“I think it was used as farmland for a while.”
“It was,” Sharon said. “The ruins of the old farmhouse are down the path a little. All that’s left are the stones of the foundation. I remember my grandpa bringing me here when I was little. Back then there was still some water in the lake. Grandpa said there would be less and less each year because it was drying up. I didn’t believe him, because when you’re that young you don’t believe lakes dry up. I didn’t say anything, just came back when I could, and sure enough the water level kept dropping until it was gone.”
Her face no longer displayed the childlike joy that had been surging through her since they’d left the apartment.
“Nothing stays the same, does it,” she said wanly. “Absolutely nothing.”
He felt unqualified to produce a worthwhile response. She was carrying the conversation into a philosophical area where he could not follow. He still hadn’t experienced much of life, and what little he had was fairly smooth compared to the bumpy ride she’d been on. Her father had hit the back door when she was still a toddler, her mother couldn’t hold a job to save her sorry life, and a line of useless near-stepfathers had been marching through their house for as long as Mark could recall. Most of them were hard-wired alkies like dear old Mummy, and none were seriously interested in taking up the mantle of fatherhood.
In contrast, Mark knew he had it good. Really good, in fact. He listened to the stories in Ms. Barrett’s sociology class, heard the local news every morning, and had Internet access. He was beginning to understand what it was like out there in the world, and that he had all kinds of privilege. The downside to this was that he was also beginning to understand, for him, it was really hard to connect with anyone who didn’t.
“And when things do change,” she continued, “it’s pretty rare that they change in a way we’d like.”
Mark nodded. “So then what are you going to do, Shar? Are you going to have it?”
“Of course I am,” she said, and her lips began quivering. “I would never, never have an abortion.”
He didn’t think she would either, and in spite of the difficulties that would follow the resolute support of this position, he was pleased to find himself in full approval.
“What about giving it up for adoption?”
She shook her head. “I just don’t think I could do that. Maybe… I don’t know. I really doubt it, though.”
“Do you think Carl’ll come back?”
She shrugged. “No idea. Maybe. His whole life is here. I’m guessing… hoping… sooner or later…”
“If he does, will you marry him?”
She gave him a crooked smile. “He won’t want that. He’ll say he will, just because it’s what a guy’s supposed to say in that situation. But he won’t.”
“You never know.”
“He’d be a terrible husband. He’s still a kid himself. We all are.”
Another chain of ragged coughs swept through Mark, this time accompanied by a dreamy feeling. It was like his brain had become unanchored and was drifting in an open sea, and by the sensation that he was about to lose his balance and go down. Fear began racing through him.
“Except me,” Sharon said softly.
Mark tried shaking his head back to normalcy. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I think my childhood is coming to an end. Time to be an adult.”
She sat down on the edge of the path, where the earth had given way to the slow grind of erosion, exposing many tree roots. Mark did likewise, setting his hands down flat for support. The scent of pine was particularly pungent this close to the needle-carpeted forest floor.
He tried clearing his throat to remove the filthy metallic taste that now coated his entire mouth. Turning away, he spat twice without force, trying not to draw her attention.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I’m going to finish school, and then… I’m not sure. Ideally, I’d still like to go to college and get a degree — somehow, some way — then find a job. I want to build a real life for my child, start a new chapter in my family history. I want it to be all about love and caring and nurturing and compassion… Not fighting or yelling… or hitting or… bruising…”
Her facade crumbled at last and the tears came with eruptive force. He moved over and wrapped his arms around her, rocking her back and forth while months of torment poured out. It didn’t take long; she always got back on her emotional rails relatively quickly.
When she was done, she wiped her cheeks and managed a little smile.
“I guess I’ll just have to take it day by day,” she said.
“Maybe you could come live with me.”
She looked at him curiously. “Are you moving out?”
“No, I mean at my house.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“No, seriously.”
“Seriously, no.”
“Why not?”
“I think maybe your parents would have something to say about it.”
“Are you kidding? They love you. No joke, I’ll bet we could work something out.”
He was already running a quick evaluation through his mind, trying to figure out how his parents would react. Though they both had some conservative tendencies—Dad especially, Mark thought, then wondered if even that was really true — they never hesitated to give their charitable sides a good workout. Mark remembered that time in third grade when they’d taken him to a shelter in South Philly a few days before Christmas. It was the first of what would become a string of semi-regular “charity Sundays” that continued to the present. On this particular afternoon, they’d loaded so many boxes of food, clothes, books, and toys into the minivan that he couldn’t see out the back window. More than that, his parents were going to help out in the kitchen for the day. Mark figured he’d see nothing but bums and derelicts, shabby old men who had allowed the bottle or the needle to get the best of them and thus, in essence, were largely at fault for their lot in life. But there were others, too, including a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Mark never got the details of her story, but he fought off tears all the way home thinking about the frightened eyes in her smudgy, defeated face. When he learned the next morning that his parents had decided to begin donating a regular amount to the shelter for her care, the tears he had buffeted the day before came forth in a tidal wave. He did love them deeply, even if the teenage part of him refused to accept it.
“You could stay in the guest room upstairs,” he said. “It’s really nice. My mom and dad painted it last summer and put down hardwood floors. It’s got a nice view of the backyard, and it’s right near the bathroom.”
She grinned and shook her head. “I don’t know, maybe. I know your mom and dad are great people, but—”
Her whole body seemed to shrivel as a coughing jag overtook her. Mark followed with another of his own. The dizziness returned with a vengeance, along with a teetering current of nausea.
What the hell is going on? he wondered thickly, leaning over on one hand.