Pregnant Pause (6 page)

I don't say anything. I just leave, but you can bet your life that I'll be wearing this same dress tomorrow and maybe even the next day. I'm pregnant, lady! How many mother-to-be outfits does she think I have? And these tent dresses are the most comfortable. Of course I hadn't planned on dressing like a pumpkin again even if it is comfortable, but now that I've been challenged, I can't resist. What can she do to me, anyway? Ban me from the camp? Oh, boo-hoo!

***

Lam doesn't get back to our cabin until five the next morning. I didn't sleep much, anyway, because I had to keep getting up to go to the bathroom, which meant putting on some kind of shoes and a bathrobe because everyone must wear shoes and a bathrobe to go to the bathroom at night. It's rule number 5,987 in the camp fun book. Then I have to grab my flashlight and tiptoe around on piles of rocks and roots up the hill to the bathroom hut. It's a fifteen-minute ordeal at least, and I went through it some twelve times before I decided to just sit on the toilet and lean against the wall to get some sleep. That was the best sleep I got all night, but I didn't want to be found there and get into more trouble, so before daylight I got myself up again and trudged back to the cabin. I felt too hot and my butt was sore from where it had been sitting with the rim of the toilet seat wrapped around it. I could feel a deep ridge in my skin there that hurt to touch. I guess I won't be doing that again, but something has to change. Maybe I can find a pot to pee in and put it under my bed. I felt like I was the one who had been out all night drinking.

Lam wasn't home when I returned to the cabin, but about a half hour later he staggers in and when he sees me sitting on the couch fanning myself with our marriage certificate, he puts his finger to his mouth. "Shhh," he says. "Don't want to make up the missus—I mean, wake up the wissus." He laughs. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I sure do." I drop the certificate on the floor and sit with my arms crossed over my belly and my feet up on the trunk. Suddenly I see myself years from now, maybe I'm fifty years old, and Lam is still coming in at all hours, drunk and talking stupid, and I'm sitting just like this. The thought is so depressing I burst into tears, and Lam stumbles over and, half falling on the trunk and half on me, tries to comfort me. "Hey, baby, it's okay. Whassa matter? It's okay. Hey."

I lean away from him. He smells of B.O. and beer. "Lam, just go away. I'm too tired and too depressed for this," I cry.

"So go to bed. It's still earl—early." He pets my head and burps and laughs, and then he cries, too, and reaches out to me for some sympathy. I lean farther away from him, but not far enough, because then he throws up—not outside in front of the campers, not in front of his parents, but on me. His warm, stinkin' barf lands all over my arms, shirt, shorts, legs, and even my bathrobe, which I had taken off and Lam is half sitting on. I cry even harder and I think of my parents in Kenya, and I miss them, and I want them to come home and take care of me, and I wonder how and when life had gotten so complicated.

Lam is laughing and crying at the same time. He crawls off of me while I just sit there with my arms up in the air trying not to get any more vomit on me than necessary. I would have jumped up, only I'm
pregnant!
So I sit there while Lam in all his fog tries to figure out what to do.

I ever so slowly get myself to my feet. "Go get some wet paper towels from the bathroom or maybe the kitchen, Lam. Or wait, if the kitchen is open, get a wet cloth or a mop—yeah, a mop. Ask for a mop."

Lam nods and staggers to the door. I look at my watch. Just after five. "Wait. The kitchen won't be open. You've gotta go to your parents' cabin. Yeah, go there. They've got a bathroom and a kitchen—unlike us. Go there."

Lam blinks at me. "No way. No way. Come on. They—they'll kill me if they smee me like this—I mean smee lee like—I feel sick." He leans over like he's going to puke again.

"Lam! Do it! Just do it!" I yell this loud enough to wake up the whole camp, but I don't care.

Lam stumbles out the door, and I stare after him. I don't know what to do. I have nothing to clean the mess up with, but hiking all the way up to the bathroom without a robe on feels too risky, what with the MIL and FIL about to be wakened. All I can think to do is to go to the little square windows that run the length of two sides of the cabin and open them all up to air out the place. They're made of wood and I realize that they open from the outside, because window screens block me from getting at them on the inside. I think about getting into some other clothes but I have so few that fit me and I don't want to get any vomit on them. I figure going outside naked is out of the question, and although it's tempting to put on something of Lam's, I decide that's kind of mean, so I decide to risk it and go as I am to open the windows.

