I Know It's Over Part 18

An hour and a half goes by like that-me watching music videos on the couch and the phones not making a sound. I go upstairs and check messages again. There's spam preapproving me for a fixed-rate mortgage, advertising 75 percent off printer ink, and trying to interest me in p.e.n.i.s enlargement patches. I delete them and wait until exactly 10:46. Then I break and dial Sasha's cell phone. Mrs. Jasinski answers on the second ring and I'm so stunned to hear her voice on Sasha's phone that I freeze.

"h.e.l.lo?" Mrs. Jasinski repeats. "Is anyone there?"

"Yeah," I say. "It's me, Nick."

"h.e.l.lo, Nick." Her voice is formal and stiff, like I'm trying to sell her windows that she doesn't need.

"Can I speak to Sasha?" I ask. "I haven't heard from her yet and I want to make sure she's okay."

"She's sleeping."

"But she's okay?"

"She's doing well." Mrs. Jasinski's tone sharpens. "I don't want you to call here anymore, Nick. I know you two will see each other at school, but it'd be better if you kept your distance. For her sake, you understand?"

"I just want to make sure she's all right," I repeat. "I still care about her." It's more than I want to say, but I don't stop there. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I know she's special."

"Yes, she is," Mrs. Jasinski agrees. "I'll take good care of her. Don't worry about that."

The phone goes dead in my hand. At first I think Sasha will call me anyway; she knows I need to hear from her. But hours go by and then it's afternoon. Monday is over three days away. It's the future, a day that may never in reality arrive.

I'm crazier now than I've ever been. It doesn't matter what her mother says. I understand it, but I won't listen. I shove my cell into my back pocket, slip my shoes and coat on, and walk over to Sasha's house. The house looks lonely without its Christmas decorations. Christmas Eve seems almost as long ago as last summer.

I walk slowly up to the Jasinski doorstep and ring the bell. Mrs. Jasinski's face falls as she opens the door. "Nick, you shouldn't be here," she says, the lines between her eyes jumping to attention. "I thought we had an understanding. This isn't what Sasha needs."

"I'm sorry." I bow my head, but I'm not going anywhere. "I need to see her."

"So I'm going to have a problem with you." Mrs. Jasinski pulls the belt on her cardigan tight around her waist and focuses an uncompromising stare in my direction.

"No, but..." I pinch the outside seams of my jeans. "Will you at least ask her if she wants to see me? Please." My voice is getting thick. I can't have this conversation with her mother much longer, but my feet are frozen to the spot.

"I don't want this to be harder than it is." Mrs. Jasinski tips her head. "Do you understand, Nick?" It's a plea and I do understand, but I can't move.

"Please," I say hoa.r.s.ely. "Just ask her."

We can both hear the gravel in my voice and I squint into the open doorway, pleading silently back. The moment seems endless. I can't talk and she won't speak. I let go of my jeans and watch Mrs. Jasinski purse her lips. "I'll ask her," she says at last. "Wait here."

She closes the door in my face and for a minute I think that's it, I've blown my chance. Then she reappears and ushers me inside with an aggravated whisper: "Sasha's in her room."

Mrs. Jasinski lets me brush past her in the hallway. I can feel her staring at the back of my head as I walk on. Sasha's door is closed and I open it and slip inside her room. Under my coat my sweater is sticking to my back and I wipe my hands swiftly on my jeans in case they're damp too.

Sasha's sitting on the bed in dark green sweatpants and a long-sleeve top, her back resting against the pillow that's propped up against the wall. Her hair's flat and she has dark circles under her eyes, but other than that she looks all right. She's facing the TV, which is a new addition to the room, and her eyes leap over to me as I take a step towards her.

"Hi," I say quietly. "I called earlier, but you were asleep."

"Yeah, Mom told me. I was going to call you later."

"I won't stay long." I stand in front of her dresser, my throat filling up with sand. "I just wanted to see how you were."

"I'm okay." She fiddles with her sleeve. "Crampy."

Then I notice a bottle of Tylenol on the bedside table next to a tall gla.s.s of what looks like cranberry juice and her ragged old teddy bear. I lean back against the dresser, my fingers curving around its edge, and lower my head.

"Nick, don't," Sasha commands.

"I'm not." I choke on the words. "I'm glad you're all right." I swallow sharply, determined to make this okay, but when I look up, tears are sliding down Sasha's cheeks. My eyes open up. Tears run hot down my face. I suck at being steel.

"Was it bad?" I croak.

Sasha wipes her face, but the tears keep coming. "I was just scared." She looks into my eyes; I wish she wouldn't. "I never thought I'd be somebody who did this. Sometimes it didn't even seem real but not yesterday." Sasha's fingers dig into her hair. Her chest quivers as her voice breaks. "The worst part is I'm glad it's over."

