Morning Sickness

Morning Sickness

  Justin Tate

  Copyright © 2013 by Justin Tate

  Cover image “Nightmare of a Patient” © Peter Dedeurwaerder

  Published by The Portable Pumpkin

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First published, 2013.

  www.facebook.com/JustinTateAuthor

  MORNING SICKNESS

  If you have ever felt worthless, dejected or generally bummed about your existence, rest assured that one day things will change. In a single, exploding moment, you can transform from a speck in the human population to an influential player in the game known as Life. For Denise Perkins, this happened on the morning of November fifth, the day she discovered that she was pregnant with Andy Stutler's baby.

  The day had been young and gray. Too early for the birds, but never too soon for the city’s Waste Management. A garbage truck roared through the apartment parking lot like an earthquake on wheels, scooping up each dumpster with metallic thunder. The noise surely woke every tenant on that side of the building, but not Denise. She could sleep through anything, especially when having such a magnificent dream.

  An hour later she finally stirred, lifted herself up, blinked, and sprung out of bed with surprising pep. She was remembering the dream—more of a fantasy, really, it couldn’t possibly be true—and yet she raced, not walked, into the bathroom to grab an unused pregnancy test off the counter and take her morning pee on the strip. The dream had been so vivid, so real. This time she knew, really knew, that she was pregnant.

  The result was out of focus at first but quickly came into view, sharp and clear, like the last few seconds of a car wreck. There it was. Two beautiful pink lines. Positive.

  Denise bit a fist to contain herself, but tears of joy were already streaming down her face. She turned the strip round and round, assuring herself that it was real. The lines looked happy, she thought, and seemed to be celebrating with her.

  The dingy bathroom mirror was streaked with cracks and toothpaste spittle, but Denise jerked her head to gaze into it lovingly. It was imperative that she see herself at this moment, to lock the image into memory.

  She wore an over-sized Bass Pro Shop t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajamas with a ketchup stain near the crotch. The fluorescent light cast a sickly paleness over the room that made her freckles pop and skin appear yellow. Her hair was frayed and unbrushed, growing well past the shoulder in damaged strips of brown that looked, and felt, a bit like burnt wood. There was a general roundness about her features, from an oval height of five-four to the speck of nose set upon her pliable, doughy face. She was twenty-two, but could pass for thirty.

  The scene was not as romantic as she had anticipated. When Denise imagined this moment, she always saw a husband holding her hand, planting numerous kisses on her cheek and mouth, celebrating too loudly and not caring who heard. She even envisioned the embrace: a tight squeeze that ended halfway, his sparkling blue eyes becoming humorously alarmed with fear that the hug was too tight and might hurt the baby.

  The location was different, too. Instead of a cheap apartment with peeling linoleum floors and cracked mirrors, she had seen it all taking place at her mother’s home during Christmas. There would be snow gusts dancing merrily in the wind and a fireplace that was hot. The Sound of Music would play quietly on television while they chatted about nurseries and diapers and bedclothes. Denise's mother would ask Andy how business was going and he would say that it was swell and then they'd all have another round of eggnog. Everyone except Denise, of course, who would have to settle for whole milk.

  Oh well, Denise thought with growing optimism. Not every important event happened over Christmas. Besides, she could wait until Thanksgiving to tell her mother about Andy and the baby. It might even snow. It often snowed in November.

  Denise thought of snow longingly as happiness flittered around her like diamond dust. She was trance-stricken with delight, paralyzed with glee.

  At a sleepwalker’s pace, she returned to the bedroom.

  In the bedroom there was a music box sitting atop a chest of drawers. It was a grand antique, delicately carved from black and white marble with two dancing children on top. Denise’s grandmother had given it to her a week before she died. It was a sacred object, a good omen.

  Denise lifted the lid and was greeted by the familiar music. Even when fully wound, the song was slow-paced and melancholy. In rhythm, she traced the pregnancy test results with a stubby finger. Someday, she thought, she might even become a grandmother herself.