On the outside the windows are pretty high up so I have to find a rock or something to stand on to reach them. I find a log that's set up as one of the seats around a little campfire back behind one of the other cabins. It doesn't look too difficult to roll, and after a few false starts I get the thing moving and I roll it over to my cabin, stand on it, and raise the first window. It's easy to lift, and I find a six-inch hook that fits into a hole and holds the square piece of wood open. I move on to the next one and the next one, and while I open windows I think about Lam. Somehow, all the effort it took to find the log and roll it into place and get the windows open has softened my anger. It was his graduation day, after all, and his wedding day, which, I have to admit, is kind of a scary thing. Neither one of us knows how we ended up in this predicament. Okay, we do, but you know what I mean. Worse still, neither one of us knows what we're going to do about it or how this whole marriage/camp/baby situation is going to play out. So I don't blame him for getting plastered. If I could have, I would have gotten so blotto I wouldn't walk straight for a year.

I push the log along to the next window with my foot, and hurry to open it. I just have three windows left. All I need is for one of Lam's parents to catch me out here. I check behind me to make sure they're not coming, and yeah, you've guessed it. Here they come, charging down the hill, the MIL and the FIL, and behind them, Lam. The MIL has a mop in her hands and she looks like she went to bed still angry and the expression just froze on her face. The FIL is carrying a bucket and trying to keep up with the MIL without sloshing the water. I look down at my vomit-coated self outside without the requisite robe and shoes, and I groan. I know this whole thing is somehow going to get pinned on me. How dare I get vomited on, right? I mean, I should have had sense enough to move out of the way of their precious son's precious vomit. How dare I stand outside in men's underwear and a T-shirt and bare feet, too. I should have worn the robe, vomit and all.

"Eleanor Crowe, get inside the cabin, now!" the MIL says in this furious whisper when she gets close enough to be sure I'll hear her.

I let the window I held up but hadn't yet hooked slam back into place and step off the log. I remind myself that these are my in-laws and I'd better try to be respectful. I don't say anything. I just go inside and wait for them to follow. I step aside while the MIL marches in, her mop taking aim at the floor. Behind her comes the FIL and Lam, and Lam is whimpering, "I'm really sorry. I must have eaten something rotten."

Yeah, like a barrel of beer.

"You're drunk, son," the FIL says without emotion. He goes over to me, grabs one of my arms, and reaches into the bucket he's set at his feet. He wrings out a rag full of water and wipes me down. First one arm, and then the other. The water is cold and it makes me feel chilled down to my bones, but I don't say anything. I let him wash me off, and when, for a second, I look up from the floor where I've been staring and catch the FIL's eye, he winks at me, and my bones thaw and warm up toasty-cozy just like that. He winks, and suddenly it's all all right. I have a friend—maybe.

"I know, Dad, but hon—honest, I only had a couple of beers," Lam continues. He burps and giggles at himself but only for a second, 'cause his dad is watching him. "Someone must have spiked my Coke or something, 'cause I swear I only had a couple of beers. I swear, honest."

The MIL is mopping furiously. The mop
slap-slap-slaps
against the floor. She's in her bathrobe and slippers, of course. No emergency would keep her from following the rules. The woman is big and strong and she looks like she could crush me with one hand—and as if maybe she wants to do just that. I don't apologize, though. As far as I'm concerned, I don't see how I've done anything wrong. The MIL thinks otherwise.

"I hope this little drama is no indication of what this summer is going to be like. We've let you come live here out of the kindness of our hearts." She glares at me. "And because we know we have a duty to you and the child. But if you can't behave yourself and act in an adult manner, you can bet we'll ship you right off to Africa or California. No wonder your parents were so anxious to leave."
Slap-slap-slap!

