“I miss when she was a baby, you know,” Mom said. “Her dad, rest his soul, was busy all the time trying to write and make money. He’d leave for hours, sometimes days. The house would always be so empty. I used to just walk from room to room, touching the walls. Sometimes I’d go to the store and buy different paints and test them out—Cornflower, Seafoam, Mango, did you know there’s a shade of purple called Fandango?
“Then, one day, she was born and the house wasn’t empty anymore. She filled every inch of it. She took up all my time. I stopped buying paints. There’s a reason the house’s walls are Goldenrod now—it’s the color I painted the house two days before she was born.”
Billy hugged Mom and said something that I couldn’t hear—I was running past them to the bathroom. I had a second to appreciate that someone had just cleaned the toilet, the water was blue, toilet-water blue might’ve been my favorite color. The next second, I was throwing up.
I’d thrown up many times before I got pregnant—when I was fourteen and worried my face would be round and chubby forever, during a party where I was debating losing my virginity to the boy in my pre-calc class who smelled like Old Spice and Doritos, after Dad told me that all his best memories were before I was born, stomach flus, gas-station burritos—but now I got no relief as I emptied myself into that pretty blue toilet water.
I felt Billy’s hands kneading my shoulders, Mom’s gathering my hair and holding it back. They whispered soothing things into my ears until I finished. I lightly pushed away Billy’s hands when he tried to wipe the puke from my mouth with a tissue and did it myself, with the back of my hand.
* * *
—
BILLY SHOULD’VE BEEN GOING to USC in the fall.
When he first got accepted, everyone thought that he got in because of baseball, that he was going to be the Trojans’ newest relief pitcher. This frustrated him. “I love baseball, but I’m really not that good. Like, I’m the best at our high school, but that doesn’t mean much. A lot of people are the best at their high school. Besides, I can do more than just throw things and sweat.” He’d say this frowning, un-frowning, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice and failing.
Along with being the best baseball player at our shitty high school, Billy also had a near-perfect grade point average and SAT score, did nice things like volunteer for organizations that made him spend his weekends picking chip bags and empty beer cans off beaches and reading to old people in rooms with lighting that made everything look sadder, closer to death. USC had given Billy a full academic scholarship; the baseball coach had no idea who he was.
Billy believed in video games. He talked often about how they got a bad rep, that people used adjectives like “senseless,” “frivolous,” “mind-numbing,” to describe them. But what was wrong with mind-numbing? What was wrong with wanting to stop moving every once in a while, with wanting just to sit on your couch and let your head drain as you thought about nothing except racing along Rainbow Road, killing Nazi Zombies, how there were over 150 Pokémon to catch. His big plan was to major in game design and create a video game called The Helpful Sheep.
“Explain it to me again. What’s the point of The Helpful Sheep?” I would ask, even though I knew exactly what the point was. I just liked hearing Billy talk about it. His eyes would widen and his hands would move all over the place. He liked gesturing, consciously or unconsciously, pairing words with sharp slices and punches to the air.
“So, okay, it’s very simple. It’s exactly what the title promises.” His hands would move separately—right slice, left punch. “You’re a sheep who lives in a studio apartment in a major nondescript city. You wake up every day and eat a bowl of fresh-cut grass and milk. After scrubbing your hooves and washing your wool, you trot out your front door and provide people with everything they want and need, hate asking for—free, unsolicited help.” Generally, I kissed him around this time. He would always need a minute after, to wipe his lips and smile bashfully, before continuing his rant. “The game is free-roam. You can go anywhere you want in the city. It doesn’t matter where you go—everywhere there are people that need your help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Any kind. Let’s say a guy—we’ll call him Doug—is making a sandwich and it’s all looking good. Doug’s got the ham, Doug’s got the cheese, whole-wheat bread, lettuce, tomato, ketchup, mustard, mayo, maybe a strip of bacon for a crunch. Before he pops the sandwich on his Foreman Grill, he decides he wants an extra salty bite. He needs pickles. He goes to the fridge and pulls out a jar of Vlasics.” Another kiss, with tongue. “Fuck! The jar won’t open. The folks at Vlasic are serious about keeping their shit airtight fresh! What do you do? What can you do? Do you just throw out the sandwich? Order Beef and Broccoli, hold the broccoli, from Panda? Nah, fuck that, you’re so close. It’s time for The Helpful Sheep.”
Billy often stood up at this point. Both hands above his head, quick punches. “As the sheep, you can fix problems like this. You can open Doug’s pickle jar, save his lunch from being bland. After that, you can walk next door and scrub in and around Mrs. Wilson’s toilet bowl. She was a basketball player in her youth, her knees are wrecked, you’re eliminating so much pain from her life. Li’l Susie across the street is sad that she’s the only one of her friends that doesn’t know how to ride a bike. You can help her get off those training wheels and not feel left out! The sheep accepts no payment for these services, just hugs.”
Flopping back on the bed, he’d wrap me in his arms, press sloppy wet kisses wherever he could reach. “I’m telling you, babe. This game is it. It’ll reduce stress, encourage people to be kinder to others.”
“How does a sheep open a jar without thumbs? And it’s going to be a cartoon sheep, right? Cartoon sheep are much cuter than the real thing.”
I missed these conversations. Shortly after we found out about the pregnancy, Billy called USC to let them know that he wouldn’t be attending that fall. I told Billy that it was okay, that he should go be a student and kick ass, live in the dorms, and drive home on the weekends to see me and the baby. He wouldn’t budge, though, kept repeating that he didn’t want to miss anything. He told me with a tightness in his voice that he didn’t want the baby to grow up and feel about him what he felt about his parents. “Our kid is going to grow up wondering about a lot of things. Never, though, will he wonder if I’m going to be home for dinner. I will always be there to wonder with him.”
We stopped talking about USC and The Helpful Sheep.
* * *
—
I WATCHED BILLY’S BACK as he undressed for bed. I knew I wanted to start a fight. I also knew that I hated fighting, hated how ugly I felt and was sure I looked when I screamed. I waited until he was down to his underwear and one sock before I stood up, grabbed his dick firmly between my hands.