Kareela
When the official portion of the Black Lives Matter meeting ends, it seems it’s time to eat. The array of food would normally tantalize me, but tonight, it prompts the urge to heave. The nausea is inconsistent—not morning sickness, but whenever-it-rears-its-head sickness. I turn away from the buffet-style table and right into Carson.
“.” His smile is warm, strong, confident—just like the way he holds himself. “So glad to see you tonight. Based on the other day, I didn’t think we would.”
I let out a little chuckle and tilt my head toward the opposite side of the room. “Jasmine didn’t exactly give me a choice.”
“Yeah.” The warmth in his expression spreads. “She’s always been one to get what she wants. Ever since she was a baby.”
I offer a closed-lip smile, trying to not let the nausea win, not zig and zag through the crowd, in search of the nearest bathroom. Realizing this smile is only making it worse, I open my mouth and breathe gently.
“What did you think?”
“Hmm?” I see an open window less than fifteen feet away and wonder what reason I could find to take this conversation toward some fresh air.
“Of the meeting. Of us?” The dimple in his left cheek prompts a flutter to mix with the sickness. Is this what it is to carry new life? Hormones so messed up you don’t know whether you want to yak or fall into the arms of the near stranger in front of you?
“It was good.” I rub an arm, willing away the flutter and the sick roil of my gut. “Interesting.”
His smile stays firm, lips closed. I know what this is. I was trained to do it when trying to get a client to open up. Don’t rely on questions , my mentor had said. Silence is sometimes the best way to get genuine answers. It works. Is working.
“It seems like a lot,” I say to break the silence, stepping back as a stream of laughing children run between us. “I mean, great and all, but maybe not very…” I let out a puff of air, my weight shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t know, realistic? I mean, in theory, yes, I could see how it would work, be so much better. And I can see how some of it’s totally doable, but other parts—” I look away, the children in a circle now, playing some hand-clap game, giggling, happy, safe. “Just—” I look back. “It’s a lot, when our society is already set up the way it is.”
Carson’s face remains unchanged, his gaze focused on mine. Attentive.
“Like disarming the police,” I continue. “Most of the time, it would be fabulous. It would, well, prevent…like, so much. But how would that work when they’re called to a scene and the…uh, assailants have guns? How would they protect themselves? And knowing that scenario would happen, who would want to become an officer in the first place?”
Carson nods, his grin broadening. “Those are excellent questions. Important ones. And when we have a bit more time, I’ll get you the answers.”
I shrug. “That’d be good.”
“It’d be great. And especially with your experience in social work, we’d really love you to volunteer. We’re always looking for—”
“I don’t—”
“Listen.” Carson raises a hand. “You’ve got a lot of questions, and I’ve got answers. There isn’t time or space for a proper conversation tonight. But I’d love to talk to you more about it. A group of us are meeting later this week to hand out petitions to defund the police, do some canvassing. Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t think—”
His hand falls on my shoulder. “Don’t answer right now. Think about it.”
I look away from him. Attending a rally was bad enough, but even attending this meeting feels like stepping over the line. A betrayal. It is. Volunteering, being a part of this movement out in the open, would send my mother reeling—or would have, back when she pressured me to make that promise.
“I get if you’re afraid,” he says, his hand still on my shoulder. “And I’m not trying to say I know you or what you went through, what your family did. Because I don’t. But I know enough to know that sometimes the thing you’re afraid of, that you step away from, is exactly the thing you should step toward.”
As a familiar and painful sensation worms its way in, I swipe my hand under my eyes and glance around to see if anyone has noticed. Frustration at this decades-old hurt, coupled with the more recent loss of my father, makes me ache for escape. “It’s late,” I say. “And we’ve got a long ride back. Work tomorrow.”
“Dwayne’s going to drive you and Jasmine into town. But you’re right, it’s late.”
