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  So I got pregnant.

  I stop for coffee, pulling over at a service-stationcum-fast-food-outlet with a long row of trucks parked behind it.

  The coffee is bad, and the pastry worse, but at least it gives my stomach something other than my hangover to think about. I sit at a sticky little table, scowling at the truckers.

  It's funny how I still imagine men are leering at me. They're probably staring at me because I look like a freak. Did I even brush my hair this morning? I can't remember, so probably not.

  A man comes in to refill the newspaper box, which is right next to my table.

  "Morning," he says as he kneels.

  Unfortunately for him, he looks like Roger. I stare fiercely until he turns away.

  I can't believe they're having a baby. How could Roger do this to me? He knows how much I wanted more children. He knows what I went through with Eva.

  It started out fine. I couldn't have been more delighted to find myself pregnant, and ate lots and got fat, and started to wear maternity clothes long before it was necessary. I even started to seek Roger out at night, something that surprised him at first but didn't take him long to get used to. Being pregnant gave me something to think about, a sense of purpose. It made me special again.

  Then everything changed. At one prenatal visit when I was eight months pregnant, the doctor stopped me as I slid off the table. She had forgotten to listen to the heartbeat.

  I lay there chatting idly as she smeared gel on my stomach, and stopped talking only when she went searching for the heartbeat. Then she found it, and the cosmos split.

  Every second, third or fifth beat was missing. Kerthump, kerthump, nothing. Kerthump, kerthump, kerthump, nothing.

  The doctor went pale. I started screaming.

  After our fourth fetal echocardiogram, the pediatric cardiologist told Roger and me to prepare ourselves, because our baby was going to need open-heart surgery immediately after birth. Then they sent me home.

  I wanted to be admitted to the hospital. I wanted to be hooked up to a fetal heart monitor. I wanted to be right there so that if anything happened they could get the baby out. I simply couldn't believe that they were going to do nothing.

  I wept for two days. I even considered dismantling the nursery, just in case we came home without a baby. I walked around pressing my fingers into the side of my belly, trying to get her to kick. And if she wouldn't comply, I'd collapse into hysterics.

  I went into labor at forty weeks. Everything seemed fine, or so I've been told, because I have no memory of that day. Things were progressing slowly, but that's normal for a first baby. About thirteen hours in, before the pains were bad enough to warrant it, I let loose a bloodcurdling scream and lost consciousness. Roger says that a doctor tending a woman in the other bed turned to look and immediately realized I was in trouble. My uterus had ruptured--weakened first by the accident and then stretched beyond capacity by a nine-pound, seven-ounce baby.

  When a uterus ruptures, you have literally minutes to get the baby out; after two minutes, you risk death or permanent brain damage. They saved Eva, but my uterus was gone.

  I was in the ICU for six days, too out of it to even know that I had a baby. But I did. Before I even regained consciousness, Eva had straightened herself out. Within twenty-four hours, her floppy valve closed on its own, and her little heart began pumping its perfect, dependable rhythm.

  I attribute this to her temperament. She was simply too ornery not to be healthy. Eva has had a world-class temper from the moment she was conceived.

  God, my head hurts. You'd think that by now it would start to subside, but perhaps there are different rules for a two-bottle hangover. It feels like my skull is going to split. I want to pull over to the side of the road and lie down, but I can't. With each passing mile, I'm increasingly desperate to get home.

  Like a four-year-old with a scraped knee, I just want my mother. I want her so badly my chest aches. Somehow, I know that if she'd just forgive me, things would be okay.

  I should have asked her for help the second things started to go wrong. I should have just swallowed my pride and gone to her, despite her doubts about my ability. Why is that so hard for me? Other people manage to admit that they're human and still remain dignified.

  I can't think about it anymore. I don't want to think about it anymore. I should turn on the radio and continue raising the volume until I can no longer hear my thoughts.

