And I knew. “He's a mom.”
And then Krissie. “Where's his baby?”
Sometimes Krissie and I talk to Roxanne, the woman who lives next door. The story is she has a daughter. Megan lives in West Virginia with her father, staying with him until Roxanne gets a good job and buys a house.
Roxanne is thin with scars on her arms and an eye that twitches when she talks. She lounges in the corner of her sofa and talks about the evils of diet Pepsi and ex-husbands. Her house smells like moldy cigarettes.
If my mom gets cranky, if the air is too hot and still, we hang out at Roxanne's. Sometimes the air conditioner cools things off before we get home.
I can't get used to my mom being pregnant with somebody else's baby, to seeing it grow inside her. It's half ours, this little boy. If I could tell my mom the truth, I'd have to say that I don't like it. But what she'll say is It's a gift, We're compassionate, I'm God's vessel.
There is a problem with that.
Us.
What I don't understand is the difference between our baby and their baby.
Earlier today, Krissie answered the phone and it was the no-womb woman. My mom wants to be friends, and I know why she thinks this will work—because of the girls at school.
“No kittens yet,” Krissie says.
She doesn't worry about the no-womb woman who will take our baby. In fact, she likes everyone no matter what, including the no-womb woman.
We don't talk about this, though, or about after the baby's born. We look at our baby books instead.
I'll start by calling myself a cone head. Krissie will ask again about the bruises, the dark purple lines on each side of my face, the swollen eye.
She'll ask about the doctor—pictures of him holding large metal tongs, pulling me out, and touching my head. Placing me in my mom's arms—her sweaty smile. He frowns in the pictures, which makes him look very concerned.
Krissie hopes he delivers our baby. I hope he gives the baby to our mom.
When she sees the books, Krissie asks, “Will Tyler have one?”
This couple, it's not like you can tell they're baby robbers. They seem all right. The problem is I don't forget it.
I keep wanting things to be different.
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