Carly
Five days later, we wake in Roswell. I suggested that we make unscheduled stops here and there along the way: industrial parks, mall parking lots, municipal ball fields. We only got chased off twice, and we’ve upped the average bank deposit by a chunk. I’m proud, feeling like I’m repaying Cora in some small way.
After my normal routine of throwing up and getting a shower, I step out of the bathroom. Nevada is watching TV, sitting on her bed in a T-shirt that reads, WHEN I ASKED, “HOW STUPID CAN YOU BE?” IT WASN’T A CHALLENGE.
Cora really needs to think about putting that girl in a uniform. “I checked the propane on the truck yesterday. If we don’t get them refilled today, we’re in trouble.”
Her gaze doesn’t move from the set. “Duh.”
I take a breath and let it out slowly. I need this break as much as she needs this job, so I’m going to give it another try. I sit on the other bed. She’s watching one of those crappy shopping network shows. “I bought a ‘jewel’ necklace from them once. It was garbage.”
She grunts.
“I don’t know how they make it look so amazing. Maybe they’re using the real thing for the taping, then ship you Taiwanese crap.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ve never bought anything there? Then why are you watching?”
“Beats the pork futures report.”
“Yeah. Just barely.” God, I need coffee. But, though it still smells wonderful, since the pregnancy, it tastes like hot, rancid motor oil. I ignore my caffeine withdrawal and try to think of something we have in common to talk about. “You know, I just realized. I don’t know anything about you.” I sit and fold my legs on the bed. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you something about me, then you tell me something about you.”
No response.
I’ll take a yes on that, because the only other option is pork futures. “I’ve lived my whole life in Unforgiven. My Nana and Papaw raised me since I was two, when my parents died in a motorcycle accident.” I whip through the high points of my life: Student Council, Cibola County Rodeo Queen, manager of the Chestnut Creek Café, all without mentioning Austin. I wind down when I realize I’m starting to sound as fake as a Christmas letter.
“I mean, it hasn’t always been easy. The diner isn’t making enough money, and…”
Shutupshutupshutup. “Anyway. Your turn. Tell me something about you.”
“Oh, let’s see…” She puts her finger under her chin and looks at the ceiling. “I like long walks by a lake, my favorite color is lavender, and I think Justin Timberlake is dreamy.” She drops the falsetto and scowls. “Oh yeah. And I don’t like you.”
“You know, I may have gotten a hint of that somewhere along the way. But why? You don’t even know me.”
Nevada stands, and takes the two steps to the bathroom. “Oh no. As of now, I know way too much about you.”
The door slams loud enough to wake the people three doors down.
Why do I keep trying? In a couple weeks, I’ll be back home, and I’ll have lots more to worry about than this.
But I know why. I’ve got one of those Labrador puppy personalities—everybody likes me. Well, maybe not Ann Miner, the snooty president of the historical society, but she even looks down on the mayor. And Austin, when he finds out. I slept with another man, got pregnant, and then took comfort from Austin, and I have yet to find the guts to tell him.
Hardly the actions of a woman who claims to have loved one man her whole life.
The magnitude of my sin in the truck slams, rocking me. Holy cripes, could Austin think we’re getting back together now? He wouldn’t. Would he?
* * *
Austin
I pull the truck into the cutoff for the fairgrounds on Friday. Roswell has always been lucky for me. I have three Champion buckles from here already and, as good as I feel, I’m gonna score another this weekend.
And I get to see Tig. I’ve been counting the minutes like some doe-eyed teenager with a first crush, and I don’t care. She still loves me.
My life is getting back on track; I can feel it.
I hit the road late, so the parking area behind the arena is almost full. I pull in, shut it down, and head for the chutes to see who’s around.
Metal rings with the sound of bulls’ hooves as they’re being unloaded. Ropers are in the arena, throwing loops, warming up their horses. I see some riders behind the chutes, but I don’t want to stop and chew the fat. I’m keyed up as a hot barrel horse. Hey, it’s eleven—I could eat. Smiling, I head for food truck alley, and the beacon of Cora’s red truck.
Life. Is. Good.
Lexi Falls saunters by in her signature painted-on jeans and boobie buffet on display. She’s a lackluster barrel racer, and all the guys know Lexi is mostly here to rub a polish on buckles. Not to be crude, but Lexi has been known to fall.
“Hey, Austin.”
“Lexi.” I touch the brim of my hat and keep going. I’ve got a lady to see.
“It seems congratulations are in order.”
I turn and walk backward. “How’s that?”
“I just saw Carly having morning heaves behind Cora’s truck.” A sly smile slithers onto her lips. “Y’all better schedule the wedding. I hear maternity bridal gowns are hard to come by.” She turns, and hips rolling, motors on.
Carly, sick? I turn and jog for the red blob in the distance. What the heck is that she-cat jawing about? Carly’s not pregnant. I’d be the first to know, if she was.
She’s in front of the serving window, filling the wire shelves with small bags of potato chips.
I pull up a step from her and touch her arm. “Tig, you okay?”
