Nancy
When my fingers catch nothing but crumpled sheets I know right away what’s happened. I don’t dare to hope that he’s in the kitchen making breakfast, or that he’s run to the store, or anything like that. He’s gone, just like he left last time, just like he’ll leave time and time again. And I didn’t even get a chance to tell him about the baby.
I get up, feeling numb. Beneath the numbness, my heart feels like it’s been beaten with a hammer, battered around and left bloodier than hearts normally are. I try and ignore the mounting sadness as I pace around. I go to the bathroom, wondering how he felt when he left, if he felt sorry or if he just didn’t care. Then I notice the pregnancy test, leaning against the wall, on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. I’m almost certain it was on its side on the second shelf. No, not almost certain. I am certain. One-hundred percent.
I rest my face in my hands, heart hammering in my ears. He found the test, and he abandoned me. He found the test and he ran! I throw the test against the wall, where it shatters into a shower of plastic. I grab the toilet-paper holder and toss it across the room. It’s metal, and I must be stronger than I thought. It chips the tiles and bounces to the floor. I kick the trashcan and spit on the floor, anger moving through me like it hasn’t since I was a teenager and didn’t understand why my dad couldn’t just be like other dads.
“You asshole!” I cry, gritting my teeth and trying—and failing—to control my breathing. “You unbelievable prick!”
I go into my bedroom, get the suitcase from under the bed, and start packing. I want to hate him. I tell myself I hate him as I shove clothes into the case, photo albums and anything else that holds some sentimental value. I tell myself he’s just some arrogant biker prick and I want nothing to do with him. I have to believe that if I want to survive. And maybe I could convince myself of it if the memory of our closeness wasn’t still imprinted on my skin. I still feel him, like a phantom limb. I feel him close to me, his breath on my neck, his hands on my breasts. I feel the love we shared, and I’m sure it was love, and that just makes it all the worse.
“Nancy?” Mom’s voice is full of surprise. I never call her.
“Can I stay with you for a few days?” I ask.
“Stay with me . . . Why, yes, yes, of course. We have a spare room.”
“Thank you.”
“Nancy, is something wrong? Is it your father?”
“No,” I say. “It’s nothing to do with him. I don’t want to talk about it right now. We’ll talk later.”
“Are you driving up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, be careful. Make sure to take a break every four hours and—”
“I know how to drive, Mom!” I snap, hanging up the phone.
I finish packing, turn off every electrical outlet, and then go to the door, looking over the apartment and trying to summon up some sentimentality. But I feel nothing but cold and resentful and angry. I wish Fink was here so I could slap him across the face. It’s one thing walking out on me when we’re two strangers fucking, another when he knows he’s knocked me up and doesn’t want anything to do with it. I mean . . . even if he didn’t want anything to do with it, that’d be fine. I’d understand. But to run like a coward?
I put the suitcase in my trunk and start my car. I’ll call my landlord when I get to LA. There are a dozen technical things I need to worry about, and yet I don’t feel any doubt. Fink clearly didn’t feel any doubt, so why should I? If he can just run, I can, too.
I head toward the highway, trying to ignore the pit in my belly. The pit wills me to stay, to turn back and find Fink, but I can’t be that girl, can I? I can’t be the girl who’s always chasing the man who’s pushing her away, the girl who doesn’t know how to take a hint, the desperate girl who latches onto her man like a leech and never lets go. Maybe I could guilt-trip Fink into staying with me, but I don’t want to have to guilt-trip him. I don’t want us to raise a child in an environment of resent and hate; I was raised in that environment and I know what it can do to a person.
My cell buzzes. I pull to the side of the highway entrance and answer it.
“Nancy?” It’s Dad, voice not slurred but tired. He sounds strung-out, almost like he hasn’t had a drink.
“Yes,” I say, waiting. If he says one aggressive, nitpicking, Dad-like thing, I’m done. But I don’t have it in me to just hang up on him.
“I’m sorry to ask . . .” He sounds almost timid. “I need your help. I know it’s a pain. I get that I’m a pain. I can be a pain . . . I’m sorry. There’s a leak in my kitchen and I need a ride to the hardware store. I’d go but—”
“You’re too drunk to drive,” I say, meaner than I intend.
“No.” He laughs strangely. “I’m actually too sober to drive. I’ve got a wicked headache and I can’t stop shaking and I don’t think I’m in any state to drive. No state at all.”
“You’re sober?” I ask. “Really?”
“Really,” he says. “I want to apologize, Nancy. I want to apologize for everything and show you I’m a better man—”
“I don’t want to hear that right now,” I say. He’s been sober before. It’s never lasted longer than a couple of days, but a couple of days is plenty of time to get my hopes up, to make sure I’m all the sadder when drunk Dad reemerges. “You can show me you’ve changed in the long run. For now, we’ll just get you that tool. I’ll be by in ten minutes.”