  The lullaby played over and over, hypnotizing her thoughts as the carefully planned motions became ritual instead of act. Only after the final notes crept to a resolute stop did she place the test strip inside the music box and close the marble lid. Jerri, her best friend, had given her that pregnancy test as a birthday gift. It was the expensive kind that guaranteed accuracy. Denise made a mental note to thank her for it.

  First, however, she needed to inform Andy of his ascent into Fatherhood. She had celebrated enough on her own. He would be furious that she had already waited this long to tell him!

  Denise dialed his number from memory.

  Andy Stutler was twenty-four. He had dropped out of high school at the age of sixteen by threatening to kill his parents if they didn’t sign the release. Six years later he decided to take the GED, passed somehow, and enlisted in the Army after being fired from another job. Denise met him at a friend's house party and, despite being quite drunk, knew that it was love at first sight.

  They had fucked and exchanged email addresses but didn't see each other again until a month later, via webcam. That was the beginning of their serious relationship, Denise often told her girlfriends.

  Thanks to video streaming, it was an online romance that had all the spark and passion of a physical one. They chatted from eight to ten every night, always planning to get together again and always ending with a striptease by Denise. At some point the Army consumed most of Andy's time and their evening chats became less and less frequent. Denise cried because of this, thinking how strong she would have to be to date a man in the military.

  It was by accident that they finally met again, this time at Jerri’s Halloween party. Denise was dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy as Darth Vader. It was this encounter which undoubtedly resulted in Denise’s pregnancy.

  She couldn't remember the sex, which was unfortunate—how nice it would be to see her beautiful daughter (Denise was certain that it was going to be a girl) and remember Andy's screaming orgasm which brought her into life—but nonetheless knew that it happened. The morning after the party she had found herself on a boozy sofa, stockings torn, and a feeling of something having been in her vagina. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now—after the dream and the test result—everything was exactly as she hoped.

  Denise never went to college, but she could put two and two together.

  Andy's voicemail answered her first call, as well as the second and third. Finally she left a message: “Good morning, sweetheart! I'm sure you're very busy, but when you get a chance please call me back. It’s really important! I love you. Kisses!”

  She considered calling a fourth time, knowing that he was probably still asleep and just needed to be roused awake, but saw that it was nearly ten o'clock. The phone call would just have to wait. Pregnant or no, Denise didn't dare show up late for work.

  On the outside, Debbie's Kitchen looked a lot like the stereotypical country diner you'd expect to find in rural Oklahoma. On the inside it looked that way too. Friendly waitresses wit
h exaggerated accents greeted each table with a “hey y'all!” and always suggested a cool glass of sweet tea. Deer heads (personally shot by Debbie's husband) overlooked every table. There was even a fold-out menu devoted entirely to the potato.

  Over the loudspeakers, Hank Williams was fading out and Reba McEntire was fading in, gearing up to tell Fancy how she better not let her down. Denise sang along as she adjusted her uniform in the public facilities. It wasn't the classiest job in the world, but she loved it. She had an uncanny ability to make the most irritable customers leave happy, and, in a way, doing so left her feeling gratified as well. It was a game of sorts and sometimes a challenging one at that. Debbie’s Kitchen served plenty of southern customers, but a waitress quickly found out that they rarely displayed that famous hospitality. At least not to the help.

  Just as the noon rush began forming lines around the hostess stand, Denise attempted this challenge with a party of four at table D6. It was presumably a married couple and their two junior high-aged boys. The husband looked about forty and had a leathery, construction-worker face. He wanted his steak well-done, while the wife, a blonde with tanning bed skin, wanted chicken stir fry. “But please hold the salt,” she said, winking. “I'm trying to cut back on sodium.”

  “I don't think that should be any problem at all, ma'am,” Denise smiled, faking complete confidence. The boys both wanted cheeseburgers, no onions on one, extra on the other.

  Still humming the music box lullaby, Denise entered their order and tended to the other customers. It was about this time that she began to feel knots in her stomach. Little pin pricks at first and then savage gurgles and thumps. The baby’s kicking, she thought, freezing in a mixture of excitement, terror, and sharp pain.

