It was early Saturday morning. She wouldn’t be missed until her brothers woke up, and that wouldn’t be for a few more hours. So I did what any guy would do in my situation. I searched for the line. The invisible line that all girls draw around them that governs where they will allow someone to touch them.
I found it at the elastic band of her underwear. I thought for a moment that she was going to jump out of my bed and out the window, but she just redirected my hands somewhere else. A gentle Not yet. I got the message.
Eventually, we had to stop. Not because either of us wanted to (since I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to end the best night of my life), but her parents would notice if she wasn’t at home, and mine would notice if I had a guest in my room when they got back.
“They’re going to be fine,” she said simply, nestling into my chest. I nodded. She’d come over to distract me and it’d worked. When she finally climbed out the window (which we both later agreed was completely unnecessary because my mom and Paul were gone), I stayed in bed just thinking. But the thoughts were sharp and painful, so I thought about Maya instead. My perfect, neurotic girlfriend who can get away with anything because no one expects her to do anything wrong.
Mom and Paul got home around ten-thirty in the morning. Everything was fine, just like Maya said it would be. Paul touched my shoulder in what he considered an affectionate sort of way, which I accepted. Mom kissed me on the top of my head before heading off to bed to sleep for a while.
Then, and again I don’t know why I feel this compulsion to tell you this or anything for that matter, I went to my room and cried because I felt guilty for being selfish. For wanting to distract myself from what was happening to my mom.
Maya sent me a text later: “Keep your window unlocked.”
I heard a train whistle.
—
My mom told me something once, right after my dad left. You lose your secrets when you let people get too close. That was the scariest thing for her when she started dating.
I get it now. It’s hard to let someone find you in all the dark and twisty places inside, but eventually, you have to hope that they do, because that’s the beginning of everything.
It’s ridiculous that you would ask me why I haven’t told Maya. You know me now, better than almost anyone. Even though you can’t tell me what my voice sounds like, you read every word I write and talk to me for an hour every week. During that hour, you tell me stories about your life—or you make them up. It didn’t occur to me until just now that everything you’ve told me might be a lie based on your need to connect with me, even though you can’t fix me.
Maybe that’s the Harvard kid in you, trying to prove yourself or trying not to be a failure. I get that. You must have been under a lot of pressure to perform at school. From your plethora of diplomas, I can tell that you are a junior, meaning that someone thought it would be a good idea to name you after your father. I’ve never been a fan of that.
Naming someone after someone else is a huge responsibility. What if you’d turned out to be a drug-addled teenager? But of course that didn’t happen. Maybe in this case the name forced you to behave, but just so you know, any kid named Winston Xavier Edmonton III is basically asking to get their ass kicked. So if you did do this to one of your kids and they happen to come home one day with a black eye, that’s on you.
But that’s what people do to their kids, I guess. They give them a name and then expect that they’ll grow into it eventually, never suspecting that it might never fit. Because it sucks to disappoint your parents. There’s nothing more gut-wrenching than looking into their eyes and seeing that you’re not what they expected.
I’m not afraid of telling Maya about me. At least not in the same way I’m afraid of losing control. It’s just not something I want to think about too much. I want to keep her far enough away so she won’t ever have to see me as I actually am. I don’t want to lose my secrets, because they keep me safe. The world can see what I choose to show it, because I am lucky enough to hide behind this drug. This miraculous, life-altering drug that has given me my strength back and protected me from myself. Funny when you have to take medicine to protect you from yourself, isn’t it?
I guess I just don’t want her to know the truth. I’m afraid of what she’d do with that information.
I doubt she’d ever climb through my window again. She might even be afraid to be alone with me. It might ruin the way she looks at me with her side smile, the one that secretly makes me feel like I’m waking up on the first day of summer vacation. I don’t even care how cheesy that sounds. And I don’t care how much time I have to waste in your office before you realize how useless this is.
I’d really just like to keep my secrets for a while.
—
I can always tell when my mom has gotten in your head. The questions are more direct.
Yes. I was uncomfortable at the latest ultrasound appointment. Paul would probably have been okay with leaving me out of it, but he was a good sport for my mom’s sake, as usual.
Let’s examine the situation for a second. For once, my discomfort has nothing to do with my illness. Not a goddamned thing.
Any sixteen-year-old would want to barf upon seeing their heavily pregnant mother bare her gigantic belly as a doctor covers it with lube. My reaction (disgust) was not unnatural. My mom was lying on a table, half naked, while Paul erotically rubbed her shoulders and every so often whispered something in her ear. Then she blushed. Honestly, I don’t need to see that, hear that, or be within five hundred feet of that happening. The touching alone is really not something I need to witness. If her swollen stomach wasn’t enough of an indicator, I already know that my mom is sexually active. And as her teenage son, I think I have done a really spectacular job of being okay with that.
I am glad they’re happy. It’s great my mom won’t need to work when the baby is born because this time she can afford to stay home if she wants. Yes, I’m being sincere. I get that everything happening in her life is a tremendous blessing, and she deserves every ounce of happiness. Even the nauseating, cutesy, romantic bullshit she and Paul are so good at.
But Jesus Christ. I did not need to hear about my mom’s uterine walls. I didn’t need to know that having sex is a healthy way to induce labor when the time comes. I didn’t need to watch Paul’s hand travel up and down my mom’s belly. I may never be able to unsee that. In fact, I’m pretty sure the images are burned into my eyelids. None of those moments were necessary for me.
And you know the scariest part of the whole experience? When the doctor started talking about breast-feeding, my nipples started to hurt. My nipples.
My nipples will never do an honest day’s work in their lives, and yet they were concerned enough about my future brother or sister to burn with discomfort the moment someone else mentioned breastfeeding. I actually have a diagnosed mental condition that bothers me less than the fact that I have empathetic nipples. I don’t even know if anything can be done about this, but I would genuinely like to believe that my areolas will go back to being decoration.
And I know by the way you ask “How do you feel?” that my mom is actually the one asking. She wants to know how I feel about the baby. It was her intention to make the doctor’s appointment something we could all do together. I’m sure it looked more picturesque in her head. Everyone all smiley and gathered together around her belly.