She hunches her shoulders with a jerk, and the bag in her hand crumples. “A-Austin. I didn’t expect you until—”
“You’re sick?” When she doesn’t move, I take her upper arm and turn her to me. She looks strained and her skin is pale, but that’s how it has been, lately.
Her brows pull together. “I’m not sick; why do you ask?”
“Well, Lexi Falls just told me she saw you throw up, and—”
Her hair flies when she whips her head to the tough-looking girl in the truck. “I’ll be back, Nevada, okay?”
“Whatever.”
“Let’s go somewhere and talk.” She grabs my sleeve and walks off.
I follow. Worry rolls through me like the far-off rumble of summer thunder. “What’s going on, Tig? Lexi somehow got the idea you were preg—”
“Shhhh! Hang on a second, will you?” She looks around, then heads for a barren, grassy area fifty feet behind the truck.
When we arrive, she spins to me. “I’m pregnant, all right? But you don’t have to worry; it’s not yours.”
I fall back a step as much from her spitting tone as her words. “What are you saying? Of course it’s mine. You don’t have to worry, hon, we’ll just get—”
“It’s. Not. Yours.” Color has drained from her face, except for two spots of red, high on her cheeks.
What alternate Universe is this? Tig was my first; my only. And I’m her—no, I’m not. I can see it in the stubborn line of her jaw, the ice in her unwavering look. The muscles in my shoulders let go. I lock my knees to keep them from letting go. “What the f—”
“I made a mistake, okay?” Her eyes slide away. “A huge, impulsive, ignorant, moronic mistake.”
“I think you’d better tell me. Now, Tig.” My voice is quiet, but there’s iron in it.
“I was lost. I was mad. I was—conflicted. You didn’t take me seriously, that we were broken up. No one in town did, asking all the time how you were, when we were getting back together. When I told them we weren’t, they’d get this smug smile.” She grabs her hair and pulls. “You can’t imagine how that feels, to have finally realized who you are is not who you want to be, but everyone around you is pushing you to be the same…I was going insane. So, I took off for Albuquerque, to forget all that for a night. I met a guy in a bar, and—don’t you dare look at me like that, Austin Davis. You wanted to hear, so listen.”
I push down the pissed and nod.
She wraps her arms around her waist. “His wife had left him, and we got to talking. I made it clear there’d be nothing more, and he was fine with that. But I was drinking, and he was drinking, and somehow…”
Her words speed up like a downhill roller coaster.
“The next thing I know, it’s morning and I’m alone, remembering what happened. What I did.”
When she looks up, her eyes are red, and filled with sadness. “I know it probably doesn’t make a difference to you now, but Austin, I’m so, so sorry.”
“I—” I’m not sure what I was going to say, because another fact drops like a bomb in my head. “Last week. In the truck. Tell me you didn’t know then. That you didn’t…” But I know from her flinch, she did.
She can’t look at me. “I knew.”
Red-paint anger splashes in my brain, behind my eyes. I see red, literally. “You let me believe, for an entire week, that we were getting back together. That we were back together. And now you tell me…Who are you?” I squint down at her. “It’s like I’m in a ’50s sci-fi movie, and an alien has taken you over. You look like my Carly, but you’re not. You can’t be, because my Carly would never—”
“You know what? Screw ‘your Carly.’” She leans in, face flushing. “Your Carly is dead. No—I’m starting to think she never existed. She was some perfect girl we made up.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m not that perfect girl.”
I glance down at her belly. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” I want her to feel the pain, the betrayal I’m feeling right now.
She’s pulled the world out from under me.
Her face blanches with shock. Then her eyes narrow, and her chin juts. “You forgot one thing, Mr. High and Mighty. We were broken up. So, none of this is your business anyway.”
“We’d have gotten back together. You know it. I know it. The truck episode last weekend proved it.” I cross my arms over my open chest wound.
“No. I’m never going back to being ‘Rodeo Barbie’ again. I may screw up.” She swallows. “A lot. I may not know who I am yet, but I promise you one thing, Austin Davis. I’m danged sure gonna find out.”
This is useless. I look at her round face, peeking out from all that fiery hair. Those sweet freckles sprinkled across her turned-up nose. The spirit in those eyes. This is gonna be the hardest thing ever, seeing her down the road, because she’s right. My Carly is dead, replaced by this…whoever this is. My anger burns down. The only thing left in the cold ashes is a blistered agony of pain. “Good luck with that.”
* * *
Carly
I watch Austin walk across the field and out of my life. I want to chase him down, to try to explain about that night in the truck. But what would I say? That I was grabbing onto what I needed?
It was like that song about seeking shelter against the wind. You are thankful for the shelter, but you don’t consider past that. I’m a horrible person.
And his pain, and knowing I caused it, throws me into a new level of hell.
My feet drag the dirt on the way back to the truck. I’d rather hide under it than climb in, but that’s not an option. I’d love even more to get on the bike and blow out of here. But I’m not in any shape to ride right now, anyway. Not that I care much what would happen to me.
I need to toughen up. I have a baby to think about. At least, today I do. I don’t know about tomorrow.
