Maybe you can’t move on until you move back. Home.
He lost it all. The dead end job. The car that barely runs. The house he hates. The wife that hates him. The kids that couldn’t care less. Even the ugly lilac bush that refuses to bloom. What do you do? Where do you go?
Home isn’t quite how he left it. There’s decorative street lamps now, to help the bums find a place to pee at night. The eclectic group of friends he left behind are somehow not restrained by straight jackets. The girls have gotten hotter. The guys have gotten dumber. His sex crazed, health nut parents somehow managed to get even wackier and all Jared wants is to find the part of himself he lost all those years ago. In his quest to find himself, and maybe some of the comic books and dolls (no, action figures) he lost along the way, he gets a lot more than he bargained for. Things will never be the same after failure.
He lost it all. The dead end job. The car that barely runs. The house he hates. The wife that hates him. The kids that couldn’t care less. Even the ugly lilac bush that refuses to bloom. What do you do? Where do you go?
Home isn’t quite how he left it. There’s decorative street lamps now, to help the bums find a place to pee at night. The eclectic group of friends he left behind are somehow not restrained by straight jackets. The girls have gotten hotter. The guys have gotten dumber. His sex crazed, health nut parents somehow managed to get even wackier and all Jared wants is to find the part of himself he lost all those years ago. In his quest to find himself, and maybe some of the comic books and dolls (no, action figures) he lost along the way, he gets a lot more than he bargained for. Things will never be the same after failure.
Chapter ONE
I really hate this house. It’s not something I dwell on but every time I pull into the driveway, all I can see are the flaws. Hell, the old apartment was better than this. We never should have moved. A thousand dollars a month, for what? A yard the kids don’t play in. A basement that floods every time the neighbor’s dog takes a leak on the ugly ass lilac bushes. What kind of ornamental tree is only pretty for one week out of the year anyway? I can’t even smell it over the constant cigarette smoke that lingers in the air. You’d think eventually everyone’s smoke breaks would sync up, you know, like girls on their period, but no, every ten minutes it’s a different neighbor stepping out to light up. Just give it up and smoke inside already, honestly, at this point, what good is it doing anyone?
The car door creaks when I open it like this is a goddamn haunted house. And the noise it makes when I close it is just sickly. I’m waiting for the day it falls off. It’s not even ten years old. I say it’s the last time I’ll ever buy a used vehicle but unless I get into the grand theft auto profession, fresh off the lot isn’t happening. What did the previous owner even do to this rusty piece of scrap metal? And if you tell me anything other than drive it across the bottom of a pond I’m calling bullshit.
How am I going to make payments on this thing? Most people lose their house, sleep in the car. What do you do when you lose that? What’s left on it, it’s gotta be like a year, right? At $300 a month, shit, we’re talking over three thousand fucking dollars. I don’t even have anything left to sell off. Those comic books were the last of it.
What the fuck do I do now? Mattress World will hire me but there’s no way I’m making what I am now. Those stingy bastards will probably try to pay me in couch cushion change. Make me dig for it myself too. And maybe if they’re feeling really generous they’ll let me keep the lint balls so I can fashion myself some new clothes. I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Miranda. Maybe by some miracle she didn’t send out the check yet. That comic book money can carry us a little ways. At least until I find another job. What kind of fucked up company can manage to go under when you’re number one in sales? That takes a special kind of talent.
“Oh good, you’re back. I gotta get out of the house before I scream. Owen knocked over the bookcase again. I just, I can’t. Do you need anything out?”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, Jared. So is your wife, thanks for asking.”
She used to be excited when I got home. When she asked how my day went, she really meant it. It wasn’t small talk. At the time it seemed so trivial but I’d give anything to have those days back. What the hell happened to us?
“Miranda, we need to talk.”
“When I get back. Target closes soon, I won’t be long. Go,” she says, pointing at the front door. “There’s a surprise in there for you. See you in a little.”
I could really use a surprise right now. It’s been awhile since she’s done anything nice for me. Somehow whenever I question why we’re still together, she does something like this to remind me. No matter how short lived, it’s these moments that give me hope. One day we’ll get back on track. This will all work out, it has to.
Okay that is one giant cardboard box in the middle of the living room. It’s got to be a TV, or maybe a new desk. Owen broke my old one but we didn’t bother to replace it, it was basically just a catchall for the crap we didn’t know where to put. Maybe while I’m unemployed I can get back into making action figures. And models. Oh and possibly even writing too. I don’t know where to start though. Manny always handled the artwork, it’s kind of hard to do a graphic novel without the graphics.
