Threadbare

“I’m pregnant.”    

The words ambush me; like the final siren when you’re one point down.  No time to reassess, regroup, make the winning play; just a heavy realization that your time has run out.  

I stand in my doorway, bruised by this knockout punch, winded into silence.    

Kaylene softens then, admitting, “I, um, used the spare key.  From under the geranium.  I’ve, er, cooked dinner.”  

Yep, she’s gone all out; tablecloth, candles, silver-plated cutlery.  She’s even hauled out the white crockery my mother bought me last birthday; a not so subtle jibe at my lack of domesticity.   

I sidle past Kaylene’s festivities to the fridge.  God how did this happen?  I’ve always been so careful.   I choose a beer and snap the screw-top.  Ahh, that crisp coolness; a taste you can trust.    

Hell, the only piece of advice my lousy father ever gave me and even that’s let me down.  My fifth birthday, he’d just bought me a cheese burger and fries at the drive through; didn’t want to dine in, probably too much of a commitment.  He parked on the curb outside our house and said, “Whatever you do, son, don’t let one trap you.”  

Great advice for a five-year-old.  Can last your whole life, that piece of advice.  Had to because he skidded away leaving me to choke on a bloody McDonald’s pickle.     

I wanted my mother to chase him, to find him, to bring him home.  She refused.   “He left,” she said.  “He won’t come back for the right reasons.  But Robbie, always remember that he tried to do the right thing.”  

Yep, for 1825 days, six hours and twenty minutes he tried to do the right thing.  Whoop-di-do.  Not much consolation for a kid straining to hear an old Holden ute clunk its way home.  

Kaylene stands in front of me, daring me to ignore her.  I pull her into a one armed hug and kiss the top of her head.  Kaylene clings to me.  I feel her flatness.  No tabloid baby bump there.  I pull away.  Is this her idea of a sick joke?  

She senses my disbelief, rummages in her handbag and retrieves a white plastic stick.   “It’s true,” she tells me.  “See.  Two lines.”    

I nod.  I still can’t say anything.  There are too many words vying for my attention.  They’re all jumbled up and I’m not sure any of them are what I really want to say.    

“Rob?”  

It sounds so pure; like the whisper of a first kiss; or the tingling excitement of virgin flesh.  But something inside me warns that it’s as innocent as a cat with a feather caught in its whiskers.  Suddenly I feel nauseous. 

“Rob, please.” 

Choking. 

“Say something.” 

Dizzy.   

“Please.” 

“I need space.” 

I take my beer upstairs, drop my suit jacket and sag onto the bed.  She’s dropped a bomb.  Doesn’t she realize that?    And on poker night.    

Shit, the boys.  They’ll be here in half an hour.  They never liked her.  Too loose, too erratic, too unobtainable.  Kaylene Whitnall, 34, 28, 36; not perfect but oh so close.  Maybe I liked that; having something everyone else wanted.  Having someone who always came back to me.    

Is that why I’ve let a month-long fling drag on for two years?  Or maybe I think that saving Kaylene might heal my mother’s sad romantic past?  No, that’s not it.  My mum’s soft, vulnerable, quietly determined and emotionally balanced.  Kaylene’s selfish, flighty, and manipulative.    

“I guess I did kind of spring it on you.”   

Suddenly she’s at the bedroom door, then grazing against me on the bed, seeking reassurance.  “The doctor says I’m almost two months.  Not showing though,” she says.  “Don’t know the sex yet. I thought maybe we could find out together.”  

I want to yell, “This is life-changing stuff, so just cut the chatty shit.”  I don’t.  Instead I grit my teeth.  “I thought you’d left for good this time,” I say.  

“It was hormones,” she tells me.    

Whore moans?  God I can’t go there.  But it’s too late.  The images loom.  Kaylene flirting at the café.  Kaylene and her salivating fan club who are “just some guys.  I’ve never met them before, honest.  I don’t know how they know my name.  You go.  I’m going to stay here . . . with Tracey.”  Kaylene creeping in at 4am, doused in a stranger’s Brut.  

“Besides that was only a month ago,” she adds.  “Like I said, I’m two months along.” I nod.  Then ask my burning question.   “Kaylene why did you really come back?”   “I told you Rob, I’m pregnant.”  

And for once, I realize, she’s telling the truth.  She isn’t here for me.  She’s here because she’s pregnant.  She’s hoping I’ll give her an out; offer her some extra time so she can work out her next play.  

“I know you’d never want a child, your child, to grow up without a father.”    

Kaylene mistakes my silence for agreement.  She caresses my leg.  “Rob, you’re the only one for me.”    

But that’s a lie.  I realize now, I’m not the father.  I’m just a softer touch than the kids’ soccer coach, or the White Lion’s barman or that advertising salesman.  She knows all I’ve ever wanted is unconditional acceptance, the permanence of a real family.  And she’s hoping, oh God how she’s hoping that I want it so, so badly that I’ll settle for a lie.  How long can you settle for a lie?    

“You’re not like your father Rob,” she baits me.  

But I get it now.  I get me now.  I’m still that five-year-old pining for a clunky old Holden, the unreliable lemon that’s rusted right through.    

I smile wryly.  Kaylene’s right.  I’m not at all like my father.  But she is.  And I’m not going to be caught in that trap again.    

“You’d better go,” I say.  “Guy’s ‘ll be here for poker soon.”  

--ENDS--