  I'm surrounded by trucks, and I don't like it. They block out the sun, but also the signs and my view of the road ahead. If we had to stop quickly, I'd be smashed like an accordion between them. I'd be squashed so flat, they might never even know I was there. The only hint would be a bit of rag and a splash of blood on the front of the radiator grill that swallowed me.

  I turn on the radio, but there's nothing but static. Actually, there's a Christian rock station, and a Country and Western one that's already starting to crackle. Finally, I locate NPR, but the story they're playing is about depression. I switch it off again.

  Immediately after the pregnancy, I fell into a depression that lasted several years. This was no normal postpartum depression--I was mourning the loss of my uterus. It was a terrible, dark period, and like the events that spawned it, it did a great job of masking the thing I didn't want to look at. And Roger was a rock: he held our family together when I was a sullen, useless lump.

  Funny, that. Since, Roger did everything right, at least nominally, why is it I was never happy?

  It's the same nameless thing I've been evading since Harry and I crashed into the ground. Marrying Roger, leaving New Hampshire, getting pregnant--all of it was a smoke screen. I was always searching, always seeking the next big thing, because that was the thing that was going to make everything all right again. And while I was working toward it, it gave me something to think about other than that thing I couldn't put my finger on. But it always came back.

  As I started to emerge from my depression, I was even less satisfied with my life. I hated housewifery with a vengeance. I felt trapped. I used to watch the wives of Roger's colleagues with bafflement--they seemed happy, seemed to actually enjoy what they were doing. They'd go off and learn Cordon Bleu cooking, would organize playgroups and trips to the park. I didn't do anything. I didn't care. I didn't even want to get out of bed. The house was a mess. Eva was bored out of her skull because I didn't want to associate with the other neighborhood mothers, who struck me as perky and Stepford-like. I couldn't even bring myself to try to learn how to cook.

  So I decided to carve out a new career--anything, so long as it got me out of the house. I wasn't particularly trying to get away from Roger. I just wanted a life of my own, and I threw myself into it with absolute vengeance. I completed a four-year degree in three years, and graduated summa cum laude with a medal from the dean. After that, I attended a year-long program on technical writing, and before I knew it, I was in the software industry, churning out manuals. A few years after that, I moved into editing, and a few years after that, I became the managing editor at InteroFlo, pulling in eighty-six big ones a year. And no one could have been prouder of me than Roger. I was once again--at least nominally--a success.

  But it wasn't long before the old familiar discontent started creeping up on me. I suppose it was always there, somewhere in the background. All I've done, my whole life, is keep it temporarily at bay.

  Chapter 18

  By nine o'clock, it's clear that I'm going to have to stop for the night. I had wanted to make the trip in a single go, but I don't think I can. My head is only just starting to clear, and for the first time today, I feel hungry rather than sick.

  I check into a Red Roof Inn near Akron, and immediately collapse on the bed. In the old days, I would have peeled the bedspread off first, because I've always suspected they don't get cleaned between guests. But that was the old Annemarie, the Annemarie who used to cover her hand with her sleeve before touching public doorknobs. The new Annemarie doesn't care about suc
h things. She flops right down on the bedspread, shoes and all.

  I stare at the crack in the ceiling, savoring the silence. My ears still ring from the vibrations of the road.

  I sit upright and stare at the telephone. I should call Mutti and find out when the funeral is. In this, at least, I can't let him down. I consider my words and chew my lips. Then I go into the bathroom to freshen up for dinner.

  The restaurant is drab, and full of round tables and knobby chairs that could most kindly be described as captain style. The carpet is short pile and green. There is a dark pattern on it, which is barely discernible in the dimmed light.

  There is no one at any of the tables, although there are a half dozen men at the bar. They sit facing a wall-mounted television, a row of backs lined up in front of a baseball game. Occasionally they explode with manly noises, but mostly they sit silently, puffing their individual contributions to the smoky haze that fills the top third of the room.

  "I'll have the French onion soup," I say when the waitress appears. My stomach is clamoring for more, but I'm afraid to push it.