It’s a crib.
“No, no,” Miranda yells, running up the sidewalk, “don’t go in yet, I forgot my wallet.”
But it’s too late, she sees me standing here in the open doorway, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. There is a crib sitting on the floor. It certainly isn’t for me.
“Surprise.”
“You bought a crib?”
“You’re kind of killing the surprise here. We’re pregnant, Jared. I’m having a baby.”
“You’re what? Miranda, we can’t handle another kid. We talked about this.”
“Wrong reaction,” she sighs, as if getting pregnant right now is a good thing. “You can at least pretend to be happy. Would it kill you to maybe smile or say congratulations. I don’t know, maybe something like I can’t wait to have a child with you.”
“I’m losing my job.”
“What? No, they need you,” she says with a shake of her head, “there’s no way they can get rid of you. You’re the best they have.”
“The whole company, they’re closing. We went out of business.”
“You’ll get another job, it’s not a big deal. They didn’t appreciate you anyway. You must get a severance package. You’ll have a couple weeks off, we can do the baby’s room, put the crib together. How much are you getting?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you not know? You didn’t ask? Jesus Christ, Jared, that’d be the first thing I did. Why didn’t you ask?”
“I just found out I’m losing my job, I don’t know, I didn’t think about-”
“Yeah, you didn’t think. Find out. I’ll be back soon. Oh great, now they’re gonna be closed, I’ll have to go to Walmart.”
“You left the bookcase?” I ask, looking at its contents scattered across the living room floor.
“I’m not cleaning up after him again.”
Again? She didn’t clean it up last time.
“I didn’t sign up for this shit.”
He’s her kid.
“Wait, how did we afford a crib?”
“The money from eBay. We’ll pay off the credit card later, do a balance transfer or something. We have a baby to think about. Start coming up with names. Be back in a little.”
I aim for the couch but hit the floor instead. This can’t be happening. I can’t breathe. The last of my collection just paid for a crib for a baby we can’t raise. I sold off my prized possessions to pay off a credit card we used to buy a bunch of shit I didn’t want in the first place. I don’t give a damn if the bathroom towels match the rugs. I didn’t need a stupid home gym that no one will ever use because for one week out of the year she thinks she’s going to be a fucking ninja warrior. I sold off the last of my action figures to avoid paying interest on a credit card I’ve never physically touched. They were barely worth anything. But to me, they meant the world.
We’re having a baby. I can bring the crib back, use the money for an abortion. That’s it, that’s all we have to do. Unless, how far along is she? I can’t have a kid, two is too much. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. She seemed so mature back then, I never imagined I’d be taking care of the kids by myself. If I knew Owen was going to be autistic I would have never gotten involved with Miranda but what kind of person would that make me? I should have run and never looked back. I don’t care what that makes you think about me.
I step over the mess I’ll end up cleaning myself because what else is new? He destroys something, Miranda leaves it, I pick it up. He seems fine, sitting on his bed, swiping away at the phone. What else would he be doing? I wonder if he even knows what he’s looking at. How does the kid have a better phone than me?
“You doing alright, buddy?” I ask, patting him on the shoulder. He shrugs it off, avoiding my touch, his only acknowledgement of my existence. Why do I bother? I swear to god he stares through me like I’m not even here. I doubt he has any clue who I am. I peek over to see the screen, trying to make sense of it all but there’s no order to the chaos, he just keeps swiping. Miranda swears he’s learning things and it’ll all come spilling out one day but I have a feeling he just likes to watch the colors flashing by. And he’s pooping himself right now. Either that or I farted and forgot. He knows he’s doing it. I can tell by that smirk on his face. Little fucker thinks it’s funny. He can sit in it for all I care.
A door slams down the hallway. She can’t be back already.
“Hey, sorry, it was open.” Malcolm quietly closes the front door behind him as he steps inside. “Teenagers,” he says, nodding towards the hallway, “I wonder if we was ever like that. I know if I slammed a door, moms would have taken that shit off the hinges. You want me to tell him to apologize? I didn’t know if Owen was sleeping.”
“Thanks, no, he’s awake.”
“In that case, Xavery, get your butt out here. And take off your damn headphones.”
