With Phoebe, Jake jumped a class.
She knew that the more frequently they made love, the more believable her pregnancy would be, but exhaustion saturated her every cell. Tonight she’d rather read in bed than see Jake. Perhaps this was a by-product of her condition, but who in the world could she ask?
Her mother’s determined footsteps, the creak of a knob turning, and muffled words, signified Jake’s arrival. A vague discomfort at the base of her spine—she’d felt it twanging the moment she woke—became progressively worse when she walked.
“He’s here!” her mother shouted up the stairs, as though Jake didn’t deserve being called by name.
“I’ll be right there.”
The other night, she’d asked her mother directly, “Why don’t you like him? He’s graduating college. He works hard, and he’s good to me. What else would I want?”
Her mother ignored the question, staring a hole through Phoebe’s midsection and then frowning. “Your father says I should leave it alone.” Phoebe had walked away without a word.
Jake would soon be her unwitting savior. Her mother should embrace him as the Messiah. Every time Phoebe turned around, she caught her mother studying her middle as if expecting a tiny grandchild to leap out and shame her.
Scribble-filled papers—Phoebe’s invented formulas as she attempted to figure out how soon before she should spill her secret—covered her desk. She tossed them in the trash, all the while praying that Jake possessed no aptitude for menstrual math.
After seeing her wan face in the mirror, Phoebe added another layer of bright red lipstick. As her middle thickened, she wore ever-livelier shades, despite the pale, almost white, lip colors that had sprouted as though a zombie cult had invaded fashion. Overnight, anyone with style sense had stopped wearing red lipstick, but Phoebe needed to wear something fiery enough to stomp out all else about her.
She threw a windbreaker over her untucked blouse and stood soldier straight, sucking in her gut, trying to hide the bump as she squinted at the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her door. Disgusted by her image, Phoebe ripped off the thin jacket and pitched it on the bed. Who wore a coat in 79-degree weather?
“Phoebe!” her mother yelled. “Are you coming down? Did you hear me call?”
She opened the door. “One minute!” she screamed and then clicked the lock.
Ridiculous clothes crowded her closet, one more form fitting than the next, as though she were Brigitte Bardot and not some foolish knocked-up Brooklyn girl. She flipped the hangers until she reached a navy blouse dark enough to minimize her size.
Phoebe drew on another layer of lipstick and walked downstairs. Her mother glued her eyes to her stomach. Why not put on a searchlight and make sure everyone stares, Mom?
Jake hadn’t mentioned marriage since the first time they had made love, and Phoebe would rip her teeth out before she let herself be the one who broached the topic. The words needed to come from his lips; be his idea. She’d be indebted to him forever, but if he sensed even a hint of her desperation, the world would be permanently uneven between them.
Leading with her gleaming mouth, beaming wide enough to show all her father’s hard work in ensuring her perfect smile, she went to Jake.
? ? ?
Seeking lovemaking positions in Jake’s Plymouth Fury meant choosing between working around the stick shift or using the backseat, which translated to a toss-up between awkward discomfort and twisting like a pretzel.
Jake came in a shudder. Phoebe, seized by a cramp, clutched his shoulder, almost tearing his flesh with her nails. Over his head, she saw the starry Long Island sky, the black asphalt of the parking lot. Gritty sand and cold ocean water lay in front of them.
Another wave of pain hit, and she dug harder into Jake’s back.
“Whoa! Good that I made you happy, but, um, you’re ripping my skin off.” He placed a hand on top of her curled fingers, gently trying to unfurl each one. “Pheebs?” She remained rigid. “You okay?”
“Something’s wrong.” Too much rushed out from where she usually dabbed herself clean with a few tissues.
“What? What is it?” He began pulling away, but she tugged him back, frantic not to acknowledge the pain and mess. Spasms of cramps overcame her, and she held him harder.
Jake lifted himself above her, looking at where they were joined. “Let’s see,” he insisted.
She let go, put her arms behind her on the seat cushion, and curled forward, peering at the wetness on her stomach. Even in the darkness it appeared to be blood.
“Oh, Jesus.” Jake grabbed a towel he kept for cleanup.
“Something’s wrong,” she whimpered.
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“No! Take me home. It’s only my period.” Hope and alarm collided.
He stopped for a moment. “How—”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “My mother will understand.”
Jake hesitated, but he’d landed in a problem belonging to the tribe of women. Unless she exsanguinated in front of him, he’d never bully her about this. Going home, she’d get away with calling this a heavy period, even if her mother knew the truth. Marriage could again become her choice.
Jake broke every driving law in New York State racing back to Brooklyn. Phoebe remained curled in her seat, praying that if she stayed immobile her body might remain in quiescent limbo. The ride passed in a moment yet took a hundred years.
Jake supported her as they staggered up the walkway. He leaned on the bell, not letting up until her father answered and took Phoebe into his arms.
“Lola!” her father screamed up the stairs.
Her mother galloped down, her hand on her chest, prepared for the worst. “Oh my God! What happened?” Her eyes met Phoebe’s. Understanding passed between them as her mother glanced at the bloody towel clutched between her legs. “Come. Bring her to the den. I’ll put blankets down.”
“Are you crazy?” Phoebe’s father asked. “She needs to go to the hospital. Now.”
“We can wait one minute, Red.” Her mother peered into her father’s eyes. “Let’s keep this here if we can. Do you understand?”
Her mother obviously hoped for the same thing as Phoebe: a flow of heavy menstrual fluid, a hot water bottle for cramps, an aspirin for pain, bed rest, and then pushing the incident behind them.
“We’re taking her to the emergency room.” Her father’s tone ended the conversation.
Jake propped her up on one side, her father held the other. Step-by-step, they led her out. Her mother ran ahead, clutching blankets and towels gathered in some instant house sweep, lining the backseat with the piles of fabric as Phoebe approached.
“Stop worrying about the seats!” her father yelled. “We’re getting in.”
Her mother dropped everything wherever it landed and backed away, clutching her throat as he lowered Phoebe into the car.