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24
CAMBRIA
The drive to California from Chicago was absolutely brutal. My morning sickness has only gotten worse since I left, and I had to stop every few miles to vomit on the side of the road.
Puking so much got me severely dehydrated easily, so I had to develop a cycle of drinking a ton of water, peeing a lot, vomiting, and then beginning the cycle over. I probably would have gotten here a few days earlier if it weren’t for my pregnancy.
Even before Abram, I always wanted to move somewhere warmer than Chicago. The winters are always so brutal there, and every year they feel endless. I always come to a point in late February when I wonder if we’re bound for eternal frigid hell, as if summer has officially died. I don’t know a single person who enjoys winter here for longer than two weeks. After a while, everyone feels hopelessly sad.
I was able to find a waitressing job pretty quickly in California, as there are tons of businesses that need extra work for the season. I have no idea how long I’ll be staying here, so I figure seasonal work is probably best anyway. Besides, that way, I don’t have to hide my pregnancy as much.
The motel room where I’ve been staying isn’t amazing, but it isn’t the worst I’ve ever stayed in. The bed isn’t terrible, and the neighbors are usually quiet other than a few stray children who scream in the outdoor pool all day. I’m convinced there’s a family of meth addicts a few doors down from me, peeking through their blinds at all hours of the day and night.
Whatever. As long as they don’t bother me, I’m fine with them.
Despite how relieved I am to be away from Abram and his battalion of criminals, I miss him deeply. There’s a physical connection that we had that has left me completely beside myself with unmet need. I dream about him almost every night, usually on the days when I haven’t masturbated.
In my dreams, I’m always dancing back at the club when I see him walk up to the stage. He slips a one-hundred-dollar bill into my panties, then he pulls them down completely and tells me to kneel down on the stage.
When I do, he comes closer and puts his mouth between my legs, kissing and sucking my pussy as everybody watches. The voyeur in me finds this exhilarating, and the fact that it’shimalways makes it better. I lean into the pleasure, begging my body subconsciously to give me just a taste of what he made me feel.
Then I wake up alone in a motel bed, staring up at a popcorn ceiling in the five AM sunlight.
As I get ready to shower before work, I scan my body in the chipping bathroom mirror underneath the globe lights that cast a soft, eerie glow over me. It makes me feel like a forgotten Hollywood star from the ’60s, perhaps one of the women who were no longer willing to give blowjobs to their directors for better roles.
My belly is beginning to poke out a little bit now, and I’m eternally grateful that I don’t need to squeeze into those tiny garter shorts that I’d wear on stage. My secret would be out in a heartbeat with such critical women around. Mandi gained five pounds when she started her medication, and the girls absolutely ate her alive.
”Did you see that Cam is getting fat? Maybe Abram dumped her ass because her pussy is trash and she’s bingeing,”I can hear Isabelle saying in my head.
I roll my eyes and put the thought out of my mind. Fuck Isabelle and fuck Abram. I’m in a new place now, a safer place where nobody that wants to hurt me will ever be able to find me.
It’s my first day at my new job, and while I’m not nervous per se, I’m dreading the transition into a new role. Flirting with customers has become second nature to me, and I’m not used to being at a job where I don’t have to show my tits to make my living. I mean, I’m sure it helps, but it’s not required, and that’s what matters.
The owner of the restaurant is a little old woman by the name of Estelle. She’s the perfect grandma archetype, always cheery and forgiving when I make a mistake. I don’t remember much about my grandmother, but what I do remember comes back to me in bits and pieces as I interact with Estelle.
“There’s an order out for table twelve. Can you bring it to them quick?” she asks. “I need to run to the office and balance the till from this morning. Juniper was supposed to do it, but she called in for her sick kid again.”
I nod and make my way over to the food counter. One of the meals looks like it might be for a child, and my stomach turns. I’ve hated even thinking about children since I learned I was pregnant. With so many variables in place, it’s so hard to know where I’ll even be in a year, much less how to create an eighteen-year plan for a child.
When I bring the food over to the table, I can see a very normal-looking nuclear family sitting together. They look like they came out of an ad from the fifties, which I find both endearing and a little unnerving at the same time. People who appear perfect on the outside usually act as a mirror to show me my biggest failures, and having children in that mirror does me no favors.
I walk the food over to the table on a tray, distributing it as the father directs me. The mother chooses to make my job difficult and allows her three-year-old girl to tell me what she ordered even though I’m damn-near positive she would eat a grilled tire if it had enough ketchup on it.
As soon as I turn around to walk back into the kitchen, I can overhear the little girl getting fussy with her mother. My stomach turns at the sound of it. The child is beside herself with anger and grief for a reason unbeknownst to me, her mother, or even her.
The little girl’s distress immediately put me into an uncomfortable state of mind. What’s it like to have a little person around who can’t communicate with you? Do you have to learn how to read every tone, pitch, and whine in their voice before you finally get it?
How involved is the little girl’s father? Sure, he’s there, but is he reallyherewith them? Or is he still back at the office combing through pointlessly formal emails and checking out the intern’s ass when she passes his desk?
That would be a dream compared to what it would be like to raise a child with someone like Abram. Constantly surrounded by violence, by ruthless killers who have no mercy, not even for a little girl and her mother who had nothing to do with a bad business deal or a shipment of fake cocaine.
“Hey Estelle, is it alright if I sit down for a bit? I feel kind of faint,” I say, feeling embarrassed that I’m already asking for concessions on my first day. I’m usually so against taking time off or even sitting down at work; it makes me feel lazy and unproductive.
“Of course, Olivia, do you need me to have one of the cooks make you some food? It’s free for employees,” she replies sweetly.
“No, I’m not hungry. My blood pressure just acts up sometimes,” I say. It isn’t a complete lie, at least. Ever since I got pregnant, my blood pressure has been about as predictable as my mood.
Estelle shrugs and walks away to attend to other customers as I find a place in the back to sit down.
