The Lies We Tell - 3. Chapter 3

EMMA

The silky black dress is a perfect fit on the tall dark brunette. I help her zip it up, then stand back admiring. I put myself in the shoes of the man who's going to see her tonight. It's their one-year anniversary dinner. If his jaw doesn't drop when she walks in through that door, he must be made out of steel.

“It’s not too much is it?” she asks, self-consciously pulling at the material around her stomach area. It’s always the naturally stunning ones that somehow miss their own beauty.

“It’s perfect,” I reply truthfully. And I mean it. It hugs her like a dream, accentuating every curve. Clinging to her bosom in the most sophisticated way imaginable. I remember looking like that once upon a time. Well, maybe not THAT great—but close. That was in the days before I got pregnant. Remember? When you and I would spend hours in bed, exploring each other’s bodies. Back when you’d whisper dirty little things into my ear. Back when you couldn’t get enough of me. As if you almost wanted to swallow me whole. And then you did, and there was nothing more left of me. Nothing but the outline.

“Get an abortion,” you said in a flat tone when I told you I was pregnant. Like this didn’t concern you in the least bit. Like the life in my womb wasn’t part of you, and you didn’t help to create it. Men, they all have plenty of it: the audacity.

Abortion, what an ugly word. Cold and clinical. Devoid of any warmth. As if ending a life was like aborting a mission in a video game. I can feel the sting of that word from your mouth to this day. It blisters painfully on my skin. A wound that will never heal.

I agreed to it first, to appease you. After going back and forth you just got so angry and worked up, I didn’t want to keep fighting. And I could never really say no to you. “Haven’t you been taking your birth control?” you shouted. Yes, but I wasn’t as strict with it as I should have been. I was so preoccupied trying to make you happy all the time that I would forget. And then I started feeling fatigued and tired throughout the day. And then my breasts got tender. And when I took the test, I was really happy at first. Our little bundle of joy. But when I shared the news with you, I was met with a stony face.

“We don’t have time for a baby,” and, “I’m not ready to be a father.”

I wasn’t particularly ready either, but it was our baby. But at your insistence, I went to the clinic. I told you I got it done, just so you’d calm down. I figured once you saw the belly grow, you’d just have to accept it. That maybe you would be happy with me. But you didn’t even give me that chance. You were gone the next day, and so was the money in my accounts, which I hadn’t bothered to check for a while. Apparently I had been transferring large sums over to you, for investment purposes. My entire inheritance, gone with the blink of an eye.

I was pregnant, broke, and alone. I got a sad little job in a clothing store, helping the type of women I used to be. Confident and able to afford a $1,000 dress without thinking about it twice. But who was Emma Jacobs now? A ghost. An empty shell.

On my lunch break I pick up the phone and dial the now familiar number once again. I need to hear his voice. It makes me feel like I’m still a part of your life somehow. I hang up after a while. I’ll call again later tonight.

After work I make the usual 15-minute walk home. It takes closer to 30 minutes now, with my swollen feet and huge belly slowing me down. I need to take at least one rest break in the middle. It’s not easy with the hormones either. They’re making me so emotional. When I finally get home my body folds onto the bathroom floor. Exhausted, angry, and pathetically sad I can no longer stop the sobs from pouring out. I am a woman unraveling at a rapid speed. I am a train barreling forward—destination unknown. I don’t know how I’m meant to survive, and I don’t know how I can look after a baby. I lay there, half holding myself up on the toilet. The sobs turn into a slow stream of indulgent quiet tears. I’m done, but yet I keep going, feeling sorry for myself.

Suddenly, there is music. My elderly and hard of hearing next-door neighbor turns on his radio at full blast. I recognize the song right away. I used to listen to it while driving with my father—both of us singing along. I slowly crack a smile through my tears and start singing along.

“All your reindeer armies, are all going home

The lover who just walked out your door

Has taken all his blankets from the floor

The carpet, too, is moving under you

And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.”

Just like that, I feel a shift inside of me. I’m not somebody’s discarded rag. I’m not a helpless woman without a plan. No, I am a mother.

“Dylan. Your name is Dylan,” I say out loud and rub the bump. I am your mother, Dylan.