It’s been ten years and I still can’t think of Xavery as my stepson. Him wanting nothing to do with me doesn’t help matters any. I wonder if it’s because I’m white. But technically he’s only half black so shouldn’t he half like me? He pops nothing but his head out of his room, he could be naked and we wouldn’t know.
“Don’t be slamming doors like that. Say sorry.”
“Sorry.” He closes the door gently and gets back to whatever it is he does in there, I’m guessing in the nude. And I’ve seen that thing before, it’s probably dragging along the floor getting rug burn. I wonder if he gets those genes from his father. Miranda’s never mentioned it but I bet Malcolm’s got a trouser tractor in there. Shit, I think he caught me checking out his junk. At least he looks surprised by it. I think it’d be more insulting if he were like oh it’s just typical Jared, checking out wieners.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asks cautiously.
Oh no, does he think I’m hitting on him or something. I never got that vibe from Malcolm but he seems intrigued. Attractive guy, sure, but I have absolutely no desire and he’s pointing at the crib, isn’t he? Phew, that had the potential to be quite awkward. He’s a menacing dude, if he wanted it, I have a feeling he’d be getting it despite my stance on the matter.
“Oh shit, are you guys having a baby?”
“I don’t,” I trail off in an incoherent mumble. “I just got home and…”
“I would say congratulations but I’m getting the impression I should give you my deepest sympathies and bounce so you can consider offing yourself. Can you just tell Miranda we gotta talk about Xavery’s grades? And, you know, good luck, with all that. I hope it works out.”
And with that I’m left alone in the disaster that is my living room. I don’t even know why Owen was climbing the bookcase. He used to do it to get to my figures on the top shelf but it’s only books up there now. What he didn’t break already I sold off. All of it. I don’t have anything. Just a life I don’t want. How did it get to this? I didn’t notice when it was happening but I have nothing to show for anything. A rented house I hate. A car I hate. A job I never wanted but was good at like that’s enough of a reason. Two kids that aren’t mine and want nothing to do with me. A wife that I find a way to annoy more than anything else. My comics are gone. Action figures, gone. I don’t even have any friends. Who the hell have I become?
I’m gonna be sick. We can’t bring a kid into this world. I don’t even have a world to bring a kid into. She knows that. She’s on the pill. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe she’s not pregnant. She just thinks she is. She probably missed her period and jumped to conclusions. That’s got to be it. We’ll just bring back the crib, no abortion needed. There’s no way in hell she’s going to agree to that anyway. If I knock her out and bring her in unconscious, what are the odds they’ll perform the procedure? Probably not very likely. I could slip the doctor a fifty, if I had a fifty. Think a five will work?
Wait, I can’t do the baby’s room. We don’t even have a room. What are we gonna do, stick floaties on the bottom of the crib and let it float around the basement? Maybe it could share a room with Owen. Yeah, that’d be great, he’d smother it with a pillow the second it started crying. And I’m referring to my baby as an ‘it’, perfect sign I’m not fit to, hmm, that’s not a bad idea, actually. Owen wouldn’t last a day with a baby in the house. If I orchestrate it just right, no, what am I saying? What kind of person am I? It is a foolproof plan though.
“The bookcase is still on the floor.” Miranda’s voice snaps me out of my diabolical fantasy. How long have I been standing here? “It would have been nice of you to pick it up while I was gone.”
“You’re sure you’re pregnant?”
“Three tests say I am so, yep, pretty sure.”
“But, you’re on the pill. How?”
“I don’t know, Jared. Look, I’m under a lot of pressure, I guess I forget sometimes. It’s not like you don’t forget stuff.” Why does she always have to turn it around on me? “You don’t know what it’s like. You go to work all day while I’m stuck here.”
“And then I come home and deal with everything you didn’t take care of.”
“Excuse you? Oh no, I don’t fucking think so, you are not pinning this on me.” And now she’s raising her voice. I knew better. “You don’t appreciate a thing I do around here.”
“We can’t have this baby, Miranda, we can’t.”
“Are you seriously suggesting what I think you are?”
“We’ll return the crib, use the money for-”
“And now you’re telling me what to do with my body. That’s great. Besides, I’m too far along. We can make this work.”
“I don’t think I can.”
