IF YOU WANT ME TO CALL YOU ‘DADDY’, YOU JUST HAVE TO ASK
DELILAH
The weekend passes by quickly, and though I feel like the ground has fallen out from beneath me and I’ve begun climbing my way out of the sinkhole, I’m not sure the Earl has even noticed that I’m gone. He didn’t send so much as a text once I walked out of our house while he and Mindy were still putting their clothes back on. He wasn’t there on Saturday when Ivy and I showed up to grab some more of my things while my Dad took Sadie to dance class—one benefit to being married to a mechanic is their six-day work weeks, especially if you hate spending time with them.
Now it’s Monday, and while I’m perfectly content with not hearing whether the Earl is going to defendhis actions or blame them on me some more, I am pissed that he didn’t try once in three days to talk to his daughter. I can barely make it through the school day without wanting to hear Sadie’s voice, and this man couldn’t even bother to ask about her before I left.
Even more, I’m heartbroken that in those same three days, Sadie didn’t ask about her dad once. Just as I thought, it didn’t even occur to her that not seeing him for an entire weekend was anything out of the ordinary. The only mention of her father came when I told her we’d be moving into Grandma Millie’s house with Ivy for a while. Sadie asked if her dad was moving with us, and when I told her no, Mama and Dad are taking some time apart, she seemed almost relieved. Relieved is better than devastated, but not by much.
If the Earl isn’t going to make an effort with his child, I need to do something. I might be perfectly content with never seeing the man again, but whatever this situation is, it’s not fair to Sadie.
“Do you think the vagina has to be below a certain temperature before a doctor can properly examine it? It’s fucking freezing in here,” Ivy says, rubbing her arms. She looks sort of like a penguin in her black jeans with the holes torn in the knees to show off sheer black stockings underneath and theratty, hole-filled, washed-out black hoodie with the giant white logo of some metal band I don’t recognize on the front.
Her short hair is gathered in a tiny bun on top of her head, showing off the close-shaved patch by her ear. The black outline of a serpent tattooed on her scalp sits behind the row of jewels in her pierced ears, making her already gorgeous dark hair, which she dyes a midnight black, look like an adornment on a work of art. She is so effortlessly cool, it almost pisses me off.
“At least you get to wear clothes,” I shrug, pulling at the front of the itchy patient’s robe. Sitting here in the gynecologist’s office with the sad little gown on my chest and the crinkly paper shifting under my ass every time I breathe, I’m reminded of how little self-care I’ve been doing in the last few years. I know I had a Pap smear during my physical a few years ago, right around my thirtieth birthday. Besides that, I can’t remember the last time I had a checkup. Sadie’s checkups, vaccinations, teeth cleanings, they’re all scheduled and happen on time like clockwork.
Me? I run on energy drinks, multivitamins, and a prayer. It’s been working for me so far, even if the dark circles under my eyes scream otherwise.
There’s a knock at the door, and Dr. Feld comes in, rubbing sanitizer on her hands as she sits on therolling stool in front of me. My OB/GYN is a tiny thing, under five feet and probably ninety pounds soaking wet with rocks in her pockets, but she’s a beast. When Sadie tried to come out the wrong way during birth and a male colleague started talking about a C-section without even asking me what I thought, Dr. Feld crawled up next to me on my hospital bed and repositioned my kid with no help like some kind of She-Hulk, then delivered her vaginally without breaking a sweat.
I think she might be my hero.
“Delilah, it’s good to see you. How is Sadie doing?” Dr. Feld asks, and I beam. I’m sure she just read some kind of reminder on my chart, but I like to think that Sadie was such a memorable baby that the doctor who delivered her remembers her eight years later.
“She’s amazing. She’s kicking ass at school and turning my hair gray every chance she gets.”
“Luckily, motherhood and any gray sparkles it may cause look fabulous on you.” Turning to Ivy, she introduces herself. “I’m Dr. Feld. Are you Delilah’s partner?”
“Yes, this is Ivy,” I say, just as Ivy says, “No, we’re just friends.” A blush spreads over my cheeks when I realize the doctor meant partner as inpartner, not whatever I was thinking. Ivy smirks, winking at me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ivy. Delilah, I understand we have some sensitive information to discuss today,” Dr. Feld eyes the cotton ball taped to my arm from the blood drawn by a nurse earlier. “May I speak freely in front of your friend slash partner, or would you prefer privacy?”
Instinctively, I reach for Ivy’s hand. It’s freezing—her hands are always so damn cold, and the chill in the room doesn’t help—but her touch is a comfort just the same. “Ivy can stay.”
“Alright, then. Well, we’ve done the blood draw and sent it away for a full STD panel. We should have the results in a few days, but I’ll do a visual exam today as well to look for any physical markers that indicate you may need treatment. We also tested your urine on arrival, and it came back positive for pregnancy. Do you have any idea how far along you might be?”
I snort, loud and unladylike, rolling my eyes so hard that I could see out the window behind me if my skull weren’t blocking the view.
“I’m not pregnant, Dr. Feld. You have to have sex to get pregnant.”
“Okay, well, false positives with a urine sample are rare, but they can happen. We’ll confirm with your blood draw. With your history of irregular periods, it can’t hurt to double-check. But for now, canyou think back to the last time you had intercourse? I know sometimes life can get away from us and we forget the minor details.”
I purse my lips as I try to search my brain. I was ready to warn the doctor that there might be cobwebs she needs to clear out; it’s been so long since I’ve had sex. Turns out, when you resent your husband for not being the partner you imagined and never attempting to get you off when you spread your legs for him, sex falls low on your list of priorities. I can barely remember the last time I even masturbated. At this point, my clit is just for show.
“The last time the Earl and I had sex was…” I trail off, thinking. And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. My birthday, a few months ago. He was so sweet that day. He woke up early with Sadie, and they made pancakes with cinnamon and extra syrup, and then the three of us spent the day wandering around downtown Fox Hole before seeing a movie at the old drive-in at the edge of town.
It was a rare moment in time where the Earl felt like the man I’d once crushed on from afar, hoping like hell he’d look my way. A rare moment when the three of us felt like a family, instead of Sadie and I over here and the Earl over there.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have fallen for the love bombing. I should have realized the Earl wasprobably trying to cover up for the liaisons going on behind my back. I should have made sure he wore a condom instead of trusting him to be safe. And of course, he fucked me from behind, probably so he could picture Mindy or anyone else without having to see my face, so I didn’t even think to turn around and check. I shouldn’t have given him the satisfaction of faking my orgasm before finishing myself off in the shower after he fell asleep.
And in the weeks that have followed, I should have been more vigilant. My periods haven’t been regular since Sadie was born, but there were other signs. My bras are all feeling too tight, the random waves of nausea, the ever-present headache right behind my left eye that I haven’t felt since I was carrying Sadie.
“Oh god,” I mumble, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. Dr. Feld nods, a knowing empathy on her face. “Oh, god, Ivy. I think I’m pregnant.”
The words come tumbling out as bile rises in my throat. I barely have time to turn before my breakfast follows and I puke all over my friend’s hot pink high-top Converse sneakers.
Grandma Millie’shouse is exactly the same as I remember it from my childhood. The furniture is all upholstered in burgundy velvet and faded from the years. The ruffled curtains match the worn-down carpet with the cigarette burns by the couch where Millie used to smoke and watch her soaps in the afternoons. The walls of every room are wood-paneled, giving everything a brown hue, but both the bathroom and the kitchen are bathed in shades of sage, from the crocheted toilet paper covers to the wallpaper that extends up each wall and over the ceiling. If it weren’t for the few things we moved in this weekend, this place could pass for a time capsule of 1986.
