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Cici left on Thursday morning, just like she had planned, taking only a duffle bag filled with everything she owned. I loaded her into my Little Red and drove her to the bus station. We stood for a few minutes, a pregnant girl and a not-pregnant girl, hugging and making promises. Before she climbed the steps of the bus, she forced an address into my hand and made me promise to come to California when I was done. She waved from the window and stuck her tongue out to make me laugh as the bus began to back up and finally to pull away. I watched the bus go, her little sheet of paper folded in my hand. Then she appeared in the rear window, waving frantically, her fabulously spiked head bobbing up and down. I waved until the bus was out of sight. Just like that, Cici continued the journey of her life.
I’m due at work so I drive from the bus stop straight to the Croissant Roll. I’m annoyed when I see Shawn behind the counter. I hate coming in to relieve him because he lingers, he hovers. He just hangs around, watching me. When there are no customers, he talks. He talks about himself, and sometimes he does it in third person, which makes me wonder if he is sane. “The Shawn is going home,” he’ll say when he’s finally had enough of hanging around, correcting everything I do, taking over to make a sandwich if he feels like I am doing it wrong. He is always two steps too close, and I don’t know if I can handle it today. My whole body has suddenly gotten bigger, and the little space behind the counter is snug already.
I pass through the door and give him my best “you don’t drive me nuts” smile. “Good morning, Shawn.” I drop my bag in the back room and pull the apron over my belly. “I’m gonna need a bigger one of these,” I say when I can’t get it fastened.
He turns to look at me, sideways, out from under his lashes, his eyes hitching on my belly, my breasts, and I turn away, unable to stand his slick eyes on my swollen body. I feel his hand, sliding down the curve of my ass, I feel his fingers squeezing, and I jump forward, away, and grab my bag, pulling it in front of me, all at the same time. I yell, “What the hell, Shawn?” I spit his name.
“You’re so ripe,” he says, and his lips curl back, his teeth slick with his saliva. I back away, suddenly afraid he is going to take a bite out of me. Then something shifts in his eyes, a snake slithering past, and he blinks, twice, three times. “I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing hard, “did you say something?”
“Dude, you just . . .” I stammer. “You just grabbed my ass.” I am louder than I should be, and he makes shushing sounds, looking toward the door, where nobody is coming, and puts his hands up to tamp down my shouting.
“No, I didn’t,” he says, his eyes shifting, rolling in their sockets.
“You’re fucking crazy,” I say, dropping my apron on the floor and beelining for the door. His hand slams it closed, putting all his weight against it. The handle rips free of my hand, and my skin burns. I straighten my back and turn to face him. I am not a child. “You get your fucking hand off that door and let me leave, or I am going to scream . . . and people will hear me, because I can fucking scream.” My voice is low and menacing, and he stumbles backward half a step. I take a deep breath in preparation, and the baby in my belly shifts, pushing hard against my belly, pushing away.
“Shh, shh,” he says, panic rising in his eyes. “Somebody is going to hear you.”
“That’s right, and then I’m going to have you arrested for . . .” I don’t know what for. What is it when somebody touches you and you don’t want them to? I can’t think. “I’m just gonna have you arrested, and I’ll press charges, and you’ll go to jail, you nasty little toad.”
“I didn’t mean anything,” he says, panting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you.”
“Yeah well. Get off the door.” He lets his hand fall down, all the fight washing out of him.
“Please don’t tell anybody. I didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah well, I quit.” I burst out the door and make my way up the steps, back out into the January sun.
I drive the mile to the house and stop to talk to Janice as I come through. She is in the hall, just coming up from the kitchen.
“You said there was training,” I blurt out, and I see the confusion on her face. “I don’t want to work shit jobs anymore. I want a career.”
She nods; this she understands. “Doing what?” she asks as we make our way to her office.
“I don’t know. What are my options?” Options. I have options.
“Well . . .” She pulls out a file, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t ask about my sudden interest. I still feel slimy after the encounter with Shawn and just can’t believe he touched me like that. “You could work as a secretary.” She looks up at me, “There is a course that started up a couple of days ago that I could get you in.”
I shake my head. I don’t know what I want to do, but I know I don’t want to be some guy’s secretary. I have visions of some old TV show where the secretary has boobs up to her chin and the boss is always trying to touch her and she’s giggling and squeaking to get away. God, and that’s entertainment.
“Okay,” she says, looking to the next set of papers. “There’s a CNA course offered by the Red Cross. That starts Monday.”
“What is CNA?”
“Certified Nursing Assistant. You could work in hospitals or nursing homes.”
“What do they do?”
“Help the nurses. It’s a good starting point to get more education. It’s a good career if you don’t mind blood and people.”
“I don’t mind blood,” I say. “What would more education mean?”
“You could go to additional training to get more certifications. It would make you more valuable. Nursing is a good field. There’s a lot you can do with it.”
“I like that. Can you sign me up? How much does it cost?”
We work out the details, and I get a discount because the state helps to fund Life House and education is part of their “Action Plan.” It proves they are trying to give us a way to live a life independent of the government dole when we finish building our babies.
When I go upstairs, into my newly single room, now that Cici is gone, I hear somebody crying in the bathroom. I’m surprised that nobody else has heard, and I hesitate to go in—maybe others have gone in already, and whoever is crying just wants to be left alone. I open the door and call out, “Hello?”
“Leave me alone.” It’s Shelly. It’s not the first time I’ve heard her crying. It’s stressful, all these hormones and the knowing what is to come. I get it. I’ve done my share of crying, for sure. We all have. I start to close the door, but then I see the small drop of blood just under the door. Another smear a few feet farther along. She grunts, and I hear her suck in her breath. I push into the bathroom and to the stall where she is sitting on the toilet, her underpants down around her knees, holding her belly as it contracts. Her eyes are streaming, and I rush to the intercom to call Dr. Smith.
“She’s losing her baby. She’s losing her baby,” and as Dr. Smith brushes past me and into the room, the one thought that forms and makes sense, in the chaos of my mind, is that now I’ll never know what she puts in her Stuff.