​​Chapter Eighteen
Natalie

Friday is Fry Day at Double Dees, half off all fried appetizers and entrees. So when I get off work, I smell like a hot vat of grease. I settle into the Pinto, the same rust bucket I drove up from Texarkana twelve years ago, and swat at the glove compartment door. Inside is a bottle of body spray. And that’s it.

No more good time for Miss Natalie.

I spray it until I can taste it and then check my eyes in the rearview mirror. It’s my favorite mirror because I can only see my irises and pupils and a small sliver of my face. I really don’t have the desire to look at anything else.

I want to go to the apartment, but I don’t want to face Wren. She texted me this afternoon, wanting me to spill.  It’s funny to me, the way things change. How all those years ago all I ever wanted was to come home to her, to tell her everything. But she’s different now. I’m different. And I don’t know how to face her and tell her what the pregnancy test in the employee bathroom at Double Dee’s has already confirmed.

I’m having a baby.

But I really can’t have a baby.

I knew something was up when I started retching at the number five chili dog platter a few days ago. I started to do the math in my head but gave up on that little endeavor seeing that I like to black out anything that’s ever happened before today.

One of Dr. Carol’s infamous survival tips.

At least I know who the father is which is a dismal victory. Jerry’s great. Jerry’s the level-headed supportive type who pays his bills. Jerry thinks I’m a goddess.

But Jerry’s not the father.

And anyways, he’s no Mack, and therein lies another part of the problem.

Another thing Dr. Carol said before I graduated from rehab is that I have an issue with keeping the past in the past. The second thing is that I make idols of dead people.

Mack. Mary. And most recently, Rochelle.

But what I could never convince Dr. Carol of is that I didn’t seek them out, dead or alive. One day, each one just became a part of my life. And they never had the courtesy to leave.

I turn down Shepherd heading back to the apartment, but before I do, I stop at Floyd’s. The after 5 crowd has thinned out, and I wish to all things holy this town was self-respecting enough to feature a drive-through liquor store. But I don’t go in anyways. I just sit in the parking lot and strain my vision through the window, side skirting an advertisement for freshly made nachos to look at the refrigerators lined with beer. I’m so desperate that I’m willing to stare at beer at a gas station when I only ever used to drink vodka.

I laugh at that, and then I cry at that and all the other things I’ve stored inside of me worth crying about. I leave the parking lot and head back home.

Home. Now that’s a joke if I’ve ever heard one.

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