  She propped herself desperately against a counter, struggling to breathe. An endless minute passed. If the pain didn’t go away soon, they would have to call an ambulance. It would be expensive, but this was her baby. What if something was wrong?

  The restaurant noise amplified and she could feel the customers becoming restless. Somewhere a baby cried and a straw made a slurrrrssp sound in an empty glass. Eddie, one of the cooks, gave her a dirty look and called out, “Hey, we got orders over here!”

  Another stout pain hit Denise like a punch. She could feel her entrails knotting and tightening. She panted like a dog, trying desperately to breathe normally. But then, almost as abruptly as it began, the pain abated and eventually disappeared. Maybe 911 wasn't necessary after all.

  Denise picked up the burgers, steak and stir-fry, hoping her faux confidence would be enough for the lady to think that she had left off the salt because she forgot all about entering it that way, much less mentioning it to the cook.

  “Here's your steak, sir,” she said. “And your stir-fry, ma’am. I made sure not a trace of salt was used!”

  The husband grunted, the wife thanked her and apologized for the silly request.

  “Oh, it was no problem at all, but taste it first to make sure they made it right,” Denise said with a deceptive smile. The woman said it was perfect, complementing her on the fact that no other waitress had been able to meet her saltless needs. Denise was just about to shrug off the praise when she heard gagging and silverware slam against the table.

  “What is this shit?” The man held up a cube of slightly chewed beef skewered on his fork. “I ordered it well-done.”

  “Oh my goodness!” Denise exclaimed, using her practiced shock voice. “I'll send that back right away!” She grabbed the plate and made her way back to the kitchen, sighing. The steak looked thoroughly cooked to her, if not a little burnt. She popped the cube of meat off the man’s fork into her mouth. “Tastes fine to me,” she muttered.

  From the kitchen, Denise eyed the couple and their two disgusting boys. The man was still complaining about the food while the woman, she noticed, was pouring soy sauce on her stir fry. Stupid bitch.

  The more Denise watched the less she cared for them. Occasionally the woman would whisper something into the man’s ear while the two boys leered and winked at one another.

  Just my imagination, Denise thought.

  But the family was clearly now sniggering together in a huddle. She tried to read their lips but could only make out certain words like “girl,” “boyfriend,” “baby,” and then what she thought might have been “killer” – or was it “kill her”?

  Cautiously, Denise returned to D6 to refill their drinks. She scrutinized the man like a detective, trying to decide whether he was simply rude, someone who wanted free food, or something…else. The something else possibility worried her and thinking about it made the stomach cramps return and gave her a throbbing headache. Worst of all, she felt a strong sense of déjà vu. The feeling, she knew, was unwarranted. At least she hoped so.

  She told the man that his steak would be out in a jiff.

  “What are your thoughts on the death penalty?” he asked crudely.

  The strange question froze Denise with panic. The whole room began to spin and she had to clamp onto the water pitcher to keep it from dropping to the floor. She struggled to get away, but each step was like walking across a flimsy bridge. Cramps returned, leaping in and out of her stomach. She turned towards the man, to see if he was following her. He was not, but there was an evil, smug grin etched across his face.

  Denise longed to hide, to close her eyes and sit down, but knew that she couldn’t. She had to protect the baby.

  Other customers began to watch, confused—or perhaps amused—by the way Denise clutched her middle and writhed in pain. There was a hideous silence that should never exist in a restaurant. Denise wondered if the others were somehow involved. The stitches had seized her, however, and she could neither think nor move anymore. The man’s expression was neither puzzled nor alarmed, but satisfied.

  Get him away from me! she wanted to scream. But the words were choked in her aching abdomen. Denise was on the verge of passing out when the man’s plastic wife turned around in her seat. She stared directly into Denise’s eyes, opened her cold, dry lips and bellowed in a grotesque voice, “I SAID NO SALT!”

  At this, Denise did scream. Loud and piercing. And through her open mouth came a stream of digested breakfast and the piece of meat she had eaten from the man's fork.