The woman is spitting mad, but what she says makes me even madder. "My parents wanted me," I say. "They wanted me in Kenya with them. I'm the one who wanted to stay behind with Lam. And I'm
not
the one who got piss-assed drunk and threw up. And what do you expect me to do? I'm pregnant! And in case you've forgotten, it takes two to make a baby. Besides that, I spent all night walking a mile to the bathroom and back, like a million times, so I got no sleep, and Lam left me alone here with you and this camp and..." By now I'm crying again, and I feel so miserable, and all I want are my parents. I can't talk anymore, I'm so upset, which is probably a good thing, because the venom in my heart has been making its way to the tip of my tongue, and who knows what I might say next?

Then Lam cries and he moves over to me and throws his arms around me while his dad is on his knees wiping his son's vomit off my legs. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, everybody. I promise I'll straighten up."

"You're going to have to," the FIL says. "You've got to be down at the lake with the other lifeguards giving the kids their swimming test by nine."

"Right, I know. I'll be there. I'll get myself cleaned up and all, but I swear, I think I ate something bad. I feel—I feel—"

Lam turns green, and I think I'm going to get vomited on again, but he manages to turn away and run to the door before he explodes on the steps.

The MIL curses under her breath. I feel like laughing because it's more mess for her to mop up, which I know isn't a nice thought, but the woman hates me. Then Lam makes this funny shuddering noise—really funny—and then he honks or grunts like a pig, and I look around at the mad woman mopping away like crazy, and the FIL wiping down my feet, and the cabin with all the junk dumped on the floor, and the moose head staring at us, and silly, pregnant me, and it all seems too funny. I know if I laugh I'm going to make things worse, but knowing that only makes the whole scene funnier. Lam shudders and honks again, and that's the end for me. I burst out laughing. I laugh so hard it makes the baby kick. I know he/she is laughing, too. I hold the baby with my arms and the two of us laugh and laugh, and the angry glares from drunk Lam and my pissed-off MIL and the FIL only make everything funnier.

I'M STARVING by the time breakfast rolls around. It's eight o'clock, and Lam and I are sitting with Ziggy and Jen, a guy named Leonardo DeAngelis, and a shy girl named Gren Owens. I find out this morning that I'll be assisting Leonardo starting today in the crafts hut, but I don't have to assist in dance till next week, since there's just one class, taught once a day, and this first week Haley, the dance counselor, said she didn't need me.

I would have thought dance would be so popular that all the kids would want to take it and there would be classes every day all day long, but Lam said that the camp has never had good luck with the ballet classes, or its teachers, so they just do one class.

"Why don't they teach jazz or tap or something less stiff, then?" I had asked Lam, but he just shrugged. Well, as far as I was concerned, I hoped Haley wouldn't need me at all and I could just hide out in the back of the crafts hut till dinnertime every day.

Since I'm going to be helping Leonardo right away, I size him up. He looks nice enough, I suppose. I mean, he's got a decent-looking face, and he's tall, with really broad shoulders, but he's weird looking, too. He's got short hair, no jewelry or tattoos, and he's scrubbed so clean he looks like he uses pumice stone to wash his skin. He's wearing a Camp WeightAway shirt just like the rest of us, only on top of his he's wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt—you know, with flowers and bananas all over it—and beige shorts that come down to his knees. And he wears black dress socks pulled halfway up his muscular calves and the kind of shapeless, cheaply made running shoes that you could probably wear on either foot and it wouldn't matter. He looks like an American tourist in Europe, and he even has a camera, a small video camera that he set down beside his bowl of oatmeal. He's the camp photographer as well as the crafts counselor. He does these before-and-after pictures of the kids so they can see how much weight they've lost, and he goes around shooting everybody for a movie montage show at the end of camp, so we can be reminded of what a great time we've had. I feel kind of sorry for the guy, because he's got "nerd" written all over him. Before he eats he crosses himself and says a blessing after the camp blessing of rub-a-dub-dub. He tucks his napkin into the collar of his shirt and eats his oatmeal with a fork. I kid you not. He eats with his mouth open, which is so gross because the oatmeal in his mouth looks too much like you-know-what. I try not to look at him, but trying not to makes me look right at him. I try harder and stare at the spot between his eyes when he talks to me.

"I thought we'd start with something simple in crafts today," he says.

"Oh, yeah?"
Forehead, forehead, stare at the forehead.
"What's that?" I ask.