I know I can’t. I work fifty hours a week. I come home and do the housework because she somehow doesn’t have time. I do the shopping because large crowds stress her out. Small crowds make her angry. I handle the bills because our financial situation makes her depressed. On top of that I’m raising one kid who doesn’t speak to me and another who doesn’t speak, period. His special needs eclipse all of mine. Their well-being has stripped me of any happiness I have left because I’m the man of the family and that’s what men do. That’s what parents, what spouses do. We sacrifice. At what cost? I don’t live, I exist, and barely at that. Everything that makes me who I am has been slowly stripped away.
The shell of my former self stands here, letting her words eat away at me. The less I react, the louder she gets. I assume her insults are getting more hurtful but by this point I don’t even hear them. I may as well be dead. It’s hitting me so hard I can barely breathe. Why am I alive? What is the purpose?
I don’t have time for me. I haven’t in years. I’m too exhausted. On my feet all day, selling cheap ass furniture at jacked up rates so the big wigs running the place can get ridiculous bonuses while my commission gets more pathetic by the year. And because the new kids coming in are too damn lazy, I get stuck busting my ass moving furniture that they’re too weak to lift on their own. Truth be told, it’s killing my body. I’m 34 years old and feel like I’m 50. For what? In order to come home to this? Mow the lawn, shovel the driveway, do the dishes, vacuum the house, clean up whatever mess Owen has made. All for a wife who seems to hate everything I say and do. We’re barely in a relationship. I may as well be her servant. And all anyone can ever say is ‘that’s marriage for ya’. Nobody cares because this is normal. We say I love you but what the fuck does that mean? We may as well be strangers who occupy the same space. If that. I come home, she leaves. Supposedly to get away from the kids but in turn she gets away from me as well.
I used to try to be a normal family, make it like when I was a kid. Vacations and family outings, meals together, game nights, all that corny shit you take for granted when you’re young. Nobody wanted any part of it. Yelling ensued. It never ended well. Eventually I gave up. We’re barely a family. But because society has changed their view on what’s normal for families and marriage, we’re exactly like everyone else. Am I the only one who sees a problem with this? I can’t for the life of me remember a time when Mom and Dad didn’t sleep in the same room. And if they had marital issues then we sure as hell didn’t know about it. I go for weeks sleeping on the couch just to avoid fighting. It’s so commonplace no one even mentions it. No one sees a problem with it because half the guys I work with slept on their couch too. It’s almost-
Wait.
“When did you get pregnant?”
“What? What do you mean when? The last time we had sex. Do you need me to draw you a picture or perhaps explain how it works? You see, there’s these things called sperm-”
“Stop it, Miranda. Stop being mean. You don’t need to do that. I’m just asking. Maybe you aren’t actually pregnant.”
“Stop being mean? Are you fucking five?”
“You were sick all through Christmas. I got it in January. We joked about it on Valentines Day when we were in the hospital with Owen. It was only like three weeks ago that we slept together. Three weeks, you can’t be pregnant. You wouldn’t even know yet.”
“What are you insinuating?” The pissed off screaming match has given way to her subdued hissing tone which is somehow more intimidating. “You think I cheated on you?”
“No,” I whisper, finally realizing what’s actually going on here. “I thought you read the test wrong. Miranda, is this baby mine?”
She looks away, shaking her head but not as an answer, it’s more of an involuntary reaction. The way her eyes well up make an answer unnecessary. She missed it. Of all the details, she missed the most important one. My wife is pregnant. We, are not.
The car door creaks when I open it like this is a goddamn haunted house. And the noise it makes when I close it is just sickly. I’m waiting for the day it falls off. It’s not even ten years old. I say it’s the last time I’ll ever buy a used vehicle but unless I get into the grand theft auto profession, fresh off the lot isn’t happening. What did the previous owner even do to this rusty piece of scrap metal? And if you tell me anything other than drive it across the bottom of a pond I’m calling bullshit.
How am I going to make payments on this thing? Most people lose their house, sleep in the car. What do you do when you lose that? What’s left on it, it’s gotta be like a year, right? At $300 a month, shit, we’re talking over three thousand fucking dollars. I don’t even have anything left to sell off. Those comic books were the last of it.
What the fuck do I do now? Mattress World will hire me but there’s no way I’m making what I am now. Those stingy bastards will probably try to pay me in couch cushion change. Make me dig for it myself too. And maybe if they’re feeling really generous they’ll let me keep the lint balls so I can fashion myself some new clothes. I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Miranda. Maybe by some miracle she didn’t send out the check yet. That comic book money can carry us a little ways. At least until I find another job. What kind of fucked up company can manage to go under when you’re number one in sales? That takes a special kind of talent.
