KITTY
I NEVER BROACHED THE subject of the promiscuous Facebook photos on Jordan’s page. I know I should have, but I didn’t and now I won’t. It’s been too long and anyway, I’m pregnant. So things just are how they are. My stomach is growing, my bouts of morning sickness have been a bear, and well, what else is there to say? I’m fat, I’m hungry and tired all of the time and I’m pretty sure I have a cheating husband. But on the outside everything looks great. On the outside we’re just another happy couple preparing for the arrival of our first child. If I had a dollar for every time my parents told me they’re proud of me, I would be a rich woman. But I don’t and I’m not. Not rich in the sense of money or love.
I guess it’s because I won’t bring up the pictures, I haven’t dared to call Jordan out on what I know he’s done and doing, so my anger finds a way to manifest itself without words. I’m so overwhelmed with the pregnancy, the fear of child birth, the frustration of my loneliness, the constant praise from my parents, living next door to my parents in a home they technically own, and the fact that Jordan’s a cheater. Maybe if I’d talk about it out loud, maybe if I could find a way to use my words and get it all off of my chest, I would accept the way things are and move forward. But I can’t and I don’t. So my anger is manifesting itself in the form of debilitating panic attacks. They happen at the oddest moments. In the grocery store, after a bout of morning sickness, or after dinner with my parents. I never know when the next one will strike. I didn’t know what was happening at first. I thought it might be a side-effect of the morning sickness, because that’s been nothing short of horrible. But after five or six times, I looked up my symptoms on WebMD and sure enough, learned that I have been having full blown panic attacks. Sudden dizziness, loss of breath, rapid increase in heart rate, sweaty, seeing black spots. Lucky me. I went alone to the doctor, just to be sure and they agreed with my self-diagnosis. Panic attacks. They said I should try yoga and I just laughed. Yoga is for people with too much time on their hands. Yoga is for thin, happy people. Yoga is not for me. Yoga is for people like Trish. Free spirits. And I know I am anything but free. No one else knows about my panic attacks, although they seem to only be increasing in frequency. Lucky me, again. Each time I have one, I swear I am having a heart attack. I swear I am dying. Most of the time when I have them I am alone. If I’m around other people, I quickly find my way to the bathroom, close the stall door and sit on the cold tile floor, rocking myself back and forth, and waiting for it to pass. If I told my parents about the panic attacks, I wonder if they’d still be proud of me? I don’t need to wonder long though, because I already know the answer.
Now, not only am I pissed about what I know Jordan is doing on his “business trips”, but I’m beyond heated about having the panic attacks, too. I’m getting fat, throwing up and feeling like I’m going to die, all while perfect Jordan is out groping other girls and probably much more than that. I don’t want to let my mind go there, though. Not right now. Right now I’m driving to school, thankful that it’s a work day and I don’t have to sit home alone and wonder who Jordan’s spending his time with while he’s away on supposed business. It’s one of those mornings when I hit every single red light in my path. I’m already running ten minutes late and now the red lights. I have a cup of coffee in the drink holder next to me, but my last sip tells me it’s quickly growing cold. It already tastes stale. I am a mile away from school when I see a string of ducks trotting slowly across the road ahead of me. It’s a mother duck and her eleven goslings making the trek. Normally I would stop and ooh and aw over their cuteness, but not today. I am the first car to approach the ducks and I come to a stop, although I don’t want to. They are in my way. The bumper of my car nearly touches their feathers when I put the car into park. After a minute I am so full of frustration. I look at the clock. The kids will be in my classroom without a teacher. My heart is racing and I feel the heat rise inside of my body. I slam the horn on in my car, beeping at the ducks as they march in a line across the road. “Damn geese!” I scream, slamming my hands on either side of the steering wheel.
Eventually the ducks finish crossing and I finish my drive, squealing into a parking spot on the far end of the school lot. I throw my bag over my shoulder and jog to school, my pregnant belly in tow. Being here should make me feel better. I made it. I don’t hit any ducks, either. But I don’t feel any of the relief I’m looking for. Instead I just feel the same. I just feel enraged. I throw myself through the doors, pushing past a few hurried children and not bothering to hold the door open for any longer than it takes me to get my own body inside. I jog through the hallway and hear one of the other teachers, Abbie Lawrence call out to me. “Mrs. Wiener!” I cringe every time someone calls me that. I hate that name; my name. “Mrs. Wiener!” She shouts again and I turn to meet her eyes. She smiles at me sympathetically. “Pregnancy issues?” She cocks her head to the side, pretending to care.
I nod. Sure. We can call it that. We can call it whatever the hell you want. I have issues and I know it. I just don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with Abbie Lawrence.
Another teacher, Susan Maden comes up behind Abbie and pushes ahead, reaching her arm out to touch mine. She runs the palm of her hand down the side of my shoulder to my elbow. “You doing okay darling?”
Again, I nod. “Just running late.” I say curtly.