I sit down on the bed next to her. I'm sniffling and wet all over and I struggle out of my coat and throw it on the floor. "You were right," I whisper. "We're not ready to have a kid."

"I know." She squeezes her eyes shut and I stroke her hair. She blinks at me and folds her hand inside mine. I wrap my arms carefully around her and she buries her face in my shoulder.

Neither of us says anything for a long time. My insides howl, my eyes burn, and Sasha keeps shaking silently against me. I kick off my shoes and pull my legs up onto the bed. Sasha moves over to make room. We lie with our heads on her pillow until I'm numb. I think the tangled weed inside me is dead or maybe I just don't know how to feel anything anymore.

"I could come back to school tomorrow," Sasha says, her face inches from mine. "But I think I'll wait until Monday." She sweeps a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I wouldn't be able to concentrate."

"When do you have to go back to the doctor?" My voice is calmer now.

"In about two weeks. Just to check things out."

I nod with my eyes. "Is your dad still mad?"

"Not really." Sasha sighs and sucks in her cheeks. "I don't think he knows what to say to me anymore." She points at the TV. "He bought that for me a few days ago. He said he was going to get one for my birthday but that I might as well have it now."

We lie there blinking and trying to catch our breath. "My mom's been great," Sasha adds quietly. "She took the day off to be with me. I know she told you that she didn't want me to see you today."

"Yeah. She hung up on me too, but I couldn't wait." I hold the air inside my lungs for a while and then let it go. "I couldn't stop thinking about you and what was happening. I cut cla.s.s yesterday. I couldn't do anything."

Sasha's gaze clings to mine. The corners of her lips drop and she reaches out to touch my face. I'm still numb, but somehow I can feel that and it occurs to me that we'll never be this close again. My skin goes warm where her fingers were, but I'm too drained to be any sadder.

"Can you stay awhile?" she asks.

It's like she can read every single thing I'm thinking just by looking at me. How long does it take a connection like that to dissolve? Part of me hopes it takes a long, long time. The other part wants to stay numb. I'm a work in progress and the Nick of the moment opens his mouth and says, "As long as you want-or until your mom kicks me out."

Sasha almost smiles. "She wouldn't do that-she knows I want you here."

We snuggle up on the bed and watch a soap opera neither of us follows. To tell the truth, I'm not even watching. I'm just breathing next to Sasha, recovering. After the show's over, she sits up, picks up her cranberry juice, and drains the gla.s.s.

"You want some more?" I ask.

"Thanks." She hands me the empty gla.s.s. "There's loads of stuff in the refrigerator. Grab something for yourself too."

I pad into the Jasinski kitchen and swing open the refrigerator. It's well stocked with juices, soft drinks, and three different varieties of milk. I refill Sasha's cranberry juice and take a can of 7-Up for myself. That round table is by the wall, just like the last time I had dinner here. A package of Peter's crayons is lying on top of it. Lime green is halfway out of the box. It's his favorite color. His coloring books are full of people with lime green faces. Some things haven't changed.

Mrs. Jasinski appears in the kitchen before I can make a clean getaway. She stands in front of the closed refrigerator and says, "Is she all right?"

It's funny, I spent the past few weeks thinking I was the last person who'd be able to answer that question correctly. Now, for once, I'm the person who knows best. "She's fine," I say politely. "I'm getting her more cranberry juice."

Mrs. Jasinski nods and walks out of the kitchen. I go back to Sasha's room, hand over the juice, and sit down at the end of her bed. "Your mom was asking about you just now. She wants me to stay away from you." I don't even blame her mom; that's just the way it is.

"I know," Sasha says. "They told me to stay away from you too."

"So what happens at school?"

That concentration look slips over Sasha's face. She frowns as her eyebrows draw together. "Well, you better not ignore me," she says firmly. "I don't want it to be like before."

"I don't want that either." Like that's even possible. "I don't think I could do that after all this."

"Yeah." She drops her voice. "But it'll be different, you know? We can talk at school, but no more phone calls or anything. My parents wouldn't like it and I think I need some distance too." She rubs her eyes. "Right now you just remind me of everything."

"I know what you mean." I glance at her black socks, bunched up around her ankles. The last time I was on this bed so many things happened between us. Now it's all about this. "You know you can call me anytime if you want to-if you need to talk."

"Thanks," she says, but we both know she won't. I know her so well that I can do most of the translations in my head without missing a beat.

Sasha stares at me with weary eyes, her lank hair lying against her shoulders and her washed-out skin nearly the same color as the wall behind her. I love her so much, only the love is all pain now. I don't want to remember us like this; I don't want to feel this way every time I look at her, but maybe I will. It's not something I can run away from.

