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DANIELLE
Holy can take care of everything; he told me so himself. And yet, I’m the one with the aching breasts and all-day nausea. I’d rather be researching OBGYNs than waking up every morning at 6:45 to puke my guts out.
All things considered, one puke a day isn’t bad. I have my own bathroom, so my dad can’t hear me expelling the previous night’s contents from my stomach. After my early morning vomit, I may be plagued by a roiling stomach, but all the contents stay put until the next day.
One day in early December, my dad asks me to have breakfast for him. He’s grim when he asks, and I know I can’t say no. Though the smell of eggs makes me queasy, and I’d rather die than eat a strip of the bacon he prepared, I sit at the table with a plateful of toast and feign a stomachache. The lie is primarily true; my stomach muscles hurt from vomiting and pulsating with nausea. But this stomachache won’t go away for a while.
“You’ve been spending a lot of nights away from the house lately,” he begins. “I know you’re eighteen and technically an adult, but I just want to ensure you aren’t staying away because of something I’ve done.”
He couldn’t be further from the truth. The nights I’ve spent away from home were spent a few minutes down the road at Holy’s. “Of course, it isn’t, Dad.” I breathe a sigh of relief that this conversation isn’t about him overhearing my new early morning routine.
“I also wanted to talk to you about drinking.” He brings a forkful of eggs to his mouth and slowly chews as if waiting for me to admit something. “I was a teenager once,” Marcus explains, “and I went to parties back in the day. I know there’s always beer available at the least, usually the harder stuff, too.”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m not drinking, but he only raises his voice and keeps speaking. “If you’re staying out with Rose or Cameron all these nights because the two of you are drinking and partying together, I want you to know that you can always call me, honey. I won’t ask any questions. I just want you to be safe.”
His concern is touching. I realize at the heart of his worry is a parent that just wants to protect his child. I hope when I become a mother, I will be as good to my kid as my dad has been to me. “I’m not drinking, Dad, but I promise, if I ever need your help, I’ll come to you,” I reassure him.
Relief washes over him, and the grim look disappears, quickly replaced with a smile. “You can come to me about anything. I’ll always have your side.”
The little voice in my head says that now is the time to tell him the truth. Tell him that I’m dating my teacher. Tell him that we’ve been having risky, unprotected sex. Tell him that I’m pregnant.
But the moment passes when my dad asks what I’m doing for the day, and my ‘nothing’ echoes off the walls. I was going to see Holy, but now I feel like crawling into bed and taking a nap.
School days feel different now that winter is upon us. I bundle up in pea coats and scarves and hide in the library. I tell my friends that I’m preparing for finals, but the truth is, the smell of cafeteria food turns my stomach. I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the back of the stacks with books surrounding me in case the librarian walks up.
Holy does his best to take care of all my needs. During class, he’s torn between the whiteboard and watching me. Behind closed doors, he’s giddy with excitement over the prospect of our future child. He holds my belly and tells me every day how far along I am, as if I don’t know.
My favorite moments are when he has his head on my lap and he’s looking at my stomach, talking to a baby that is no bigger than a blueberry. “I hope you’re a boy,” he says one night. “You and I are going to protect your mama against the whole world. But it’d be cool if you were a girl, too. We’ll go on daddy-daughter dates, and I’ll learn how to braid hair.”
I never thought I’d be a teen mom, not even when Holy and I were having unprotected sex. But watching him interact with our baby in-utero is a touching scene. I can’t imagine having this child with anyone else.
I haven’t gained any weight yet. I’ve been watching the scale, and I fluctuate within the same five-pound range I always have. Holy thinks it’s because of the morning sickness, but I know it’s because our bean-sized child hasn’t developed yet. In a few months, it’ll be the size of a watermelon, and there will be no hiding it under pea coats or scarves.
“Women’s Health Group can see you the Tuesday after Christmas. You’ll be ten weeks around then. Eleven?” Holy frowns up at me, a question in his expression.
I nod. Just after the new year, I’ll be past my first trimester. All the books say that the morning sickness gets better after twelve weeks. That’s when the miscarriage rate reduces as well. Holy and I don’t plan to tell a lot of people about the baby just yet. The more people we tell, the more likely it is to get back to my dad or the school board. Both of those would be bad. But at least after the first trimester is over, we’ll feel comfortable telling our closest friends.
Holy is back on speaking terms with Saint. Neither of them will tell me what happened around Thanksgiving, but they settled back into their normal routines a week later. I suspect Saint will be the first person Holy tells about my pregnancy. He knows that the only person I’ll speak to is Rosemary. She’s been my confidante since I set my eyes on him; she’s the only one who could possibly understand.
Over winter break, I fend off half a dozen party invitations. The ones I do attend are thrown by my closest friends. I turn down drinks left and right and text Holy from the bathroom.
I miss you. I wish I were with you.
When I can’t turn down a beverage, I carry it around until I’m out of sight, then dump it the first chance I get. “I’ll never hurt you, little bean,” I whisper to my baby as if it can hear me. I’d rather waste perfectly good beer than risk my child.
The worst part of this pregnancy is resigning from the dance team. Holy and I talk about it all winter break. When I give him cons, he provides me with pros. When I tell him I want to keep going with the team, he reminds me that my body isn’t my own anymore. He is the level head I need when I am upset about quitting or excited about staying on as long as I can.
In the end, I sit down with my father and tell him that I have to quit because I know the news will travel back to him. I explain that between studying for my AP tests in the spring and planning for college, I won’t have time to keep up with the dance team. He understands, but I can see that he’s disappointed. He’s paid for dance classes and boot camps since I was five. Once when I was eight, I said I wanted to go to Juilliard. I didn’t have the skill or training for it, but he always encouraged me to follow my dreams.
“You don’t want to stick it out until graduation?” He asks one last time.
I shake my head no. “I just won’t be able to commit to it like I want to.” And the skin-tight outfits will make it clear to anyone with eyes that I’m putting on weight. At first, they’ll think it’s a few extra stress pounds. But after a few months, when the baby starts forming, they’ll start guessing it’s more than that.
My first appointment at the OBGYN is eye-opening. I meet the doctor that will deliver my baby, and she has Holy step outside during the examination. Carefully, in neutral language, she asks if I have considered my options.
“I know what people think when they see us together, Dr. Robles.” He’s forty. I’m eighteen. The age difference is so noticeable that we attract attention when we’re in public together. “But I’m not a misguided teen. I haven’t been trafficked. I’m not here because he forced me to get pregnant. We love each other, and this baby is very,verywanted.”
Dr. Robles doesn’t offer any further disparaging comments. She tells Holy and me that everything looks good but reminds us to get involved with baby groups in the area. “It’ll help you feel less alone through this process. While you may have friends and family here that understand your situation, it’s always helpful to have a friend going through this that you can talk to.”