  "Would you like a salad with that? Maybe a sandwich?"

  "No, thanks. Crackers would be nice, though."

  "Do you want something to drink while you wait?"

  I shudder violently.

  "I'll take that as a no," says the waitress, stuffing her pad back into her waistband.

  After dinner, I return to my room. When the door shuts, an unexpected feeling of peace washes over me. Within the room's impersonal confines, the world is a million miles away. Roger, Eva, Mutti--even Ian McCullough and his hateful attempted murder--are merely specks on the horizon. I turn on the television and kick off my shoes, perching on the edge of the bed while I cycle through the channels.

  Before long, my eyes drift back to the telephone, and then, with a mixture of shame and relief, to the clock. It's too late to call. I'll have to do it in the morning.

  I wander into the bathroom, dropping clothes behind me like Gretel's crumbs. Minutes later, I'm luxuriating in a hot, steaming shower. The water pressure is excellent, and the supply of hot water outlasts me. I come out feeling cleansed--if not in spirit, then at least of my hangover. Perhaps I could have handled a sandwich after all.

  I shut the bedside lamp off, and am plunged into blackness. When I turn my head, I see the red glow of the clock, but it does almost nothing to penetrate the darkness of the room. I settle in with a sense of satisfaction. It's been almost a week since I've slept properly.

  Two and a half hours later, it becomes clear that tonight is going to be no different.

  I don't know what time I finally fell asleep. I do know that it was after four, because that's the last time I looked at the clock. That's not when I fell asleep. It's just when I stopped looking.

  When I finally open my eyes, it's still dark. I'd like to make an early start, but there's no point in being fanatical about it. The next time I surface, it's still dark. Suspicious now, I roll over to look at the clock.

  It's nearly ten o'clock. I leap up, cursing the curtains. How was I supposed to know they were completely opaque? I've got a good twelve or thirteen hours of driving in front of me.

  I shove myself into jeans and a tee-shirt, and cram the rest of my stuff into my suitcase. A quick look around, and I'm out of there.

  A few minutes later, I'm on the I-90, staring at the back of a truck. Actually, I'm staring at a poster that's stuck to it.

  It's a picture of a girl. Stephanie Simmons, it says. Missing since May 1997. To the right of the picture is a description.

  She was fourteen when she dropped off the face of the earth, a runaway. It doesn't actually say so, but I can tell from the look of her--from the heavy makeup and dangly earrings, all carefully applied to make her heartbreakingly fresh face look older. She probably fought with her parents about her curfew, her clothes, and her boyfriend--maybe even more serious things too, like smoking up or getting drunk--and in a moment of rash teenage bravado, decided that anything was better than living under their tyranny.

  Four years later, what hope is there? If she's even alive, she's probably a prostitute, some street hooker who got caught up and can't get out. Needle marks in her arms, bruises from bad "dates." Teeth missing at the back, which her pimp won't pay to replace because the gaps don't show when she smiles. And her smile, flashed at an endless parade of potential johns, exposing the pain of the world.

  Stephanie Simmons, born January 14, 1983. Lost to the world before she ever really joined it.

  Her picture blurs as tears well up in my eyes. My God, child--why didn't you just call your mother? How could you possibly imagine that she wouldn't drop everything immediately to come and get you? How could you possibly think that she would be so mad about where you were and what you were doing that she wouldn't have done anything--anything, including killing someone with her bare hands--to get you back?

  Stephanie Simmons, Stephanie Simmons, Stephanie Simmons. I repeat her name, committing it to memory.

  Tears are rolling down my face now. When Eva ran away, if she hadn't decided to go to her father's...I can't even finish the thought.

  Eva is the only worthwhile thing I've done in twenty years, and that's largely in spite of myself. That changes right here, right now. I think of Stephanie's mother, never knowing the truth and always suspecting the worst. What would she have done differently had she known where it would lead? If she'd realized that what was happening in her house was not just garden-variety teenage strife? That it would actually cause her to lose her daughter forever?