Their eyes are both wide as they stare at me. Paranoid, I begin to wonder if I have left some of my breakfast on my face. I wipe my mouth just in case. “We’re here if you need anything, sweetie.” Susan sing songs. I know they mean well, but I also know that they’re not really here for me. What would they say if I told them Jordan was cheating on me? What would they say if I told them I never really loved Jordan? What would they say if I told them I thought I’d done everything right, I thought I’d been playing by the rules of life: I got married, I’m pregnant- but I’m not happy? What would they say then? Would they still tell me they are here for me? Would they still act like they cared? Sure, they’d love the gossip. But we all know they wouldn’t love me. Not if I’m not the perfect wife, the perfect mom-to-be, the perfect teacher, the perfect everything. They wouldn’t be looking at me like they are right now with their big sympathetic eyes. Instead, they’d be looking at me like I was a heartless monster. I know there is nothing I can say to make them understand how I’m feeling. I don’t want to anyway. No amount of words can truly capture the loneliness I feel. I know this now.
When I reach my classroom I see the children sitting neatly at their desks. A few are huddled together showing off their new baseball cards. Others are doodling on pieces of paper. As the classroom door closes behind me I trade the stares of other teachers for the glares of my young students. They watch in horror as I grab onto the back of my chair. My hands are sweaty and the room is spinning so fast I think I am going to hurl. My body temperature rises and I feel the nape of my neck and the front of my chest cover themselves in beads of dewy sweat.
“Mrs. Wiener!” I hear a few of the kids yell to me, but I cannot see them. The room is going black. I don’t want to scare them, but I am helpless to stop the attack from happening. I hear the stomping of little feet, more shouts and screams. But my eyes only show me blackness. Slowly I am losing the sounds, too. I feel my body fall to the cold hard ground; my neck jerks back and plants itself against the floor with a thud. I know what is happening but there is nothing I can do. For some reason, in all of that blackness I think of Jordan. I think of him smiling at me. We are at the duck pond. It’s the first time we’ve met and he’s helping me stand up from my fall. My heart flutters with a liveliness that I like. He takes me in his arms and helps me find my footing and together we walk hand in hand toward the sidewalk. “Mrs. Wiener!” I hear the name again. My name. I feel someone touch the side of my face and I know instinctively that it’s not Jordan. My world is still black but I’m back to realizing where I am instead of lingering in some alternate universe from the past. When I hear them yell my name again I am filled with rage. I hate that name and I hate what I’ve become. I think about Jordan placing his hands all over another girl- other girls. I think about his coldness toward me. I think about the moment we both said I do and then it all makes sense. I realize as I lay on the cold classroom floor surrounded by my students that I’d wanted the warmth of love so much that I ignored the price, and now I’m paying it.
WHEN I COME TO, MY vision is blurry, but at least I can see again. At least my world is no longer full of darkness. The only problem is that as I regain my sight and my consciousness, I am losing something else. I am still sitting on the ground. I look around and see another teacher ushering my students away from me and out of the classroom. Mrs. Maden, Mrs. Lawrence and Ms. Stevenson are crowded around me now. One has their hand pressed against my forehead, another is holding one of my hands and the third person is rubbing my back. They are talking but I can’t make sense of their words. It’s all mumbles and jumbles to me. I don’t really care what they are saying though because the pain in my abdomen is so severe I can only focus on that. I feel myself bend forward and someone yells “whoa there,” and grabs tightly onto my arm. I don’t know how long it is, but it seems like a minute later and I am covered in wetness. This time it is not sweat. This time it is coming from somewhere lower on my body. It’s soaking me between my legs. And it hurts like hell. I grab my stomach and bend forward again. My vision is still blurry and I have no idea what is happening. I wonder if I hit the floor too hard when I fell. Maybe the baby moved to a weird position. It feels all wrong. It hurts. My eyes are full of tears and I don’t bother to try and hide them. I just want my stomach to stop hurting. “Ohmygosh!” I hear one of the women yell. Her words are so rushed that it comes out as one quick word. “I called 9-1-1!” Another voice screeches. I try to open my mouth to tell them there is no need for an ambulance but nothing comes out when I try to speak. And I’m not so sure that I don’t need an ambulance. I am in a lot of pain. A lot. I just want the torment to stop, but it won’t. No matter which way I contort my body, the pain is still there. It’s not getting better. In fact, I would say it’s getting worse, although every second I swear that’s not even possible.
I hear my voice finally scream out in what I can only describe as complete agony. I don’t recognize that voice, but it is mine. Someone asks if they should call Jordan and I try to shake my head because I don’t want him here. He’s the cause of this, maybe not directly, though.
I am losing the baby. I know this before I arrive to the doctor’s office and they tell me themselves. Call it a mother’s instinct if you want. I don’t know what it is. I just know that the little one that was growing inside of me is gone and it’s my fault. If I just would have spoken up, if I just would have told him how I really felt, and I don’t mean just with the cheating Facebook photos. I mean way before that. If I would have used my words, my body wouldn’t have had to retaliate by showing me how much I’ve messed everything up. But I didn’t and it is. I thought our baby would save me and maybe he or she would even save us. I was wrong. Instead, I killed my baby. I killed our baby because I couldn’t waltz through the wrong life like it was all okay. I couldn’t find the strength to cope with the sting of loneliness and so the desolation and heartache won. They won by taking everything away from me. And now I’m left alone with a cheating husband, a terrible name, parents who are beyond proud of the image I’ve bestowed upon them and now I have something to add to that list, the worst tragedy of all; my dead baby.