“Oh good, you’re back. I gotta get out of the house before I scream. Owen knocked over the bookcase again. I just, I can’t. Do you need anything out?”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, Jared. So is your wife, thanks for asking.”
She used to be excited when I got home. When she asked how my day went, she really meant it. It wasn’t small talk. At the time it seemed so trivial but I’d give anything to have those days back. What the hell happened to us?
“Miranda, we need to talk.”
“When I get back. Target closes soon, I won’t be long. Go,” she says, pointing at the front door. “There’s a surprise in there for you. See you in a little.”
I could really use a surprise right now. It’s been awhile since she’s done anything nice for me. Somehow whenever I question why we’re still together, she does something like this to remind me. No matter how short lived, it’s these moments that give me hope. One day we’ll get back on track. This will all work out, it has to.
Okay that is one giant cardboard box in the middle of the living room. It’s got to be a TV, or maybe a new desk. Owen broke my old one but we didn’t bother to replace it, it was basically just a catchall for the crap we didn’t know where to put. Maybe while I’m unemployed I can get back into making action figures. And models. Oh and possibly even writing too. I don’t know where to start though. Manny always handled the artwork, it’s kind of hard to do a graphic novel without the graphics.
It’s a crib.
“No, no,” Miranda yells, running up the sidewalk, “don’t go in yet, I forgot my wallet.”
But it’s too late, she sees me standing here in the open doorway, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. There is a crib sitting on the floor. It certainly isn’t for me.
“Surprise.”
“You bought a crib?”
“You’re kind of killing the surprise here. We’re pregnant, Jared. I’m having a baby.”
“You’re what? Miranda, we can’t handle another kid. We talked about this.”
“Wrong reaction,” she sighs, as if getting pregnant right now is a good thing. “You can at least pretend to be happy. Would it kill you to maybe smile or say congratulations. I don’t know, maybe something like I can’t wait to have a child with you.”
“I’m losing my job.”
“What? No, they need you,” she says with a shake of her head, “there’s no way they can get rid of you. You’re the best they have.”
“The whole company, they’re closing. We went out of business.”
“You’ll get another job, it’s not a big deal. They didn’t appreciate you anyway. You must get a severance package. You’ll have a couple weeks off, we can do the baby’s room, put the crib together. How much are you getting?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you not know? You didn’t ask? Jesus Christ, Jared, that’d be the first thing I did. Why didn’t you ask?”
“I just found out I’m losing my job, I don’t know, I didn’t think about-”
“Yeah, you didn’t think. Find out. I’ll be back soon. Oh great, now they’re gonna be closed, I’ll have to go to Walmart.”
“You left the bookcase?” I ask, looking at its contents scattered across the living room floor.
“I’m not cleaning up after him again.”
Again? She didn’t clean it up last time.
“I didn’t sign up for this shit.”
He’s her kid.
“Wait, how did we afford a crib?”
“The money from eBay. We’ll pay off the credit card later, do a balance transfer or something. We have a baby to think about. Start coming up with names. Be back in a little.”
I aim for the couch but hit the floor instead. This can’t be happening. I can’t breathe. The last of my collection just paid for a crib for a baby we can’t raise. I sold off my prized possessions to pay off a credit card we used to buy a bunch of shit I didn’t want in the first place. I don’t give a damn if the bathroom towels match the rugs. I didn’t need a stupid home gym that no one will ever use because for one week out of the year she thinks she’s going to be a fucking ninja warrior. I sold off the last of my action figures to avoid paying interest on a credit card I’ve never physically touched. They were barely worth anything. But to me, they meant the world.
We’re having a baby. I can bring the crib back, use the money for an abortion. That’s it, that’s all we have to do. Unless, how far along is she? I can’t have a kid, two is too much. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. She seemed so mature back then, I never imagined I’d be taking care of the kids by myself. If I knew Owen was going to be autistic I would have never gotten involved with Miranda but what kind of person would that make me? I should have run and never looked back. I don’t care what that makes you think about me.
I step over the mess I’ll end up cleaning myself because what else is new? He destroys something, Miranda leaves it, I pick it up. He seems fine, sitting on his bed, swiping away at the phone. What else would he be doing? I wonder if he even knows what he’s looking at. How does the kid have a better phone than me?