Nevada is cleaning the grill when I step into the truck. She takes one look at me, lifts a paper plate of cinnamon toast, and hands it to me. “You’ve gotta be hungry.”
Nevada offering more than sarcasm? I must look terminal.
“You look like you need a beer, and I’d get you one, but pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink.”
Emotional whiplash stops me in the doorway. “What?”
“Ex-con isn’t spelled s-t-u-p-i-d.” She turns back to the grill. “Let me guess. Your cowboy isn’t going to make an honest woman of you?”
That hurts, but it’s just a bee sting on top of a bullet wound. “Oh, it’s lot’s worse than that. We’re never getting back together. And it’s my fault.” I sound like an overacting soap opera star, but heck, I kind of am. “I’ve made such a horrible mess of things, and there’s no way to fix it.”
She walks to the fridge, in the front of the truck, and throws over her shoulder, “Well, well. Maybe we do have something in common, after all.”
* * *
Carly
One good thing about working with someone who doesn’t like you—they leave you alone to your thoughts. Well, thoughts and head-banging music. The first few hours are busy, thanks to the rodeo. Late afternoon, there are only a few people cruising the food zone. It’s time. I untie my apron. “I need to run an errand. Can you handle this for an hour?”
She rolls her eyes. “Like I need you.”
“Good.” I slam the apron on the counter. “We’ve really got to address your attitude sometime.” I don’t wait for her retort; my nerves are crispy already, and it wouldn’t be fair to take it out on her.
I put on my helmet and fire up the bike. Downtown, squinting at the building numbers, I pass alien souvenir shops and new age bookstores. The alleged UFO crash here in the ’60s has kept this remote town crawling with tourists ever since. I wish it would have crashed in Unforgiven—we could use the business.
I turn in at the generic stucco building, the Roswell Pregnancy Center that I looked up last night. I need information.
I still haven’t decided what to think of the little bean growing inside me. It’s going to change my life in ways I probably haven’t even thought of yet, no matter what I decide.
Could I live with myself if I went through with terminating this pregnancy? I don’t need a law or a preacher to tell me it is a life. I know it. My body knows it. I haven’t felt a kick, or even a flutter yet, but I feel different. And it’s not about the sore boobs, or the hunger, or the nausea. It’s…I don’t have a word for it, except for life. Or the promise of it, running through me.
But what if I decide to have the baby, and can’t bond with it, because of how it was conceived? Not only would I be giving up the Carly I was, but I’d be harnessed to a being that I have no feeling for, no bond with, for the rest of my life. A life sentence, pretending to be a mother. Kids are smart. A kid would know. I’d not only be messing up my life, but another’s, too.
How do women, married or not, ever have the guts to have a baby? The massive responsibility of starting a life, then steering that person on a path…Hell, I can’t even make good decisions for myself. Odds are, I’d really screw up a kid.
At the dentist they do x-rays, and cover you in a lead apron. The responsibility feels like the weight of that apron. My decision will change everything, but how can I know how I’ll feel then, sitting where I am now? I can’t.
But at least I can be informed. I drop the side stand, pull the key, tuck my helmet under my arm, and stride for the door.
The lobby is small, empty, worn, and green: walls, carpet, and plastic furniture. I avoid the gaze of the matronly woman talking on the phone behind the check-in window and step to the racks of pamphlets hanging on the wall. The walls exude a musk of disinfectant, dust, and dread—as if the fear and worry of every woman who sat in these chairs has soaked into the walls. It makes me want to hold my breath.
The lady pushes the glass back. “Can I help you?”
“No, thanks, just looking.” I pick pamphlets from their slots. Thankfully, I can pass over the STD ones. And I’m way late for the birth-control ones. Pregnancy Facts. Your Body, Your Decision. Do I have to tell my parents? Can you really make a decision this huge from reading a glossy tri-fold? That seems as unlikely as the events that brought me here.
Something about the place is giving me the willies. I glance out of the corner of my eye at the only door other than the one I came in. The door that lies at the end of one of my choices. My guts vibrate in a tsunami of wrong, wrong, wrong. My mind hasn’t gotten the memo my body already knows. There’s no way I’m doing this.
Suddenly and perfectly, I know.
A chinook warmth washes over the shelf of ice inside me. How could I ever have imagined that I could harm this little innocent thing inside me? It’s a baby. I’m carrying a miracle of life. I may not be sure about half its DNA, but the rest is mine.
A video streams in my mind, of a nurse, handing me a burrito-wrapped bundle. I can see the look on my face: surprise, tenderness, bliss, and tears.
My baby.
Another blast of warmth hits—I don’t care if I lose everything: my home, my job, my place in the world. This baby and I will make it. I’ll see to it.
My body hums a frantic one-note song:
Getout-getout-getout.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I shove a half-inch stack of folded paper into my jacket and push through the door.
Back in the parking lot, I stand beside the bike, trying to catch my breath.
I’ve chosen the lesser of two bad choices. But the weight of the lead apron, at least for now, is gone.
For better or worse, kid, it’s you and me.