Project Maigo(31)
My phone rings. The ring tone—Marylyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday, Mr. President—tells me who’s calling. It the boss. Not my boss. The boss. I dig the phone out of my pocket, accept the call and place it against my ear. “Mr. President, the situation is—”
The man cuts me off with a very curt explanation of my situation, which feels like an enema while he’s talking, and something a little rougher when he hangs up before I can argue. I manage to maintain my composure, say “goodbye” to cellular silence, and lower my weapon. “Well, looks like we’re pals now.”
“What?” Collins, at least, shows an appropriate amount of disgust at this announcement.
But I can’t talk about it now. I head for the door.
“Where are you going?” Collins shouts after me.
“To squeeze the shit out of my stress doll!” I didn’t need to shout, but after everything I just experienced, everything I just survived, the last thing I needed was to be told to play nice with a guy whose nuts I’d like to use for a punching bag. I step inside, slam the door behind me and head to my room on the second floor.
After recovering my stress doll—I think his name is Bob—I head for the bathroom, yank down my pants and sit down on the toilet. If I lay down on my bed, someone would be in to get me inside of five minutes. Here, I can have some quality me-time. Here, I can—
A familiar-shaped white and pink plastic device is poking out of the top of the small trash can beside the toilet. I share this bathroom with Collins. Our rooms are joined by it. With a shaking hand, I reach down to the trash can and move aside the unused toilet paper that had been placed to partially cover the device.
My throat feels like Gordon’s got his hands wrapped around it.
I lift the pregnancy test, looking at the two windows. For a moment, I can’t make any sense out of it. One line, not pregnant. Two lines, pregnant. I look back and forth three times, because the test must be wrong. Two lines means pregnant. And there are two lines.
Two lines means pregnant.
Two...lines...
Bob’s head cracks open.
16
I’m ten years old. Lying in bed. Another sleepless night seeing monsters in the shadows and skulls in my discarded tighty whities on the floor. To say I had an active imagination is an understatement. But that’s not what kept me awake. Not really. To this day, I don’t know why, but some nights my arms and legs would feel heavy. Really heavy. Like they were moving through swamp muck. This unnatural and strange feeling drove me to my parent’s bedside. More than the monsters. Or the noises. Or whatever else kids fear in the dark. It pushed me past my fear of violent repercussions. To seek comfort from the unwilling.
The heaviness in my limbs faded as I grew older. I haven’t thought about it in years. But as I climb the stairs toward the Crow’s Nest, pregnancy test in hand, I finally understand the heaviness that plagued my childhood nights. It was fear. Primal, unfiltered fear. As a person grows, barriers are erected. Mental defenses are fortified. Pride becomes the dominant emotion, keeping fear from being fully expressed or perhaps even realized. It’s how Woodstock and I can look into Nemesis’s eyes and not scream like frightened goats.
But now, my legs have never felt heavier. As my bare feet pad across the cool, hardwood floor of the Crow’s Nest, heading for Collins, who is sitting at her work station talking to Cooper, I feel like I’m ten again. I can feel the hallway floor beneath my feet. The humidifier hums behind me. The orange glow of the bathroom night-light guides my path. I expect no real comfort on the other side of my parent’s door, just the knowledge that the world as I know it still exists. An assurance that reality hasn’t fundamentally changed.
My hand reaches for the knob and turns. But the knob is Collins’s shoulder. She spins around, tired eyes like my mother’s. But then she smiles and looks concerned. She asks, “What is it? What’s wrong?” Then, I realize why I love this woman so much, and why I shouldn’t be terrified right now.
Not that this knowledge lightens my arms any. Lifting the pregnancy test feels like I’m bench-pressing Watson. My lips stay firmly shut, pinched white. The visual aid and my mortified expression will say everything that needs saying.
Collins’s eyes widen as the pregnancy test rises.
She reaches for it, but my leaden arms pulls it away.
“No one is supposed to know!” she hisses.
I’m instantly offended.
The weight lifts from my limbs like I’ve been touched by Jesus himself. A quick cure for fear is anger. “Not supposed to—how the hell do you keep something like this from me?”