Plan B
We
make love to vinyl. Harvest, Physical Graffiti, Abbey Road. I score the soundtrack
to our sex life at 33 1/3 RPM.
The very nature of our
relationship is a cacophony of sound. We met at an AC/DC concert: I was
supposed to be sitting next to his roommate, TJ, but TJ got stuck in
traffic and gave Joe his ticket. Our first date involved an intense
discussion of his recent trip to follow Pearl Jam on their European tour.
He has a hard-on for Eddie Vedder. Our second date was a Sam Roberts
concert, where we both got off on loud guitar solos and bluesy jam
sessions.
I lost my virginity to him as we
listened to Built To Spill’s There
Is No Enemy on a Sunday afternoon. I was always told that first time
should be with someone you love. I loved his modest record collection and
that was enough.
*
* *
Plan
B: A Playlist
The Shirelles — Will You Still
Love Me Tomorrow
Nina Simone — Wild is the Wind
Ida Maria — Oh My
God
Neko Case — I Wish I Was the
Moon
Sam Phillips — If I Could
Write
The Detroit Cobras — He Did
It
Cat Power — Lived in
Bars
Dinah Washington — Smoke Gets In
Your Eyes
Brandi Carlile —
Dreams
Josephine Foster — All I Wanted
Was the Moon
* * *
Lying
in bed, naked beneath the sheets, he carefully dials the number of our
friendly neighborhood Planned Parenthood. It's 6:38 in the morning.
They're obviously not open. I curl my body to his side, cleaving my curves
to him. We listen to the perky prerecorded female voice, a captive
audience gathered ‘round the wireless. They open at 8:30 on Thursday
mornings.
"We can't have any little Katies
running around," he jokes, placing a hand on my abdomen, relishing its
tautness. A baby would change all that, distorting my figure, the pride
and joy of my newly-acquired running habits, into a foreign body
unrecognizable to the touch. The thought is
grotesque.
"Or little Joes," I add. It
could be a boy, this hypothetically-fertilized egg-sperm combo. He doesn't
seem to think it could be a boy. If it's not a boy, it's not his
problem.
I want him to say he'll come
with me. I want him to hold my hand and tell me it'll be okay. I want to
cry into the scratchy gray wool of his "old man"
sweater.
It’s not a matter of taking the
pill. I have no scruples with it. I just don’t want to do this alone. I
don’t want this to feel as if this potential problem rests solely on my
shoulders—or in my womb.
* * *
Plan B® One-Step Emergency
Contraceptive
Because the unexpected
happens
“...When taken as
directed—within 72 hours (3 days) after contraceptive failure or
unprotected intercourse—approximately seven out of eight women who would
have gotten pregnant will not become pregnant after taking Plan B®
One-Step. But the sooner you take it, the more effective it will
be.”
—From the interior panel of the
Plan B® One-Step packaging
*
* *
He
goes to the bathroom and I set about making the bed wrapped in a blanket
printed with mallard ducks. I try to keep to the routine we've established
over these sparse encounters: He showers. I make the bed. I shower. I
return to his room to find him checking his Facebook page.
I tuck in the sheets with
military precision, crafting perfect hospital corners in a desperate bid
to rationalize how I went from being the Last American Virgin to one of
the many tarnished lambs who flock to the shelter of Planned
Parenthood.
I call my mother. Tell her I'm
taking the day off from work. Mumble something about having
overslept.
“That boyfriend of yours is a
distraction.”
A distraction? Yes. My
boyfriend? I haven't the heart to tell her he's nothing of the sort. I'm
daring her maternal instincts to detect that something's wrong. She hangs
up the phone, my fears undetected.
Joe comes back into the room and
I can only imagine what he must think, this strange woman-child clutching
her knees to her chest and watching the morning traffic outside his
downtown apartment window. Watching the steady routine of the commute,
memorizing the patterns of the stoplight outside his apartment, is
Novocain to my brain.
"Are you okay?" he inquires. The
words emerge from his mouth stunted and clumsy. His face is contorted in
confusion—furrowed brow, those pouty lips slightly parted. Lips that I
traced with my fingertips in the damp quiet of post-coital exhaustion. He
really is a young Adonis, a beautiful example of the male form, but he has
the emotional capacity of a teaspoon. It's obvious he doesn't know what to
do, but neither do I.
NO. I AM NOT OKAY.
I might be pregnant or
God-knows-what because of our collective stupidity. I cannot be pregnant.
I cannot have a baby. I cannot be a mother. I cannot do this by myself. I
want to throw my body against the wall, heaving myself against the drywall
until my body screams in black and blue.
“I’m okay. Just my nerves, you
know.” I say it with a smile, a crack in the ashen plaster of my face. He
nods his head as he walks to the opposite side of the bed to fuss with his
MacBook. I imagine him trying to fit our conundrum into a Google
search.
* * *
We
emerge from his apartment onto the cracked concrete blazing in the sun.
It's unseasonably warm for October.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he
asks again, and he plea seems genuine this time.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine," I
assure him, running a hand through my hair still damp from the shower. It
is a rough, tangled mass. He never has conditioner. I don’t know whether
it’s okay to bring my own hair products. A shadow of doubt passes over his
face, but only for a moment.
"Text me, all right?" Text him.
Text him to let him know he won't be a dad.
I agree I will. I want to hug
him, to clutch him close to me as I do sometimes when we lie in bed at
night, resting his head in the curve of my neck and running my fingers
through the soft tufts of his hair. Hoping that he will retain his boyish
charm. I want to protect him from the world because his strange naiveté is
a treasure in the golden age of irony. I yearn for that
innocence.
* * *
A Transcript of Text
Messages
7:35
AM
315-XXX-5632: Dont worry katie
it will be fine just dont think about it u will walk in they will give u a
pill and u will leave and then its a sunny beautiful day
off.
8:38
AM
845-XXX-5283: Took care of
things. Surprised @ how easy it was. So sorry I spazzed this morning.
Thanks for being so kind about it.
8:40
AM
315-XXX-5632: no problemo glad
that its over with what did they say?
8:57
AM
845-XXX-5283: Nothing really.
Walked in asked for B showed id & it was mine for the taking. I
expected a lecture lol.
9:01
AM
315-XXX-5632:
cooooooool.
* * *
I am
surrounded by a children’s storytime group that invades the coffee shop on
Tuesday mornings. I watch the children climb the contours of the beige
pleather sofa. A legion of strollers is lined up in front of my mossy
green couch. I am the interloper.
One of
the little ones stares at me. A girl. She has beautiful summer-gold curls
that seem to fly in every direction. Loose and natural in that perpetual
childhood state of unkempt. I look up from my laptop, give her a wave and
a timid grin. She smiles and turns away, suddenly shy. I wonder if she
senses my shame.
