Sowing on the Mountain

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She called the number, which had a 303 area code: Colorado. There was a recording of a woman's voice asking her to please leave a message, so she did, but the machine cut her off before she was done. But she thought that if Ray got the message, he'd respond.

When she bought a load of groceries she got a pregnancy test, a white plastic thing. It wasn't expensive, although the consequences might be. After she put away the groceries, she had to pee, so she took it out of the package and held one end of the squeezy thing in the stream. Then she waited. There were two little windows. A plus in the round one meant she was pregnant. A minus meant she was home free. A blue line in the second window meant the test had worked. The blue line showed up first. Then a plus. O Shit!

Had she fainted? She opened her eyes with her left cheek on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. She felt woozy. Once she could sit up, she looked at the test thing again: same result. Her stomach did a flip. I will not barf, she thought, as if that would prove anything.

She stood up and went to the kitchen and poured a glass of iced tea. This must be from the night I drank wine at Big Sandy Lodge. I don't remember using anything. How can I tell Slim, she thought? He'll be totally sweet and tell me how happy he is and how he'll take care of me and the baby. Don't know if I can stand that. I don't want a baby. Can't handle the thought of it.

She thought about what it would mean. I'd have to quit school and the band. Move to Jackson and live in Slim's rented house. He'd insist on getting married. So I'd be a married housewife with a howling brat.

I was a difficult baby, she thought. I had colic and cried, day and night. Mom blamed me for driving my father away. He was an electrician, working on powerplant construction. He had trouble sleeping and couldn't stand my crying, so he started renting a motel room to get enough sleep and eating at a cafe. That made Mom mad, that he left me to her— when was she supposed to sleep? They had big fights and she started drinking to help her get to sleep. Before long, he moved to a new powerplant site in Utah and didn't come back, just sent a check every now and then. They got divorced a couple years later— all my fault, she said. I was five or six when she started telling me about it. Blaming me for it. Beating me for it.

I'd like to believe it would be different for me and Slim. But having to give up school and the band would get to me. At one point he had a job offer in Salt Lake, but he wouldn't like it here. When he visits, after a few days, he's always glad to be heading for Jackson, out of the smog and noise and traffic. And Mormonism. The Church drives him nuts. So we'd both be nuts. With a howling brat on top of it all.

How many ways can I feel guilty about this?

My fault for getting drunk at the Lodge.

My fault for not putting in my diaphragm before screwing Slim all night.

Out of wedlock: a sin in itself. And without shame. I loved it.

My fault for being so negative about having a kid— is that unnatural?

My fault for having a father who abandoned his wife and child for a good night's sleep. And for having a mom who hated me for being alive, for breathing air. Great genes for parenthood, right?

I should be able to think of more reasons than that, given a good Catholic education. But I've got a problem and the problem is growing. So what do I do?

Okay. First, make a list of what I have to get done: buy another preg test kit, just in case; register for school; make an appointment for an exam at the Women's Clinic. Call Slim and tell him? Have to think that over. If he let me talk before telling me how happy he was, etc., I could stand it. But he won't— he's too goddam nice.

The pinholes in her left arm itched fiercely. She was down to the last few amoxicillin and the infection had gone away. I wonder if the antibiotic can mess up a baby? Fetus, not baby.

Can I tell Ginger? At least I wouldn't feel so alone. I'll sound her out when we practice. Or Krista. So— first item: buy another test kit.

She rode her bike to the Food King and bought a different brand. With the same result. So she called the Women's Clinic and made an appointment. Then she walked up to the U to get registered for fall quarter.