. I try not to think about growing things as I pace the driveway—hands stuffed into pockets to keep them from shaking—waiting for you to drive me to the clinic. I wait and I wait. After an hour with no sign of you, I call a girlfriend for a ride.
The procedure itself is fast and painless. It’s the rejection that hurts, that lingers like a bruise.
Later, staring out my old bedroom window onto the empty tree-lined street, I think about our first and only date. Like most nights involving copious amounts of alcohol, only fragments of memories remain: Doing shots of brown liquor at your friend’s house party, getting sick in the bathroom, almost falling down the stairs—and you. You, asking me if I want to go somewhere we can be alone. You, on top of me. You, not wanting to wear a condom. Me, too drunk to argue.
The next morning’s hangover blotted out the finer details of the previous evening’s events, making the question of whether or not you pulled out in time impossible to answer. But when my period was late the following month—I knew.
I’m still gazing out the bedroom window when your Ford Explorer casually creeps past. The base from the speakers rattles the window frame and makes my pulse quicken. There’s something about the cavalier way you drive by, leaning back in your seat, bass booming—the audacity of it—that sets me off. And before I can think better of it, I’m on my feet. Barefoot, still bleeding into the thick pad between my legs, I sprint outside to confront you. It’s not that I actually want to see you—but I want you to see me, to realize the havoc you’ve wrecked. On the street, my hands wave frantically in your direction, then drop to my sides as your car speeds up and disappears around the corner.
Despite being on the track team in high school, the practice of running was not something I carried with me into my twenties. Yet, I run now, faster than I thought possible, faster than someone in my condition should be able to run. Blind rage propels me forward until a cramp in my side forces me to stop.
Feeling light-headed, I crouch to catch my breath, then fall to my knees a few feet from the curb. The pavement is rough and reeks of exhaust. A few seconds, possibly minutes later, I awake to the sound of a horn blaring. Bolting upright and blinking into the late afternoon sun, a man around my father’s age comes into focus. He’s leaning out the window of a dark SUV and yelling at me, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Between the din of the idling engine and the whooshing sound in my ears, he might as well be shouting in Dutch.
Still trying to clear the fogginess from my head, I watch as the man gets out of his vehicle and walks toward me. He steps tentatively, as if approaching a wounded animal, one he fears might get up and charge him at any moment. Suddenly, something warm trickles down the inside of my thigh. The contrast of red on white is so glaring I’m convinced the stranger walking toward me must see it.
The man comes closer. Does he think I’m hurt? On drugs? Suicidal? Why else would a person be lying in the middle of the road and bleeding? He’s looking at me funny now, probably weighing whether or not he should call the police—if he hasn't called them already. The thought of the police coming makes my stomach clench, and I stand too quickly, swaying on my feet.
The man shoots his arms out as if he can stop me from falling from fifteen feet away. “Hey there, are you OK?”
“I’m fine!” I shout. Though, I’m not entirely sure that’s true. I amble to the sidewalk, feeling the man’s eyes on me the entire time. Funny, I used to like it when men stared at me. Now, it makes my skin crawl. Once I’m on the curb, he stares at me for a few seconds longer as if trying to decide something then sighs audibly. He seems unsure what to do next.
“You sure you’re OK? I could call someone.”
“No,” I say, much louder than intended. “Thanks, but really, I’m fine.”
The man opens his mouth, closes it again. Perhaps satisfied he’s done his due diligence in ensuring my safety, he shrugs and returns to his car. I stare down at my bare feet, covered in bits of sand and gravel and speckled red with tiny scratches. I hear the neighbor’s dog barking and children yelling. A sprinkler system in someone’s yard activates. In the distance, a car backfires. If the suburbs had a soundtrack, this would be it.
A brown bat circles an oak tree in the clearing across the street. My breath catches in my throat as the animal swoops down a few feet from where I’m standing. The bat reminds me of a nature program they showed us at school once. In the video, a biologist or ecologist or some ologist with a British accent claimed bats were more agile flyers than birds—it has something to do with the structure of their wing membrane and the perfect symmetry of muscle and bone. They’re built to be light and agile. They need to be light and agile—to survive. For some reason, this thought gives me comfort.
I wait for the bat to appear again. When it doesn’t, I head towards home, my stride measured and purposeful, taking care not to step on anything sharp.
THE END
Author Bio: Tina Mortimer is a marketing writer by day and a fiction writer by night. Her work has been featured in MUTHA, Hippocampus, Cleaver and Minnesota Parent. Tina lives in White Bear Lake, Minnesota with her partner, two kids, and a very naughty mini poodle named Ruby.