KITTY
“TO WHAT DO I OWE this pleasure?” It is my version of a hello when I realize it is Trish who has called me. Mom and dad must have told her to call. We haven’t spoken in ages, maybe not since the wedding. I can’t even remember. We’ve never really gotten along and it’s no different now that we’re adults.
“How are you?” Her voice sounds chipper and full of pep. I’m sure she didn’t want to call me, but she did it anyway. I know I’m not exactly pleasant to talk to but I can’t seem to muster up the energy to reciprocate the positive vibe she’s giving off. How is she always so perky?
“Fine. You?” I state flatly. And then I add without interest, “Are you and Eddie still traveling the country?”
“Yes! And we’re good, thanks. Loving every minute of our journey. I’ve captured some amazing photographs, too. I can email you a few if-“
I stop her before she can continue. I know it’s rude, but I don’t want to hear about how fabulous her life is right now. “I’m pregnant.” I interrupt, although I’m sure she already knows. Why else would she call? My parents cannot keep a secret to save their lives. I don’t say the words with enthusiasm. I only say them to top what she was saying first. There. I win. My news beats hers. I’m sure my parents think so, too. Living on the road in an RV is no kind of life and being a photographer is not steady work. I don’t know how she survives, honestly.
“Oh, wow. Congrats Yesa!” Surely she is faking her excitement. Why would she care if I’m pregnant? She’s not even going to be around to hang out with her niece or nephew once they’re born. She’ll be too busy traveling.
I pause as I realize she called me Yesa. She hasn’t called me that in forever. It was her nickname for me when we were kids. It’s my name spelled backwards, minus the c. For a moment I close my eyes and let myself reenter childhood, before all of the obligations and responsibilities. Before Jordan. Before pregnancy. “Thanks.” I reply, rolling my eyes on the other end of the line. It’s not like it’s hard to get pregnant. Why do people tell me congratulations? Congratulations on having sex with your husband; that’s what they’re really saying, right?
“Oh my gosh, we can swing by and take pregnancy photos. And of course I would love to take the little ones newborn photos if you’d like.” She sounds genuinely happy and for some reason it is shocking to me to hear someone who is so upbeat. The teachers at school are always ragging on their husbands and sometimes even on how exhausting their own children are. It’s always, can you believe he/they… or you’ll never believe what I had to put up with last night. But now I’m talking on the phone to my only sister and she’s full of brightness. It’s strange, really.
“Cool.” I mutter, not trying to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
“We’re in Utah right now, but we’ll circle back. We’ll make a plan to be back in Oxboro by the time you’re eight months along. And then we can just stay until the baby is born. I’m so happy for you little sis. I really am. I know we don’t talk as much as we should, but maybe…” Her voice trails and I hear who I assume to be Eddie whispering something in Trish’s ear, her attention is stolen from me. After a minute or so she returns, clearing her throat before speaking again. All the while I’ve sat quietly, picking at my cuticles. “Sorry.” She apologizes for the interruption but then she jumps right back into her excitement. Why is everyone else more excited about my pregnancy than I am? Is that normal? “Oh my gosh!” She squeals. “We should totally go to yoga classes together once I’m home. It will be good for you while you’re pregnant, you know. I think you might like it, too.”
I feel my eyes rolling again. Yoga. Ugh. I don’t think so. “Maybe.” I say curtly, although I know I’ll never go along with it. I wonder if Trish remembers our conversation before the wedding. Does she remember that I had cold feet? Does she really think Jordan and I are truly happy? Maybe she doesn’t even think about it at all. Maybe it doesn’t really matter. I’ve learned that if you look the part on the outside, society doesn’t give a second thought to how you must really feel or not feel. If you look the part, to the world, you are labeled as happy. If you live a less traditional life, like Trish and Eddie, the world leans more toward labeling you as strange, different, and weird. It’s just how it is. And no matter how much you try to tell the world that it’s not how it really is, no one is listening. People see what they want to see and that’s that. I’ve been lost in thought and not listening to what Trish has been saying. Her words have merely been background noise for my random thoughts. When I hear her say Jordan’s name I jolt back to life and begin listening again.
“So, are you going to tell me?” Trish asks.
“Sorry. What?” I shake my head and remind myself to listen this time.
“Is Jordan excited to be a dad?”
“He is.” I answer. I’m not lying, but I’m also not telling her that he cares more about being a dad than tending to me. We are not a team on this or any other front. We are married, yes. But we are so distant from each other.
“I’ve never told anyone this before…” Why in the world would she confide anything in me? We’re not close. We’re sisters by blood but nothing more. She continues, “but I can’t get pregnant. We tried for three years. I’ve been to specialists and everything and I guess it’s just not meant to be.” She laughs nervously.