"You look tired," I say gently. "Maybe you should go back to sleep." Don't get me wrong, I don't want to go, but it has to happen sometime.

"Now you sound like my mom," Sasha says with a yawn.

"It could be worse, right?" I joke. "I could sound like your dad."

"Yeah." Sasha crosses her ankles next to me. "I don't think that's possible."

"I hope not." I'd like to think I wouldn't make my teenage daughter feel like c.r.a.p for getting pregnant. "I think I'm gonna call my dad tonight-let him know about everything."

"What about your mom? You never told her?"

"I'm going to. As soon as I get home."

Sasha tilts her head as if to ask: Why now? And I don't know except that it's happened and it's finished. I've been doing a s.h.i.tty job of acting like Nick lately and today I can't do it at all. If you tapped my chest, you'd hear the sound of emptiness.

"I should've told her before," I continue. "Even my dad said that. I should've told her on Christmas Eve."

"Your mom's okay," Sasha says. "She'll be upset, but it'll be all right."

"Yeah." I nod at Sasha. She always knows what to say-even on a day like today. "Did you talk to Lindsay?"

"She called last night, but I didn't want to talk. I'll probably call her back later."

"Nathan called yesterday when I cut art." I reach behind me, grab my 7-Up from the dresser, and down a couple mouthfuls. "Sometimes I feel like he's the only person aside from you that gets how I'm feeling." Him and Jillian, but she's going and I'm still not ready to hear any details about that journalism student. That last part is something I really need to work on. There are a few things I have to work on and with hockey on the back burner I have a lot of time.

"He's a really good person," Sasha says.

"He is," I agree. Him and Sasha are the best people I know.

"Listen." Sasha turns and adjusts her pillow. "Maybe you better go soon after all. I want to take a shower." She puts a hand to her head. "My hair's disgusting."

"You look fine."

"You must be legally blind," she says.

I stand up and hover around her dresser as she gets off the bed. "You're okay to take a shower?"

"No baths," she says. "Showers are okay." I move out of the way as she grabs a pair of underwear from the dresser. "And I have to take my temperature again later."

I read about that on the Internet. A fever can mean you have an infection. Bleeding is normal, but too much isn't. They say abortion's one of the safest surgical procedures, but there are still things to watch out for. Thinking about that makes me glad we didn't do this on our own, that Sasha's mom is right here looking out for her.

"Okay." I bend down and kiss Sasha's forehead, as softly as I can. "I'll see you Monday."

"Yeah, see you Monday." Sasha folds her arms in front of her chest, just like she did that day at school when I chased after her. "Thanks for coming by," she adds quietly. "It means a lot."

I bury my hands in my pockets and nod. We're at the very end. There's nothing left to say. All I have to do is walk out the door.

twenty-one.

There are voices coming from my living room, mingled with the sound of some English band's gloomy guitar chords. Holland is musically challenged and loves this shoe-gazing c.r.a.p. I bypa.s.s the living room and leave her to it, but a guy's laugh stops me partway to the stairs. I poke my head into the living room and take in the scene. Holland and Diego are sitting on opposite sides of the coffee table, the Scrabble board spread out between them.

It's like I've been hurtled back in time. Our Scrabble board hasn't seen the light of day in three years. Diego bounces me a smile over his shoulder. "Hey, Nick. How's it going?"

"All right," I tell him. "You?"

"All right," he says.

Holland adds her own smile for good measure and I turn and double back to the stairs. I go up to my room and sit on the floor next to the bed. The sheets are twisted into a solid ma.s.s, leaving the mattress partially exposed. My sleep over the past few days has consisted mostly of shifting positions and I'm exhausted, but I won't lie down.

When I'm sure Mom's home, I slog down to the kitchen and catch her pulling a bag of Brussels sprouts out of the refrigerator. "Can I talk to you?" I ask. You'd think it'd be hard to say after waiting so long, but it's not. I'm on auto and everything feels the same.

"Mmm?" she says, her head darting back into the fridge. My flat tone obviously hasn't set off any alarm bells. "What is it?"

"No, I mean..." I point to the fridge, although she hasn't looked up at me yet. "Can you stop what you're doing so we can talk?"

Mom's back straightens and her eyes meet mine. She closes the refrigerator and motions towards the table. I pull out a chair and wait for her to sit down next to me. As soon as she does, I announce: "Sasha had an abortion."

Mom's head wilts slightly. Her bottom lip juts forward. She stares at me in silence. I look at the table, then back up at her, waiting for my words to sink in. "Is she all right?" Mom asks.

"She'll be okay."

Mom's eyes are unreadable. Her head springs up as she opens her mouth. "I didn't know you two had that kind of relationship."