“You doing alright, buddy?” I ask, patting him on the shoulder. He shrugs it off, avoiding my touch, his only acknowledgement of my existence. Why do I bother? I swear to god he stares through me like I’m not even here. I doubt he has any clue who I am. I peek over to see the screen, trying to make sense of it all but there’s no order to the chaos, he just keeps swiping. Miranda swears he’s learning things and it’ll all come spilling out one day but I have a feeling he just likes to watch the colors flashing by. And he’s pooping himself right now. Either that or I farted and forgot. He knows he’s doing it. I can tell by that smirk on his face. Little fucker thinks it’s funny. He can sit in it for all I care.
A door slams down the hallway. She can’t be back already.
“Hey, sorry, it was open.” Malcolm quietly closes the front door behind him as he steps inside. “Teenagers,” he says, nodding towards the hallway, “I wonder if we was ever like that. I know if I slammed a door, moms would have taken that shit off the hinges. You want me to tell him to apologize? I didn’t know if Owen was sleeping.”
“Thanks, no, he’s awake.”
“In that case, Xavery, get your butt out here. And take off your damn headphones.”
It’s been ten years and I still can’t think of Xavery as my stepson. Him wanting nothing to do with me doesn’t help matters any. I wonder if it’s because I’m white. But technically he’s only half black so shouldn’t he half like me? He pops nothing but his head out of his room, he could be naked and we wouldn’t know.
“Don’t be slamming doors like that. Say sorry.”
“Sorry.” He closes the door gently and gets back to whatever it is he does in there, I’m guessing in the nude. And I’ve seen that thing before, it’s probably dragging along the floor getting rug burn. I wonder if he gets those genes from his father. Miranda’s never mentioned it but I bet Malcolm’s got a trouser tractor in there. Shit, I think he caught me checking out his junk. At least he looks surprised by it. I think it’d be more insulting if he were like oh it’s just typical Jared, checking out wieners.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asks cautiously.
Oh no, does he think I’m hitting on him or something. I never got that vibe from Malcolm but he seems intrigued. Attractive guy, sure, but I have absolutely no desire and he’s pointing at the crib, isn’t he? Phew, that had the potential to be quite awkward. He’s a menacing dude, if he wanted it, I have a feeling he’d be getting it despite my stance on the matter.
“Oh shit, are you guys having a baby?”
“I don’t,” I trail off in an incoherent mumble. “I just got home and…”
“I would say congratulations but I’m getting the impression I should give you my deepest sympathies and bounce so you can consider offing yourself. Can you just tell Miranda we gotta talk about Xavery’s grades? And, you know, good luck, with all that. I hope it works out.”
And with that I’m left alone in the disaster that is my living room. I don’t even know why Owen was climbing the bookcase. He used to do it to get to my figures on the top shelf but it’s only books up there now. What he didn’t break already I sold off. All of it. I don’t have anything. Just a life I don’t want. How did it get to this? I didn’t notice when it was happening but I have nothing to show for anything. A rented house I hate. A car I hate. A job I never wanted but was good at like that’s enough of a reason. Two kids that aren’t mine and want nothing to do with me. A wife that I find a way to annoy more than anything else. My comics are gone. Action figures, gone. I don’t even have any friends. Who the hell have I become?
I’m gonna be sick. We can’t bring a kid into this world. I don’t even have a world to bring a kid into. She knows that. She’s on the pill. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe she’s not pregnant. She just thinks she is. She probably missed her period and jumped to conclusions. That’s got to be it. We’ll just bring back the crib, no abortion needed. There’s no way in hell she’s going to agree to that anyway. If I knock her out and bring her in unconscious, what are the odds they’ll perform the procedure? Probably not very likely. I could slip the doctor a fifty, if I had a fifty. Think a five will work?
Wait, I can’t do the baby’s room. We don’t even have a room. What are we gonna do, stick floaties on the bottom of the crib and let it float around the basement? Maybe it could share a room with Owen. Yeah, that’d be great, he’d smother it with a pillow the second it started crying. And I’m referring to my baby as an ‘it’, perfect sign I’m not fit to, hmm, that’s not a bad idea, actually. Owen wouldn’t last a day with a baby in the house. If I orchestrate it just right, no, what am I saying? What kind of person am I? It is a foolproof plan though.
“The bookcase is still on the floor.” Miranda’s voice snaps me out of my diabolical fantasy. How long have I been standing here? “It would have been nice of you to pick it up while I was gone.”
