Greater Expectations

BY DUNCAN MCKECHNIE

"I THINK I'll call her Rose." I turn and smile at my brother, gently running my hand over my abdomen, where I imagine I can already feel a bump forming. I'm eighteen years old, average height, average build, with average-sized, grey, sometimes blue eyes. My boyfriend and I have been going strong for a year and three months now, practically a family record.

And now we'll make our own family.

My brother is looking at me strangely, sort of as if he might burst into tears. I can't imagine why. What does he know that I don't? He's sixteen, taller than me by a lot, handsome, though to me he still seems like a cute little kid. His eyes are bluer than mine, larger too. He looks as if he wants to say something; something sad. So I cut him off.

"You know, roses are the prettiest flowers. And their thorns only add to it. Not just any flower has its own built-in defence, right?" He smiles back at me, all weak and watery, and I want to ask what his problem is, but I don't. I don't want to know.

Because I'm happy.

I meet up with my boyfriend later, my palms sweaty and I'm feeling strangely exhilarated. I sit him down opposite me and he kisses me when I smile. I tell him in a rush. He stares at me while I trail off, and the air grows thicker between us.

"Are you going to take care of it?" His words sound so normal, so casual, as if he's asking what the time is. I don't know what else to say, so I nod and he smiles, kisses me, and then leaves. Of course. I have to take care of it. Right. What was I thinking?

I go home and discuss options with my mother. Naturally, she supports my decision, saying only that, "Having a baby isn't a sin, you know." Which I think is a strange thing to say.

There are appointments at Family Planning to go to now, and there is more discussion of "options" even though I know there are none. Not really.

I'm not imagining the bump now or the nausea in the mornings or the fatigue when I walk too far. I keep dreaming about flowers. I'm a little scared, but I don't have much of a choice now. The date's been set. For the procedure.

My boyfriend hasn't spoken to me much recently. I guess that's normal and expected, too. And he must miss me as much as I miss him, right? I call him.

"Are you going to come with me? When it happens?" I ask him when the silence becomes too loud. He responds with a brusque: "You're not talking about that again, are you?" He then makes an excuse and rings off. No, I guess we aren't discussing anything any more. Not even "options". It has all been decided.

The clinic has a very white ceiling and floor. The anaesthetic makes me ill, and my vomit eases the sterility. The nurse smiles at me, tells me I'm doing well. What does that even mean?

After it happens, before I leave, they ask me if I want to take it home with me.

I have a moment of madness, picturing myself pushing a pram with a bloody little foetus in it. I shudder and turn away, leaving my mother, who came with me, to deal with the paperwork and such. I can't think any more.

I sleep.

It has been a few weeks since I came home from the procedure. I'm not sore any more. My body has returned to normal, mostly. I still dream about flowers, but life has gone back to how it was. Because, really, the last few weeks were not so unusual.

For a while after it happened, the only thing people said to me was: "How are you feeling?" and the only thing I said was: "I'm fine."

"I'm good, how are you?"

"No, really I'm fine."

Because I have to be fine. Do you know how many girls go through this? Nor do I, but I know it's a lot. The one who seems most upset is my brother, strangely. Maybe no one told him how routine this is.

Just a routine procedure.

I guess he's just not old enough to know that this kind of thing can't affect you, really. How can it? It happens so often.

Someone would have surely told me.

Ever since I was a little girl, I've loved roses. So, when I was ten, my mother and I planted a rose bush outside my bedroom window. I was so proud.

I've had to watch them bloom every day since the procedure.

My brother just went out. I don't know where. I'm home alone today. I go to the shed and get the hedge-clippers.

As I hack the rose-heads off, as the petals pile up at my feet, I think to myself once more how little I care about all this. Cutting this down doesn't mean anything. I just don't like it any more, that's all.

The sun's hot so I go inside. I'm hungry. I discuss my "options" aloud with myself. Settle on a sandwich.

But there's no bread.

I need to have a sandwich, but there's no bread. And suddenly, it's too much to bear.

I start to take deep breaths and my cheeks grow hot with tears. There's no bread. I'm making a terrible racket now. Because it's not about the bread.

I don't know how long it has been when my brother's arms surround me. When my brother comforts me in this most primal fashion. I stutter out to him that I can't make a sandwich.

"What am I supposed to do? There's no bread! None at all! So I can't make a sandwich. 'Cause there's no bread!" He shushes me and looks into my face.

"Hey, Snotface,' he says tenderly. "Look what I've bought. Old-fashioned wheaty goodness." I look at the bag of bread that he holds up, and I cry. I cry so hard I bet the stars can hear me. And my brother cries with me, the bread sandwiched between us.

But life goes on. We dry our faces. Suck up our sorrows and make sandwiches. Because what else can we do?

We only do what's expected.

 

What the judge thought of Greater Expectations:

"Beautifully drawn relationships between the protagonist, her boyfriend and her brother. Clever title." – Fleur Beale

- © Fairfax NZ News