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Like the fact that I’m carrying Nate’s child.
Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. They’re so cute and squishy and full of glee. The children I teach are a pure joy to be around. But at the end of the day, they always return home to their parents. I’ve never been around a child for longer than a couple of hours at most. These tiny, manageable spurts are just a taste of what it’s like to be a parent.
But raising a baby? That’s a whole other stage.
It’s daunting but exciting at the same time. I’ve been focused on ballet for so long that I’ve never really given my future a lot of thought. I like the idea of having a baby, of starting a family that I can cherish and love.
There’s something fun in imaging my child growing up, going through school and puberty. If they misbehave, I can ground them for a week. We can go shopping together for clothes, and I can dress them up all cute. I can watch them go off to college, save the world.
In all those imaginary scenarios, I picture a husband there. Someone reliable and strong. Someone firm, but who has a good heart.
Nate pops into my head, slots himself into all the made-up situations I’ve come up with. I can see him holding our child’s hand as they cross the street together. I can perfectly envision him trying to teach our kid how to play some “manly” sport, while I’m in the background insisting that dance is just as athletic and competitive. I can practically hear the dumb dad jokes he’ll make, and I can see the bushy beard he’ll grow out to complete his stern, disapproving father ensemble, which will come in handy when our kid comes home past curfew.
The smile on my lips falls as a realization occurs to me.
Nate and I won’t work.
His life is in New York. My dance career might take me there, but I don’t know if I can be with a man whose mother blames me for her other son’s death. The tiny voice in the back of my head begs the question: Does Nate blame me too?
Just go, Eve.
I can’t get his voice out of my head. No matter what I do, the last look he gave me—one of frustration and anger and pain—is etched into my brain.
I want to tell him. I want to tell him I’m pregnant and that he’s the father, but I’m scared he won’t take the news well. Nate doesn’t exactly scream family man. What if he ends up being like my father? He didn’t want to stick around, so he left A-Ma with the burden of raising me all on her own.
I keep flip-flopping between wanting to keep the baby and not keeping the baby. There are so many factors I have to think about.
If I keep the baby, I have to figure out what I’m doing career-wise. There’s no way I can bring a child with me to ballet classes or auditions. I could always leave the baby with A-Ma, but she’s already juggling enough as it is. As for other childcare, there’s no way I could afford it on my small salary.
If I choose to keep the child, perhaps I need to think about quitting ballet altogether. I can find a job or two somewhere in Haven, maybe as a waitress. If A-Ma can look out for the both of us and put me through lessons, then so can I. I’m my mother’s daughter, cut from the same determined cloth as she is.
And then I flop to the other side of the argument.
Can I really do it? For the sake of my child, can I give up on ballet? It’s my life. It’s all I know. Ballet is who I am through and through, from the blood coursing through my veins to the tips of my calloused toes. I’ve spent years dedicating myself to the craft, to the art. If I keep this child, what will become of me?
And then there’s the whole conundrum of not keeping it.
I’d probably have to drive out of town to the nearest clinic, both because Haven’s too conservative to have one conveniently located nearby and because I’d want to keep things quiet.
But I don’t want to give up before I’ve even started. I’m not my father. I don’t bail out when things get hard. Even though I only found out about the pregnancy a few days ago, I already feel like a different woman—one capable of love and all things motherly.
I’ve been lying in bed all day, staring up at the ceiling as I mull things over and over again. Before A-Ma left for work, she filled some Ziploc bags full of ice to put on my shins. She thoughtfully placed a tea towel down first so my skin wouldn’t freeze. It’s small gestures like that which make me think about helping my own child out with the inevitable bumps and bruises life will undoubtedly throw at them.
