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Authors: Joshilyn Jackson
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up in the air with my legs hanging down, clutching Natty close, and Stevie-Our-Robber-Today was a mean kid on the other end, having a temper tantrum. He held us helpless in the air, and he was flailing around, not in control. He could drop us down hard, any second. I hated it. I hated it.
He could kill me, and it was worse than not leaving a nice story behind for my son. I could die here, and I had never told myself the truth.
I’d closed my eyes to it four years ago, when Natty stopped my period. When he made me puke up all my breakfasts and switched my sweet-set mouth to loving onions and hot peppers. I had Walcott’s momses take me to a doctor, and I let the doctor tell them what I already knew: I was a virgin. I was pregnant.
I decided that meant Natty was a gift. For more than nine months, he and I were one thing. After they took him out, I saw two tiny, pink-toed versions of my father’s feet. I saw my small, round skull and face, the shape of my own jaw. I saw Mimmy’s outsize eyes, the long lashes crumpled up from the cramped quarters. I only saw the things that made him mine.
I never let myself connect Natty to that dark, blue-velvet night when I woke and found myself outside, sprawled in a beanbag chair, alone. I saw all the crazy stars swinging back and forth, like they were hanging down on strings. I heard Walcott’s frantic yells. Marco! Marco! and I knew that I’d been lost. I’d been afraid. I’d called Walcott, and here he was at last, come to find me.
I was more than half an hour away from Dad’s house, on the Emory campus.
Walcott drove me back to Dad’s in my VW, so it wouldn’t be missing in the morning. The road looked lined in light. It felt fake, like a movie I was watching from inside itself. I kept graying out, the whole ride home. I have no idea how Walcott got back to the Prius. A taxi? I never asked.
Dad’s driveway shimmered and shifted as Walcott helped me up it, but I wouldn’t let him in the door. Inside, it was dark and quiet, my three little half brothers tucked into their beds upstairs, Dad and Bethany in their room with the door closed. They’d gone to sleep, thinking I was eating burgers and then heading to the midnight movie with some kids from synagogue. Thinking I’d come home straight after the film and slip quietly to bed, the way I often did on my every-other weekends.
I stumbled down to my room in the basement. I don’t remember changing, but I woke up hours later, tucked under my covers in a clean T-shirt. The sun was up. Last night’s clothes were in a scatter on the floor. My top, streaked with dried red Georgia clay, had my bra inside it. I unfurled the skirt from its filthy twist. No underwear. No shoes.
I went right to the bathroom to turn the shower on. I let the water work its way to scalding, then got in and stayed until I threw up. I only got out to brush my sour teeth.
I picked up the clothes that were in a scatter on the floor. If I left them, in two weeks I’d find them hanging in my closet. They’d be clean and pressed, courtesy of Martha, Bethany’s three-days-a-week housekeeper. I realized that I didn’t want to see these clothes again. I couldn’t put them in a trash can, though. Not in this house. Bethany would find them. She’d hold up this clay-stained skirt with its dried crust of something white staining the back, asking me why I was throwing out the nice things my dad bought me.
I stuffed them in a gym bag. I shoved the bag deep into my closet, behind a stack of shoe boxes.
Later, when Natty happened, Walcott told my parents about coming to find me, as if Natty and the dark blue night were connected. I didn’t see how they could be, because I already loved him so. He floated and bobbed inside me, the two of us alone conspiring to invent his hands, his serious, wide brow, his knobby knees.
Natty was real, and that night wasn’t. Even so, Mimmy made me see a pastoral counselor three counties over. He’s the only one I ever
He could kill me, and it was worse than not leaving a nice story behind for my son. I could die here, and I had never told myself the truth.
I’d closed my eyes to it four years ago, when Natty stopped my period. When he made me puke up all my breakfasts and switched my sweet-set mouth to loving onions and hot peppers. I had Walcott’s momses take me to a doctor, and I let the doctor tell them what I already knew: I was a virgin. I was pregnant.
I decided that meant Natty was a gift. For more than nine months, he and I were one thing. After they took him out, I saw two tiny, pink-toed versions of my father’s feet. I saw my small, round skull and face, the shape of my own jaw. I saw Mimmy’s outsize eyes, the long lashes crumpled up from the cramped quarters. I only saw the things that made him mine.
I never let myself connect Natty to that dark, blue-velvet night when I woke and found myself outside, sprawled in a beanbag chair, alone. I saw all the crazy stars swinging back and forth, like they were hanging down on strings. I heard Walcott’s frantic yells. Marco! Marco! and I knew that I’d been lost. I’d been afraid. I’d called Walcott, and here he was at last, come to find me.
I was more than half an hour away from Dad’s house, on the Emory campus.
Walcott drove me back to Dad’s in my VW, so it wouldn’t be missing in the morning. The road looked lined in light. It felt fake, like a movie I was watching from inside itself. I kept graying out, the whole ride home. I have no idea how Walcott got back to the Prius. A taxi? I never asked.
Dad’s driveway shimmered and shifted as Walcott helped me up it, but I wouldn’t let him in the door. Inside, it was dark and quiet, my three little half brothers tucked into their beds upstairs, Dad and Bethany in their room with the door closed. They’d gone to sleep, thinking I was eating burgers and then heading to the midnight movie with some kids from synagogue. Thinking I’d come home straight after the film and slip quietly to bed, the way I often did on my every-other weekends.
I stumbled down to my room in the basement. I don’t remember changing, but I woke up hours later, tucked under my covers in a clean T-shirt. The sun was up. Last night’s clothes were in a scatter on the floor. My top, streaked with dried red Georgia clay, had my bra inside it. I unfurled the skirt from its filthy twist. No underwear. No shoes.
I went right to the bathroom to turn the shower on. I let the water work its way to scalding, then got in and stayed until I threw up. I only got out to brush my sour teeth.
I picked up the clothes that were in a scatter on the floor. If I left them, in two weeks I’d find them hanging in my closet. They’d be clean and pressed, courtesy of Martha, Bethany’s three-days-a-week housekeeper. I realized that I didn’t want to see these clothes again. I couldn’t put them in a trash can, though. Not in this house. Bethany would find them. She’d hold up this clay-stained skirt with its dried crust of something white staining the back, asking me why I was throwing out the nice things my dad bought me.
I stuffed them in a gym bag. I shoved the bag deep into my closet, behind a stack of shoe boxes.
Later, when Natty happened, Walcott told my parents about coming to find me, as if Natty and the dark blue night were connected. I didn’t see how they could be, because I already loved him so. He floated and bobbed inside me, the two of us alone conspiring to invent his hands, his serious, wide brow, his knobby knees.
Natty was real, and that night wasn’t. Even so, Mimmy made me see a pastoral counselor three counties over. He’s the only one I ever
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