Instead of jumping in to console her I crumple a piece of computer paper into a wad near the phone, pretending that our connection has suddenly gone bad. I hang up on Trish and walk away, leaving my phone behind. I will not be party to Trish’s self-pity. She has everything I don’t. She has true love. She has freedom. She has a job she loves. She has genuine kindness in her heart. I gave up the chance at any of those things when I said I do to the wrong man.
JORDAN WAS ECSTATIC and just like when I told him I was pregnant, instead of celebrating with me, he blurted out the news, as if it were all one long word: Igotapromotionandwillbemakingloadsmore money and ran to call his parents to fill them in on all of the details. Details I was spared. The promotion happened nearly five weeks ago and since that time he’s been traveling, a lot. He’s spent a week in Chicago. A weekend in Indianapolis and another in Pittsburg. Now he’s in New York City for four days. I know he works on computers, but otherwise, I have no idea what he does for a living. I guess I’ve never really cared to know. Jordan’s over the moon about all of the travel. I can’t say I blame him; it gets him away from his hormonal pregnant wife, that is me. It gets him away from the train wreak that is us, in general, with or without a baby on the way. And I’m left alone in a giant, hollow house that sits next to my parents. I spend my nights alone soaking in a bubble bath or blindly flipping through television channels, eventually residing on a reality television show causing my already spaced out head to go totally brain dead.
Tonight the cable is down and I’m surfing around on the internet. Inevitably I wind up on Facebook and cruise around the pages of old high school and college friends, people I haven’t spoken with in ages. I get sucked into the photos, scanning for who’s married, who has kids and how many, where people vacation- things I don’t really care to know, but the information is there, so why not? I have nothing better to do until the cable is working again, anyway. I click from one friend’s page to their friend’s page and so forth. Before I know it, I’m looking at someone’s page that I don’t know and I’ve never heard of. And then I see it. Jordan Wiener. His name is tagged on the photo. I squint my eyes and look closer. It’s him, definitely. But who is he with? I don’t recognize any of the others in the photo. At first I think that maybe it’s an old photo someone’s posted. I study Jordan’s face and see the stubble on his chin. I see the small wrinkles that form around the outside corners of his eyes. Now I’m certain that it’s a recent photo. Maybe with his work friends? I study the photo, looking closer. Jordan’s holding a beer in one hand, the other is wrapped around someone. A girl. My heart is beginning to race as I try to put the pieces together. Who is she? Where is he? When was this taken? I look at the date on the posted photo. Posted last night. This is very recent. I see people dancing in the background. There’s a bar. Okay, he’s in a club. Nothing to worry about, I try to reassure myself. But still I can’t shake that nagging feeling that I need to look again. Look closer. The girl is looking at him in the photo. Her eyes are on his and they are both smiling like they have a secret. Do they? I click on Jordan’s name and flip to his Facebook page and find one additional photo that I know is not meant for my eyes. Again, Jordan’s been tagged in the photo. He probably doesn’t know it yet or he would delete it, not wanting me to accidently see. Too late. I’m looking at it now and I can’t seem to look away. This photo is even more telling than the first. In this photo Jordan looks to be dancing. He is a horrible dancer. Nevertheless, he is dancing in some club, a beer in his hand. He is looking right at the camera, his mouth open as if he’s howling or something along those lines. Idiot. But Jordan’s behavior in the photo isn’t what drops my jaw. It’s the girl standing behind him, grinding him. She has one arm wrapped around his waist, low on his waist. Too low. The other arm is being held up in the air above their heads as if she is readying a lasso for my husband. It’s the same girl from the first photo. And she’s pretty. Dark hair, hazel eyes, tan skin. Before I blink again, I know he’s sleeping with her. I know there are probably others, too.
I continue to stare at the two photos as I feel a single tear drop from my eye and land on my lips. I lick it away tasting the drop of saltwater. My left hand is pressed against my stomach subconsciously trying to shield our unborn baby from seeing what my eyes are showing me on the computer screen. My right hand is on the mouse, hovering over the photos, unable to click away. I scold myself for Jordan’s actions. You knew this would happen. I scream silently in my head. You’re so dumb and now you’re carrying his baby. You’re trapped. Look what you’ve done. Look what you’re doing with your life! Before I can finish berating myself I stare in awe at the screen, at Jordan’s Facebook wall, as I watch both photos disappear. He must have seen them on his phone and removed them as soon as he could. But it wasn’t soon enough. No more than a minute later my cell phone is ringing. It’s Jordan. I pick my phone up in my hand, but I don’t answer it. Instead I throw it across the room and watch it shatter into a million pieces as it slams against the far wall.