A few probs

The box on the table stared at her. Eve stared back, daunted by the bright pink box, utterly frightened at what the mere presence of it meant. It meant she’d messed up. For the first time ever, she had stuffed up, completely and totally. She shuddered, fearing the upcoming event, scared of the result.

She was only eighteen. Young. A baby herself. Immature as hell.

How silly, she now realised she was. All the warnings she’d received from sex ed at school, from her mum, her grandma, they’d all gone to waste, unheard, ignored. She’d been like every teenager. She had thought she’d known it all and dismissed their warnings with a grimace, “I am not a child!” It was now that her true stupidity shone through, she knew this. But it was too late.

She hadn’t loved him. She’d known deep down that she didn’t. She’d just tricked herself into believing she did. Foolishness, she now understood was her primary trait. He had been sweet, he’d said nice things, ‘you’re so pretty, so cute, I love you.’

I love you too.

So... maybe she’d felt obliged to say it. She’d felt forced, nearly. But she’d said it to him, thought she felt it and therefore wanted to show it. The big mistake.

But now, here she was in the dining room of her childhood, being intimidated by a narrow box, which held her entire future. She hadn’t thought one tiny, insignificant error could do this: ruin everything she had, the normality she’d fought to gain. She glanced at the box, making a conscious decision to find out. She had to use the test, had to know.

She knew. She felt different, from the tingly finger tips to the slight morning sickness. Sure, she’d missed her period and she was normally so placid, as well, lately even her mother had commented on her quick mood swings.

Her mother.

Her mum would be so disappointed. It would break her heart. She knew her mum virtually worshipped her; she was everything to her, her pride and joy. The only thing her mum had left. And now she’d ruined everything. Eve leant her arms down on the table, resting her head on her forearms, trying to stay will the lump in her throat to disappear.

She could remember the days, at this very table, when, as a little child, she would sit in front of her dinner plate for hours, refusing to eat. The motto her father lived by was, ‘stay at the table until all the food on your plate is eaten,’ and this was upheld in his household.

Spinach was the one food Eve would never eat. She hated it. But her father, knowing this, insisted they have it with nearly every meal. So she would sit and ignore his hollering at her to ‘just eat it’, it was good for her. She shook her head, wouldn’t give in.

Another trait, stubborn.

So Eve would sit there, her mouth in a straight line, until her mother would come in when the grandfather clock rang nine times, eerily. Bedtime. The spinach would sneakily be placed inside a paper towel by her mother, followed by a grin and Eve would tiptop beside mum into the kitchen, where the spinach would be promptly tossed into the bin, hidden by other rubbish, just in case dad checked. Then Eve would sit back at her spot at the table in front of her empty plate while she waited for her father to come and inspect her plate.

‘You can go now, Evie,’ her father would mutter and run his hands through her short hair, just a little bit too hard. ‘And this won’t be happening tomorrow night, tomorrow night will be a smack instead.’

That’d scare her and her arrogance wouldn’t surface two nights in a row.

Another quality of hers, frightened.

The fear was always around, but Eve could distract herself. She felt it, except in full blast. It hurt her head. The box still sat on the table, bubble gum pink and looking cheerful, when really the situation was anything but. Eve brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her, willing the thing she instinctively knew was inside her out.

It’s just not that easy, she murmured to herself, and let go of herself, stood up, in a quick abrupt gesture. She swept up the magenta box, fiddled with the opening before grasping the test and instructions.

And two minutes later, she held her breath and willed the second pink line to not show up. But it did, it shone bright like a neon sign saying, ‘Eve is fucked.’ She breathed in and out and in and out, biting her lip, hard, drawing blood. But the pain from her lip didn’t distract her from the fact that, yes, she was pregnant and provided she went through with the pregnancy, in nine months silences like this would not be possible, interrupted by the squealing of a small, life ruining, bundle of joy.

A baby.

She put her hands to her stomach, expecting to feel a bump now her fears were confirmed. But there was nothing. Her stomach was still flat and she couldn’t feel any ‘hello’ kicks.