  I sniff, and staunch my runny nose with the back of my wrist. I may look soft and leaky, but I've just hardened with immeasurable resolve.

  There's nothing in this world I won't do to prevent Eva from ending up on the back of a truck.

  The decision itself is easy. But figuring out how to effect it is not.

  The first thing, obviously, is to get her home, and then to make sure she wants to stay. But how? How can I get her home when she can't stand the sight of me? And once I get her there, how can we avoid fighting like cats and dogs?

  It's just like Mutti and me, and look at us--two adults, one of us heading into old age, and still unable to get along. But at least I never ran away.

  I have this eerie sense of puzzle pieces floating around my head, threatening to come together. I'm not sure if I should just let them or bat them away, but it's too late.

  Of course I ran away. I left my parents and avoided them for years. We spoke occasionally by telephone, but I never visited them--I couldn't stand to be anywhere near Harry's empty stall. But it wasn't just the absence of Harry that kept me away. I didn't want to see my parents. It's hard to look someone in the face when you've single-handedly destroyed their dream.

  When I had all the trouble with Eva's birth, Mutti flew to Minneapolis to help. She stayed for six weeks, and I don't know what I would have done without her. She took over in typical Mutti fashion: the house was spotless, our meals served at seven, twelve, and six on the nose, the baby delivered to me for nursing every three hours, freshly changed and swaddled.

  It was an uneasy peace, but peace nonetheless. We never discussed my previous life, nor the tension that had grown between us. We went on like this for some years--ten, in fact--until the scene five years ago.

  I had finally gotten to the point where I could face the farm again. Eva and I were there alone because Roger was at a conference. Mutti said something about Roger that I took as derogatory, so I flew into a fury and left. It was a fake fury, a fury I had to work hard to stir up. I can't even remember what Mutti said--that's how important it was--but he was my husband. To not stick up for him would be to admit that there was something wrong, and to admit there was something wrong would mean I had to at least consider doing something about it. So I took the easy route and left in a snit.

  So I guess it boils down to this: I threw over my mother to preserve my self-delusion. And now she seems to view going to pr
ison and continuing to live with me as equally desirable.

  I'm still thinking about this as I roll up to a toll plaza. I head for the manual lane even though I have the exact change because the line is shorter, and I'm in a hurry to get home.

  The attendant is fiddling with the coins in her drawer. She continues to do so, ignoring my outstretched hand.

  "Excuse me!" I say loudly.

  She looks over at me, eyes glazed and belligerent, and then returns to her drawer. After a few more seconds, she holds her hand out the window, still not looking. I drop the coins into her palm. One of them falls to the ground. She pulls her hand back into the window, and then extends it again.

  I open my door and pick up the coin. Again I place it on her hand, and again it falls off. She's still looking into her drawer, clinking coins with her right hand. The guy behind me starts to honk. The guy behind him starts in, too. Before I know it, three or four car horns are blaring at me.

  "Oh, for fuck's sake," I explode. I open my car door and swipe the quarter from the concrete, breaking a nail in the process. "Would it kill you to look at me?"

  I drop back into my seat and slam the door. Then I turn. The attendant is staring at me.

  "Here," I say pressing the quarter into her hand. This time, her fingers close around it. I glare back, and then speed off, my squealing tires voicing my frustration.

  Is this the end of the line? Is this the famous rock bottom that people hit before they straighten out? And how does it work, anyway? Is recognizing you're at rock bottom enough, or do you have to have a moment of epiphany and total surrender, like people who give themselves over to Jesus and believe they've been born again?

  I envy those people. They know how to have a meltdown, or at least how to come out of it on the other side. I'm stuck flailing, facedown at the bottom of the pool.

  The next six hours pass in a blur. My hands grow numb from grasping the steering wheel, and my eyes sting from the effort of keeping them open. I feel almost comatose, and at one point actually slap myself in the face to make sure I stay awake.