I release a sound of agreement, slip out of his grasp, and cross the room to Jasmine, who stands amidst a group of people, her hands gesticulating the way they do, her voice carrying above the others’. I turn at the last moment, find a bathroom, breathe deep, realizing the nausea has left but that I’d prefer it to the feelings Carson erupted in me, the fresh, confusing whirlpool of grief and guilt. I stare into the mirror, seeing what my mother sees every time she looks at me—why she must find it so hard to look. Antony—or at least aspects of him. His nose. His eyes. The distinctive rise of his cheeks.
I splash my face and turn to the door, determined to find Jasmine immediately, to get the hell out of here.
When I say my farewells to Jasmine, Dwayne, and Sasha and step into my building, it feels like an odd repeat of yesterday’s approach to the door. Today, however, rather than rushing at me with excitement, Thomas is cautious. He asks how the meeting went, though I’m sure it’s the baby that’s forefront in his mind.
“Interesting.” Discomfort trickles through me, at wanting and not wanting to talk about this new part of my life that’s so separate from him.
“What was the reason,” he says, his tone tentative, “for going? Did the rally prompt something, or…? Well, you seemed upset about it.”
I hesitate, knowing he’s thinking about that night, my colleagues’ gaze on him, his gaze on me. How, ever since, things have shifted between us, the closeness waning. I can’t very well tell Thomas I largely went to delay seeing him, so I use Carson’s words instead.
“Maybe that’s why I should go,” I say. “Because it’s upsetting. Because in all these years, hardly anything has changed. Because it should.”
He nods.
But it’s more than that, I realize. Working with the community I’m working with, and seeing not just my colleagues’ passion but the passion of the people they fight for, has been inspiring, has opened my eyes to so much I hadn’t taken the effort to see. But it’s also the way my colleagues view me as part of it. As one of them. I want more of that. “Plus, I was invited,” I say. “And it felt good to be.” It felt good, too, to know that I was doing the thing my father wanted us to do, taking it a step further, even if it was too late for him. “I just never had that ‘in’ before, you know? That clear path. And now I do.”
“That makes sense.”
I sigh, knowing it’s paining both of us to delay the inevitable. “About last night…”
“You had a right,” he says, “to keep it to yourself. I didn’t mean to pry. To snoop, or, well—”
“You didn’t. Your computer froze, right?”
“Yeah.” He reaches to the floor, pulls up a brown paper bag. “I know you said there’s no point yet. But I really want to know.”
I reach into the bag, certain what I’ll find, then stare at the box. “I think I’m supposed to wait until first thing in the morning.”
He shakes his head. “Not when you’re this far along.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I asked at the pharmacy. You can take it right now.”
“I don’t see the point in knowing”—I drop the box back in the bag—“when I haven’t even decided what I’ll do about that knowledge.”
His lips press together and his nostrils flare with a long intake of breath. “Okay. I get that. But maybe actually knowing will help you figure it out.”
I shake my head, push the bag away.
“So when you say what you’ll do about that knowledge, do you mean…? Well, what do you mean? Adoption or…”
I shrug. “Or.”
“Uh-huh.” Thomas nods. “That makes sense. The easier solution, I guess.” He’s silent for a bit. “I don’t know.” He chews his lip. “Just, like I said, the first thought was terror. Like how the hell will we handle this? And I thought…I guess I just thought you would want the baby. Or in case you did, I needed to be on board, you know? Make sure I didn’t ruin the moment. Be happy. And that seemed crazy. I’ve just started this new career path. My hours are insane. They’ll continue to be. But lots of people in worse situations than ours have kids. And they make it work. So I tried to think about the good things. A little person, made up of us. Cuddles and trips and seeing this new human grow.”
He stops, rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s no secret that neither of us had the picture-perfect family. Your parents checking out, all that shitty I don’t even know what to call it between you and your mom. My dad starting over—whole new family, whole new life. And that put the terror in me more—we don’t have the best role models.”
“Your mom’s amazing.”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “She is. But she wasn’t always so great, not the first couple of years after Dad left. And I know how hard your dad’s passing was for you—the way he went.”
