There was a fluttering in my stomach. At first, I thought it was just me and her—the softness of her lips, her hips melting into my hands—but then the fluttering was more insistent, something beyond me.
I stopped, put one hand against her cheek, took the other and pulled her hand from my neck, and placed it on top of my stomach. “Do you feel that?” I asked.
Kicking. It grew stronger with each breath I took. “Holy shit,” I said. “Do you feel that?”
Her eyes focused on my stomach. Billy had been determined to be there for the baby’s first kicks, was always talking to my stomach, reciting facts he knew—red-worm composting is the key to a healthy garden; cigarette lighters were invented before matches; like fingerprints, every tongue print is different—but the baby had never responded before. Jenny’s touch made the kicking grow stronger, thuds from the inside that shook me.
9
“BE CAREFUL.”
The woman standing in front of me had long knotted hair, a bandage over her left eye, was wearing a T-shirt that claimed there was no place like Omaha. I wondered if she was a psychic, if the bandage was to protect her all-seeing eye. She took the pizza box from me and said it again: “Be careful.”
My palms tingled and I wondered what she saw for me, what else she would reveal to me, what the fuck I should be careful of. There was so much I was desperate to know, but all I could really think to ask her about was what type of car I would drive one day, when I would be out of the Festiva.
“What—” I began, but she cut me off and said, “Your shoes are untied. Be careful.” And then she handed me the money for the pizza, with a shitty tip, and shut the door so abruptly she nearly hit me in the face.
The rest of my shift crawled by. The details of the people I delivered to, forgotten nearly the moment their doors closed behind them. I was floating, not the peaceful kind, the kind people describe when their happiness is so strong that it propels them off the ground and pushes them lightly forward, no work required from their feet. I did not feel peaceful—I was off the ground and flailing, trying to find something solid to hold on to, something to keep me steady. It had been over a week since I’d kissed Jenny and not a word from her since.
I drove from address to address, barely there as I delivered. One house, I even forgot to take the money, was halfway back to my car before a guy ran out and grabbed my arm, making me jump. “Whoa, relax,” he said. “I think you’ll need this.” He placed the money in my palm and closed my hand around it with his, like he didn’t trust I could do it without his help.
Something was wrong. I sat in Eddie’s and waited as the minutes ticked by and my shift dwindled to a close. I didn’t think I would be able to stop myself from driving to her place and checking on her—How are you, Are you okay, Can you close your eyes without seeing our kiss?—until the phone rang, I stood up straighter, and then Darryl turned to me and said, “Hey, your man called and told me to remind you about your mom’s birthday party tonight.”
Billy and Mom hadn’t spoken to me since the night at Jenny’s house. It was lucky Jenny’s phone rang again that night, causing her to remove her hand quickly from my stomach and scoot a foot away from me on the couch—I could’ve sat there all night. She looked at the number, put it back in her pocket, but when she looked up the moment was over. “I think you need to leave,” she said. At the front door, she just gave me a quick double shoulder squeeze and told me to drive carefully, it was late. “How late?” I asked. “After midnight,” she said. She shut the door before I could say anything else or kiss her again.
As I drove home, I’d imagined a wide, flat green field. At the edge of the field, a hill, and on the top of that hill, a house. The house was small and wooden and cozy, a fireplace inside with a roaring fire. Jenny was sitting in front of it, playing the guitar, and Adam was sitting in a large leather armchair, reading thick textbooks about things I’d never be able to understand. I liked the idea of the three of us taking long walks across the field when the sun was just starting to set.
I got home that night and opened the door to see Billy and Mom sleeping against each other on the couch. His head was back and drool was coming out the sides of his mouth. Her arms were crossed around her midsection. I wondered when the last time they got off the couch was. I clapped my hands together twice, loudly. They woke slowly, then abruptly—rubbing the sleep from their eyes, stretching, and, after seeing me standing before them, widening their eyes and leaping up from the couch. Before they could say anything, I clapped again. I didn’t know why I was clapping, but it felt good and it got them both to shut up. “You guys,” I said, “are driving me fucking insane.”
We hadn’t spoken since. When I woke up in the mornings, Billy would already be gone; Mom would leave me a breakfast plate on the table, then go to her room and play music loudly, to let me know she was home and ignoring me. When my shift ended the next Wednesday, I got into my car and drove past Jenny’s street. I still hadn’t fixed my phone, and my front jeans pocket felt empty, but good.
Mom’s birthday party was at her favorite restaurant, a small Korean place that had Christmas lights up year-round. Her guest list consisted of me, Billy, and Nancy, an old Korean woman who waxed Mom’s mustache and threaded her eyebrows once a month and also took bets on college football. There was a balloon tied to each of our chairs, and three wrapped gifts. One of the gifts was from me. I had no idea what it was.
Nancy was chatty, filled the space. “I have this great idea on how to revolutionize hot-dog buns.”
Billy cleared his throat, politely asked, “What’s the idea, Nancy?”
She smiled, took a dramatic pause. “As you obviously know, hot-dog buns are widely inefficient.” We didn’t know this. “Well, think about every time you eat a hot dog,” she said. “There’s always way too much bread left over at the ends when the meat is finished,” she said. “Plus, sometimes the top and bottom separate, leaving you struggling to eat your hot dog in a classy way.”
“I mean, if you’re eating a hot dog, you’re really not thinking much about classiness, are you?” I asked. I looked around the table for support from Billy and Mom. They refused to make eye contact with me.
Nancy ignored me too and plowed on. “So—my idea is to make a hot-dog bun that is more like a taco shell. Not in terms of texture, but the same shape.”
“Sounds like a pita,” I said.
“I also invented the washer-dryer, you know.” Nancy waved down the waitress for more tea. “Well, I didn’t actually—then we would be eating at a nicer restaurant—but I had the idea independently when I was a young girl, before I even knew that a washer-dryer already existed.”