What did she do now? Eve slumped to the ground against the wall, her head between her knees, her fist shoved in her mouth, trying to stifle the tears welling her eyes.

She supposed she’d ring her mum, try and splutter out the words without choking up. Maybe she’d call her boyfriend, next. The boyfriend whom she now saw as less of an angelic boy and somewhat more of a devil. She’d have to call the school, to warn them that soon she wouldn’t be able to attend. And her friends to explain why she wasn’t herself anymore, she had another human inside her. They’d frown and hug her but secretly smile and thank god it was her and not them.

Eve stood up and picked the box up off the dining room table, crushing it with her hands into a ball. Crushing in the same way her entire existence had just been crushed. A single teardrop made its way down her face.

Tears.

She sighed, despite herself. Wow. Eve hadn’t cried in a really long time. She didn’t cry easily. Never had. She saw it as complete weakness. Always had.

So when her granny died when she was ten and her father bawled on the couch for hours, with Eve and her mother standing morosely, watching silently in the doorway, she couldn’t help but think she’d never seen anything more pathetic. Maybe that was what triggered her dwindling respect for her father.

She supposed he couldn’t help it, he loved his mother. She’d be the same if her mum had just died. But in her young, impressionable mind adults were supposed to be brave and know what to do. Always.

It happened again when her parents broke up (at last) and her mother couldn’t get out of bed, she was literally sick with grief. Eve had to look after her, there was no one else to. Suddenly the roles reversed, she played the part of the adult and her mother, the child. It shocked her to the core that adults could completely lose the plot, just like children and teenagers could.

She changed so much after the separation. Everyone noticed. They thought she was damaged. She wasn’t.

It was just like she had watched her life go by through a pair of simple binoculars set in black and white. Adults were superior and children were inferior. Dad told Eve what to do, and she would do it. He was right, she was wrong.

And then her dad left and everything changed. She was now seeing through more of a kaleidoscope because her world had altered to bright colours where things were possible for once. Eve could shape her own life; living with just her mum meant her father’s autocratic rule over her was now just memories. Utter elation was achievable, in the same way the complete despair and depression her mother experienced were.

And every now and again Eve acknowledged that the kaleidoscope had to move, and the patterns would change. Except it wasn’t the patterns that changed, it was the very fibres that held her life together.

Her mum’s boyfriends would come and go, usually just as Eve began to get used to them.

Her living grandparents would be there one day and three days later Eve and her mum would be standing in a church listening to how they lived a good life, a long life.

So she’d fall apart and pick herself up and rearrange herself so that things were okay, bearable. She could deal. She could survive.

The question was: could she rebuild herself this time? And the answer was, yes, maybe, she’d just have an addition this time.

A child.

She wasn’t sure how you went about keeping a baby. She knew she wasn’t mature enough to look after herself, she’d been told time after time by her various relatives. How could she look after a fully dependent adolescent?

Thoughts raced through her head and she suddenly felt as if she’d aged thirty years in the past ten minutes. Adoption, abortion, keep the baby.

She sighed. Maybe she’d rise the occasion, become a decent mum. Who knew.

A car drove up in the driveway. She heard the growling engine of a v8 engine. Unnecessary, for a suburban mother. Eve frantically rubbed her face, hoping to erase the evidence of her newly discovered secret.

Eve thought of her options as the ‘click, clack’ noise of her mother’s heels echoed up the steps and along the deck. Should she tell her mum? Spill it all, not deal with this alone. It was tempting.

Besides, her mother had always been there and always would be. She loved Eve and Eve loved her.

As the lock clicked in the door Eve ran to the foyer just as the door swung open.

‘Mum?’ Eve muttered, her voice sounding rusty, her previous crying obvious.

‘Hi, Evie,’ The nickname broke the banks of Eve’s tears and they overflowed in a hot, messy way. Eve blushed with embarrassment at the situation. ‘Sweet, what’s wrong?’

It’d be okay, Eve knew. She’d get through, just like she did when her father left. She just had to tell her everything, like her mother did to her at the time, just let it all go.