Mrs. Prinkle had stared at me for a long time and then asked me outright, like I’d been asked this question a hundred times, “Are you pregnant?” Now this had not even crossed my mind for half of one-half second. Really it hadn’t. That night with Redmond was a memory I’d erased in that way I do when I can’t stand to look at something. Not that I didn’t like him, or that it was bad sex, just because of the reason … the reason itself.

But here we are with this—the reason doesn’t matter sometimes. The result does.

Only sometimes.

Like this time.

Seventeen

Seventeen

I woke in the predawn dark that Sunday morning, unable to fall back asleep. My life swirled around me with its choices and its beginnings, with its endings and its sorrows. I finally abandoned the hope of unconscious bliss, and by the light of a single lamp, I sat down at the dining room table and spread out the art supplies I’d bought. With the charcoal I drew a horizontal line across the middle of the poster board, smudging the edges and then dividing the line into three parts: 1960; 1961; 1962. The journal was open at the end of the table and I started with June 1960, writing only what I knew, placing words like “met Him”; “back to school”; “returned to Bayside.” I ended with a bright yellow star on my birthday in 1962. With nature’s music my only companion, I began to fill in the blanks between.

The history books provided photos and details, my imagination offering images. I’d sketched the Summer House, Georgia Tech, her childhood home in Atlanta, and a faceless Him. By the time I reached the 1961 bus burning, my eyes burned and my hands ached. The late morning sun sent stripes of dust-dancing light onto the table, and I stretched. The bus burning seemed the pivotal point in their lives and a perfect time to take a break in mine.

My swimsuit on, I grabbed the towel off the hook by the front door. The walk to the dock was my favorite part of the morning; a silent prayer of gratitude was the only thing on my lips or mind. The dock still held remnants of the jubilee party: a beer can, a few shrimp shells squashed in between the dock boards, half-burned candles with melted wax on the wooden side tables. I smiled thinking that I’d been a part of what remained there.

My swim was silent. I emptied my mind and allowed only the swish of water, the hum of a motor under the waves coming from far off, the thump of a boat against a pillar, the squawk of a seagull, to fill my thoughts. After the swim, I crawled out onto the dock and saw Birdie standing at the fence. I waved. She waved back.

Birdie came toward me. “You really slept in. I’m so glad.”