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I hate that he notices things have been strained for a while. It means I haven’t been very good at hiding it. I appreciate his kindness and his friendship, but I can’t explain to him how my diagnosis has created a distance between Cash and me.
“I need to work,” I tell him, hoping he’ll get the message and leave me alone.
“I’m sorry you found out about Lisa the way you did,” Bret apologizes and sits on the bench next to me. He’s referring to Lisa, his wife, leaving a sonogram picture on Bret’s desk that I happened to find.
“I’m fine, really,” I choke out, forcing a smile.
“When you’re ready, you can try again. You’re still young.” Bret doesn’t know that if I had a baby, there is a fifty percent chance I could pass on the genetic mutation that has caused my Huntington’s disease. I can’t take that chance. Neither of us would survive if I unknowingly condemned our baby to the same fate as me.
“Not every woman needs to have a baby to be fulfilled in life,” I say angrily. I’m tired of everyone feeling sorry for me. “I got pregnant by accident the first time. Nobody ever asked me if I wanted a baby, it just happened, so stop acting like this is a huge tragedy in my life that you have to tiptoe around. It was three fucking years ago.” As soon as I say it I regret it, but if that’s what it takes for Bret to leave it be, then it was worth it.
Bret blanches and I can see the shock clearly on his face. I don’t mean to be such a bitch, but sometimes it’s the only option I have. He is well-meaning, but I can’t take it any longer. I am not jealous or heartbroken about his wife being pregnant. I do not moon over babies wishing I could hold my own. That part of my life is over, and I have accepted it. No one else knows the real reason why we haven’t tried for another baby and they make assumptions.
“I’m sorry, Mia.” Bret rises from the bench and begins to make his way out of the studio. “Hey, kid?” he says from the doorway and I look over at him, softening my expression. “If you need anything, let me know. I’m always here for you.”
I nod knowing that Bret means each and every word, even if I don’t deserve it. He would do anything for me if he could. It just makes it worse that I am hiding this huge secret from him, but it’s the way it needs to be.
CARMEN HAS ALREADY left the studio and I now have a headache. She’s too cheerful and she has a high pitch voice that drives right into my brain like a jackhammer.
“Mia?” Greta stands in the doorway, an unsure look on her face that gives me pause. She’s holding a bag from the thrift store.
“Are those the dresses?” I ask, excited. “Bring them to me!” I rub my hands together, eager to see what Greta has found. She should have been a stylist, but I don’t tell her that.
Greta shakes her head nervously.
“Don’t worry, whatever I don’t like, you can keep.” I figure that will make her happy, but it doesn’t. Instead, she cautiously approaches me, holding the bag close to her.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask.
Greta’s hands shake as she holds the bag. “Did something happen?” I stand up and walk to her, concerned. The thrift store is on the same block as Underground Records and it’s not a great part of town. Thugs tend to set up shop at the bodega across the street, and if they did anything to Greta, I will personally go there and kick their ass.
Greta shakes her head. “Mia,” she says my name ominously and it brings an eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Remember when I made you tell me the story about the jeans when we first met?” she asks me.
I nod, remembering how she hounded me to tell her all kinds of stories about being out on the road, performing, and writing songs. I told her how Jack wrote the lyrics to Blood and Bone on my jeans, while I was wearing them. She listened intently, thinking that it had to be the most romantic thing she’s ever heard. She cried when I told her how the van was stolen and the jeans with it.
My stomach feels queasy, like a rock has taken residence inside. “Greta, what’s going on?” I ask her, but I think I already know.
Her eyes fill with tears as she pulls a pair of jeans from the bag. The familiar writing draws my attention, and I place my hand over my mouth.
I reach out to touch them cautiously as if they might burn me. But I inspect them anyway to make sure they are real, and they fucking are.
“I didn’t believe it at first. I was sifting through some racks and there they were.” Greta is speaking but I barely register what she’s saying. I can’t stop staring at the jeans.
I take them in my hands and bring them to my nose as if I might smell something familiar, but they only smell like mothballs. I hold them out in front of me and inspect the writing again. It’s as if I can feel the phantom sharpie against my leg. I’m taken back in time, to my old Ford Fairmont, sitting in the gas station parking lot with Jack.
Anger builds inside of me and I’m struck by the thought of lighting these jeans on fire, throwing them in the trash, anything to get them away from me.
I can hear Greta still talking in the background, but I don’t know what she’s saying.
“Leave,” I say to her and the room becomes quiet. I need to be alone.
“Mia?” she questions me.
“I said leave!” I demand without looking at her, and clutch the jeans to my chest. “Please,” I add, because none of this is Greta’s fault.
I hear her footsteps retreat and then the click of the studio door.