Maybe this could be the thing to keep me in Salem, I reflect as I drive through the bleak, gray-clouded city toward Dad’s apartment building. The reason I stayed here after college in the first place was to help Dad get better, and maybe this is it. This might be the first day of a long journey to redemption. I want to hope that, but I’m also aware that my hopes have stacked up like this before, stacking higher and higher until they all come tumbling down. I have to be vigilant, to make sure that they don’t stack so high that I lose control of them.
But when I see Dad outside his apartment building, clean-shaven and clean-suited, his hair combed and his hands folded in front of him like he’s in church, I can’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Against my will, fantasies frolic in my head: I see Dad holding my child in his arms, taking my child to the park, teaching him or her to shoot. I see Dad in the waiting room, completely sober now, there for me as an adult as he never was when I was a kid. I try to banish the fantasies as I pull up beside him, but it’s hard.
He climbs in next to me. “Nancy,” he says, offering a shaky smile. His hands tremble nonstop. He has to clamp his knees to stop the trembling.
“Dad,” I say. “Where’s the store?”
“Five minutes down there.” He points with a shaky finger to the road on the left. “I’ll give you directions.”
“Okay.”
Dad guides me to the store. I stop in the parking lot and we just sit there for a few minutes. After a long pause, Dad says, “I don’t remember much about yesterday. Hell, I don’t remember anything about yesterday. I remember I had my gun out, and that the fellas came by and I convinced them to leave, and I remember you being there. But I don’t remember what we said, or how we left it. I know it was bad, but I don’t remember what I said. I’m . . . I’m a mess, Nancy. That’s the truth of it. Your old man’s a mess.”
“You don’t remember anything?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not a darn thing.”
That means he doesn’t remember about my pregnancy. He doesn’t remember the test, the argument, me storming out on him.
“Let’s look for that tool.”
We walk into the hardware store. A plan formulates in my mind as we walk up and down the aisles. Dad takes longer than usual to find the right tool, looking unfocused and barely awake. Sober Dad is a strange sight, like a rare breed of bird, and it’s also a chance to test if there’s really any possibility of us becoming close, becoming a real father and daughter, becoming something more than a mess. If I can form some kind of connection with Dad, then maybe Fink abandoning me won’t sting so harshly.
I’ll tell him about the pregnancy when he’s sober, I decide. I’ll tell him and see what his answer is without alcohol poisoning his veins.
We buy the tool and return to the car. I don’t start the engine, though. I just sit there, trying to form the words. It’s not often we get a second chance like this in life.
“Are you okay?” Dad asks. And it’s like he actually cares. There’s real kindness in his voice.
“I need to tell you something,” I say. “It’s about Fink.”
I watch his reaction. He swallows, but doesn’t say anything. After around ten seconds he nods. “Okay.”
I take a deep breath and then just blurt it. “I’m pregnant and Fink’s the father.”
I can’t look at him. I stare out the window at a lady walking her dog. His breathing gets heavier and heavier until he’s practically growling. I turn to him. His face is red, his jowls trembling, his cheeks quivering, his eyes shot with blood and wide with rage.
“I hope this is a joke,” he says.
My chest drops; my hopes tumble. I feel like a fool for ever thinking things could be different.
“Is it?” he barks. “It better be! I’m telling you right this second, Nancy. This better be a joke!”
“It’s not a joke,” I say tiredly. “It’s true. I’m pregnant. And now I’d like you to get out of my car, Dad. I don’t want you in here anymore.”
“What?” he barks. “Get out of your car? Why? You can’t tell me something like that and then demand that I get out of your car! What sort of daughter are you? What sort of woman are you? You let that criminal impregnate you, Nancy! It’s fucking sick!”
“Get out!” I scream, thumping the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. “Get out before I scratch your fucking eyes out! Get out right this second!”
“Wait.” He softens, but not by much. “Listen to me. We can deal with this together. I’ll come with you. You don’t have to face this alone. There’s no shame in taking control of your life. You don’t want to raise some criminal’s brat, do you? I’ll be with you the whole time. We can go right now.”
“Dad . . .” I swallow, trying to keep my voice calm. “If you don’t get out of my car right this second, I am going to kill you. I swear to God, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you for all the times you made me fear for my own life growing up. I’ll kill you for ever letting me hope. Get. Out.”
He tries to speak again, but I’m in no mood to listen to him. I spin on him and scream, “Get out right now! I mean it! Get the fuck out or there’ll be trouble!”
I’m not sure exactly what kind of trouble I mean, but my message must get through to him on some level. He leans against the window, his eyes wide and watery. It’s the first time I can remember seeing him afraid. “Wow,” he says. “Just . . . wow.”
He opens the door and almost falls from the car, pacing away and watching me warily.
I screech away, ignoring his judgmental looks, full of hate for him for judging and for myself for hoping. I should know by now that hoping and Dad don’t go together. I should have learned that a long time ago. Instead I let myself fall into the trap and then act surprised when the trap snaps me up.
I fight the tears as I head for the highway. I don’t think of Dad and I don’t think of Fink. At least, I try not to think about him.
But as I drive down the highway, I keep feeling his hands on me, his breath on my neck, his tongue in my mouth. Most of all I hear his laughter and see his smile and imagine the love we could have shared together.