“You’re sure you’re pregnant?”
“Three tests say I am so, yep, pretty sure.”
“But, you’re on the pill. How?”
“I don’t know, Jared. Look, I’m under a lot of pressure, I guess I forget sometimes. It’s not like you don’t forget stuff.” Why does she always have to turn it around on me? “You don’t know what it’s like. You go to work all day while I’m stuck here.”
“And then I come home and deal with everything you didn’t take care of.”
“Excuse you? Oh no, I don’t fucking think so, you are not pinning this on me.” And now she’s raising her voice. I knew better. “You don’t appreciate a thing I do around here.”
“We can’t have this baby, Miranda, we can’t.”
“Are you seriously suggesting what I think you are?”
“We’ll return the crib, use the money for-”
“And now you’re telling me what to do with my body. That’s great. Besides, I’m too far along. We can make this work.”
“I don’t think I can.”
I know I can’t. I work fifty hours a week. I come home and do the housework because she somehow doesn’t have time. I do the shopping because large crowds stress her out. Small crowds make her angry. I handle the bills because our financial situation makes her depressed. On top of that I’m raising one kid who doesn’t speak to me and another who doesn’t speak, period. His special needs eclipse all of mine. Their well-being has stripped me of any happiness I have left because I’m the man of the family and that’s what men do. That’s what parents, what spouses do. We sacrifice. At what cost? I don’t live, I exist, and barely at that. Everything that makes me who I am has been slowly stripped away.
The shell of my former self stands here, letting her words eat away at me. The less I react, the louder she gets. I assume her insults are getting more hurtful but by this point I don’t even hear them. I may as well be dead. It’s hitting me so hard I can barely breathe. Why am I alive? What is the purpose?
I don’t have time for me. I haven’t in years. I’m too exhausted. On my feet all day, selling cheap ass furniture at jacked up rates so the big wigs running the place can get ridiculous bonuses while my commission gets more pathetic by the year. And because the new kids coming in are too damn lazy, I get stuck busting my ass moving furniture that they’re too weak to lift on their own. Truth be told, it’s killing my body. I’m 34 years old and feel like I’m 50. For what? In order to come home to this? Mow the lawn, shovel the driveway, do the dishes, vacuum the house, clean up whatever mess Owen has made. All for a wife who seems to hate everything I say and do. We’re barely in a relationship. I may as well be her servant. And all anyone can ever say is ‘that’s marriage for ya’. Nobody cares because this is normal. We say I love you but what the fuck does that mean? We may as well be strangers who occupy the same space. If that. I come home, she leaves. Supposedly to get away from the kids but in turn she gets away from me as well.
I used to try to be a normal family, make it like when I was a kid. Vacations and family outings, meals together, game nights, all that corny shit you take for granted when you’re young. Nobody wanted any part of it. Yelling ensued. It never ended well. Eventually I gave up. We’re barely a family. But because society has changed their view on what’s normal for families and marriage, we’re exactly like everyone else. Am I the only one who sees a problem with this? I can’t for the life of me remember a time when Mom and Dad didn’t sleep in the same room. And if they had marital issues then we sure as hell didn’t know about it. I go for weeks sleeping on the couch just to avoid fighting. It’s so commonplace no one even mentions it. No one sees a problem with it because half the guys I work with slept on their couch too. It’s almost-
Wait.
“When did you get pregnant?”
“What? What do you mean when? The last time we had sex. Do you need me to draw you a picture or perhaps explain how it works? You see, there’s these things called sperm-”
“Stop it, Miranda. Stop being mean. You don’t need to do that. I’m just asking. Maybe you aren’t actually pregnant.”
“Stop being mean? Are you fucking five?”
“You were sick all through Christmas. I got it in January. We joked about it on Valentines Day when we were in the hospital with Owen. It was only like three weeks ago that we slept together. Three weeks, you can’t be pregnant. You wouldn’t even know yet.”
“What are you insinuating?” The pissed off screaming match has given way to her subdued hissing tone which is somehow more intimidating. “You think I cheated on you?”
“No,” I whisper, finally realizing what’s actually going on here. “I thought you read the test wrong. Miranda, is this baby mine?”
She looks away, shaking her head but not as an answer, it’s more of an involuntary reaction. The way her eyes well up make an answer unnecessary. She missed it. Of all the details, she missed the most important one. My wife is pregnant. We, are not.