I nod. The ache rising—sharp and complicated. Nearly two years, and this pain, when it comes, feels as fresh as the day we found him.
“Anyway, we’ve both had it rough in different ways, but then I thought, even with the crappy hands we’ve been dealt, look what we’ve accomplished. You’re killing it at your job; I’m on the road to. We’ve got this decent place, a bit of money in the bank. We’re making it work. So we can make having a baby work, too. If we want. If we try. We can give this kid a way better life than either of us had. And maybe that, in itself, is a way to make the world a bit less shitty.”
Affection swells within me at how earnest he looks. How vulnerable. And he has a point. But a decision like this can’t be made on simply having a point.
“So will you test?” He holds up the bag. “And then at least we know if this is a conversation to keep having, or if all this talk is nothing more than hypothesizing.”
I take the bag, a lump in my throat.
Minutes later, I step out of the bathroom, hold up the stick, and Thomas’s arms are around me. Not congratulatory, exactly. But weighty. “This is happening,” he says, and I’m not sure what exactly he means. The baby? The need to keep talking? To decide?
I stare at the stick, amazed at how knowing something in your gut and seeing the undeniable proof of that same thing can prompt such distinct sensations.
“We better book a doctor’s appointment,” he says.
“Not yet.”
He presses his lips. “I’m guessing you don’t want to tell our parents.”
I shake my head, my gaze back on the stick.
“Do you even have a GP? Here, I mean? I bet we could get you in at mine if—”
“Thomas.” I put my hand on his, draw my gaze from the stick. “Not yet.”
A mix of emotions I can’t quite read swirls behind his eyes. “I know you’re scared, Ree. About the world. Maybe about being a parent so young. But I’m telling you, we can figure this out. We can make it work.”
“Thomas,” I say again, trying to say it in a way that will make him finally hear. “For me, figuring it out might mean stopping it.”
His eyes twitch, just the slightest bit.
“I have time.” I swallow. “Weeks to decide. So…”
“You looked it up?”
“No.” I shrug. “I mean, it’s legal until twenty weeks. So based on how far along I must be…” My voice trails off.
He nods, lowers his head, and then raises it again. “Maybe I’m being silly,” he says, “maybe I let the goal to get on board get away from me. It’s just, like I said, when I started thinking about the good, the potentially fun and wonderful parts about having a child with you, I don’t know.” He shrugs, the corner of his lips rising. “I guess I fell a little bit in love with the idea. With this baby that’s ours.”
Something thick and uncomfortable rises within me—that he could be right. That this could be a chance to do things better. But I push it away. “My career is just starting.” I step back, increasing the distance between us. “It’s intense. Yours hasn’t even begun.” I pause. “And I think I’m going to start volunteering. That will take up extra time.”
“Volunteering?”
The words were out before I had a chance to think about them. But it makes sense…or it might, if what Carson said was true, that we need to step toward the things that scare us. So much of the reason I’m unsure about this baby is that I’m unsure about myself, and so much of that is connected to Antony, and my Blackness, or lack thereof. Maybe connecting with people like him, with the side of myself that feels like a stranger, is exactly what I need to figure things out. I take a breath, wear a smile that holds more confidence than I feel. “Yeah. At BLM.”
He scrunches his forehead, his expression inscrutable.
“We have time to think about what we want to do,” I say, and can tell from Thomas’s injured expression he knows I mean I, not we. “So let’s just, I don’t know, table this. For a few weeks at least. I need time to think and I don’t want to talk about it constantly.”
He says nothing, only stares, wanting, I’m sure, to say that talking is how we’ll figure it out. That this, after all, is a part of “the plan,” just a little out of order.
His plan, though. Not mine.
I step into the bathroom, toss the test and packaging into the garbage, then turn back toward him. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really.” I pause, the thump of my heart too palpable. “But just because you can make something work doesn’t mean you have to, or that you should.”