i have not seen the sun in three days. it’s the middle of a sweaty shitshow in july and we’re not going to texas or san francisco where family is, so he settles for san diego, and i say it’s okay because i know he’s trying. he’s depressed but somehow mustered up the strength to clean our room—not that i claim it as mine, because this house is labeled “pa’s place,” not “home.” he’s a strategic snake, placing his vacation to align up with both his weekends. two weeks, three weeks, in a house that is not mine, fermented with the odor of old filipinos and hardened dog shit they’re too frail to clean up. but i’m a big girl, so i step outside to the backyard where he can’t yell at me for attempted escape. by god’s grace i find shade on a chair, and i try to write but the sun is creeping up on my neck as a punishment for vitamin deficiency. the burning on my nape is no condition for a writer, really, so i go inside for a nap and woke up an hour later with my dad yelling at me because i was sleeping on the couch and not our room. its like the whites of his eyes are flaunting their existence with each accusatory glare and i cannot argue with an immigrant, so i pretend to be ashamed, hands clasped together and apologize for nothing.
my mother later texts me that she’ll pick me up for a lab pregnancy test, thank god, and i wait patiently in the suffocating heat of his quarters till she pulls up in her white porsche 911. my father is irritated that i am leaving for a few hours, but i don’t know why, as he pays no mind to me.
its like something out of a movie, except instead of saying “get in loser,” she laughs and tells me to drink water so i can have enough pee for the cup. i tell her of my misery, of my imprisonment, of how my father distrusts anyone that isn’t jesus and family. i put a hand to my forehead melodramatically and let her amused grin warm the car. i tell the sun to soak my skin, as i breathe in the air of my mother, of my lord, of these wonderful leather seats. the roof is down and the blue sky blesses me with infinite space as i put my hands up for no reason, feeling the pressure of the wind push my fingers back into the head of the chair. i’ve been deprived of laughter, i’ve been deprived of grins, and so we laugh the whole way to the lab as i make dumb jokes. i’ve had a favorite bit for a while, as demonstrated…
“jeez, theres so much traffic.”
“yeah thats cause the evil traffic guy was here.” (i proceed to guffaw, rather abruptly, then stop just as sudden.) “up top.” (and i hold up one of my hands, and high five it with my other.)
“that was a clap.”
“that was an up top, mom. come on.” and she laughs and calls me retarded because we’re lucky to have each other.
we get to the first lab, a “live laugh love” type scene with beige walls, sand chairs, peach signage—you can tell i’m trying to find different variations of beige. there’s chocolate in a jar, too, and my mom gives me a knowing look.
“go forth, child.”
“yes most honorable,” and i feign irritation as i grab one hershey square, and she glares at me, whispering “two! i said two!”
“you didn’t say two!”
“you should know better!” so i grab us three and sit down, chuckling. we’re watching a cooking show and she shows me some houses that we’ll be considering moving into. the only reason i’m on board is because i want my big bear of a dog to run around, and i suppose that’s worth the sacrifice of a reading tree and a large lake where nobody goes but me and adrienne rich, the cherry pits and the baby ducks. she tells me that she and john are staying together, after all. i just sigh and shrug, pointing out the fact that beth is making her own mozzarella on tv instead of store bought. she takes the hint and tells me it looks fairly stretchy, for cheese.
she asks me why im whispering and i explain that everyone else is quiet in here, and i go “pssst” and she just rolls her eyes and stifles a grin.
i get called in and immediately am ordered to pee in a cup. alright, here goes nothing. its just like peeing. it is peeing, what am i talking about, why am i narrating this? i started peeing, missed the cup, and realized i didn’t even know where it was coming from. i wasn’t sure whether to be disgusted or panicked or what—i mean my hand was hot with my own piss, what the hell am i supposed to think. i’m sure i confused a few passerby’s outside the door as i laughed, but that definitely, definitely tracks. i washed my hands and sealed the cup real tight, and rinsed the cup while i was at it, as to not burden the nurses with my piss any more than i have to. god, i really have to drink more water, i thought, as i examined the fruit of my labor. i also thought about the people we saw in the waiting room, if those botoxed women peed on their hands when they took the test themselves. probably not, probably never.
“what do you mean we can’t send the results?”
“they’re in NY, we don’t do out of state.”
“you couldn’t tell us that before my daughter peed in a cup?”
“i’m sorry ma’am, we tried to tell you.” so she bit back any words that didn’t belong in the bible, and her fox eyes darted up.
“thank you.” and we walked out of the lab. i avoided the stares of plastic women as i exited the building. so there we drove, to a chick fil a drive through, and she had a chicken sandwich while i had a market salad. we scarfed down fries while running through what would happen at planned parenthood, our plan B lab.
“minimal answers, sydney. you’re not going there for your acne, you’re going there because you banged your friend with protection, got it? and we’re just making sure.”
“uhhh, yeah. got it. wait wh—”
when we arrived, i peed in another cup, and this time i knew how to aim, so i didn’t pee on my hand thank god. i then had to sign in on a tablet, and answer a bunch of questions. i motioned for my mom to come over. “what the hell is anal sex?”
“gay guy sex.”
“what the hell is oral sex?”
“sydney i swear to god just press penis.” and we snickered while she helped me fill out my information. i wondered if we seemed too cheerful for the nurses, so i nudged her and told her to stop being herself real quick.
i sipped on my diet coke, waiting to get called up. i prepared my answers in my head; minimal, ashamed, shy. “all this for acne, huh?”
“its fine, blingie.”
so i got called in to room six, where a nice asian woman took my blood pressure and asked me a few questions that i knew i would have to lie for all of them. my outfit wasn’t helping either, because of course the bixie girl with the ac/dc shirt had sex at 14. except i’ve never held a boy’s hand before, and desperately needed accutane. i kicked my legs around innocently, as they didn’t reach the floor, and looked around the room. i avoided the anatomy pictures with the goddamn reproductive parts and stared at the counter instead, and wondered if i was too calm for a minor coming in for a pregnancy test. she told me the results and i wondered if i should sigh of relief or act or god knows what, so i just said “okay,” and nodded. jesus christ. she asked why i wanted my mom in here and i just said i was uncomfortable without her. she said that was good, because some parents weren’t so nice about it. i just smiled and said yeah.
“are you on any meds? birth control, anything?”
“nope.”
“did you use protection? condom?”
“uh. yeah. condom.” she chuckled at my nervousness, and i dont know if i was alleviated or embarrassed for no reason.
“was he older than you?”
“nope.”
“did he force you?”
“nope.”
“are you happy at home?”
“yep.”
“do you want to get HIV and STD results too?”
“i think i’m good, thanks.”
so we got out of that horrible ass clinic of hard monochrome chairs and miley cyrus radio, and got my results printed and sent to new york. there were young girls in cargo jeans i owned, with blank, numbed faces. thick pretty women with clipboards in their laps, who had men for breakfast, lunch and dinner. scrawny boyfriends with anime tees who came to support their girlfriend’s abortion, with bouncing knees and shame in their eyes. they were all coming here because they had a baby, or didn’t want theirs, or didn’t want to get one in the first place, and i was in the midst of all this femininity for the sake of getting acne meds. i thanked god that i was straight, responsible and unattractive, and also prayed for all these girls that they’d be alright with whatever they were doing. and that their parents wouldn’t be assholes, though you can scarcely control the fury of a mother to her young.
“i hope you wait till marriage, choobs.”
“i hope somebody’d like me like that in the first place.”
the day was over, and she dropped me back off at my dad’s house. i sighed and pulled out a book, letting the smell of suburban jail fill my nose again.
