Borrowed by Berkley Carnine

It wasn’t lying if you planned to tell the truth eventually, that’s what Annie Rae had told herself when she’d made the appointment two weeks ago. She’d needed to do this thing in her own way and when she wasn’t fucked up about it anymore, or ashamed of feeling relieved, she’d tell Devin. She’d explain why she could never have kids. No, I don’t mean biologically—in fact all indicators point to my robust fertility—I mean emotionally. Disappointed, he’d argue, ‘you’re just not ready yet.’ She’d sound uncompromising and harsh. She was. He might be devastated. The possibility made her reach for another cigarette. She’d leave the pack on the wicker table’s greasy glass top along with the abortion aftercare packet. Heavy bleeding might start within two to three days. Right in time for her to return to work. Eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and elephant-sized pads would get her through. She knew how to keep moving. Her aunt had taught her that. 

Annie Rae’s best friend Candy knew about the abortion because someone had to pick Rae up from the clinic, otherwise she would have kept it secret until she felt like talking about it. Instead Annie Rae arrived at Candy’s house in Tucson Thursday night, her hair a disheveled mess. She told Candy, “I told Devin I was leaving him.” 

“Are you?”

Annie Rae shook her head and accepted the beer Candy offered her. “No, but I meant it when I said it. I’ll go back though. Maybe he’ll appreciate me more after thinking he’s lost me.” She took a slug of the beer. “Why can’t he be more supportive?” 

“You have to give him a chance to be supportive.” Candy gave Rae her don’t-give-me-any-bullshit look—lips pursed, eyebrow cocked.

Annie Rae massaged her temple. “I’ll go home on Monday like planned and we’ll work it out. I’ll tell him about this when I’m ready. I can’t take care of his feelings until I sort out my own. Plus, it’s girls’ night out at the Festival this weekend.” She clinked her beer bottle to Candy’s but averted her gaze from her friend’s concerned expression.  

*

Annie Rae blew on her cup of black coffee the next morning and listened to Candy arguing with her daughter Madison who wanted to wear her underwear outside of her tights. Candy gave her daughter two outfit options to choose between and joined Annie Rae in the kitchen. Annie Rae stared suspiciously at the green smoothie Candy set before her, which was the last food she could have before the procedure. 

“Right after the abortion, I get a copper IUD.” She made the motion of wiping her hands. “All done.” She told Candy that the doctor hadn’t been willing to do a tubal ligation, but in two years she’d get one.

“Well, you’ve always been clear you never wanted kids.” 

Annie Rae had always known this, and not because of what her stepfather did to her when she was sixteen, although that finalized it, and not because she was broken, although she was, and she wasn’t. She wanted to be a country singer. She didn’t want her life boiled down to the choice of cloth or disposable diapers. She didn’t want her breasts, her very body, to belong to another. 

Candy’s phone rang and she came back out a few minutes later. “Well, this is awkward, and you can totally say no, but my sister was supposed to pick Maddie up from preschool. She was going to look after her until I’m off work, but my niece has the flu. I just need someone for like three hours.” She made a pleading-grimace face. “I know it’s bad timing and you don’t really like kids.”

“I don’t not like kids. I just don’t want any.” But her stomach clenched in aversion and she wondered if that was true. She’d never offered to spend time one-on-one with Madison before. But maybe she could enjoy it now that she was removing the pressure, no the possibility, of having one. Sure, she told Candy. “No problem, it’ll be like a farewell to motherhood.” She breathed into the irony of it and gave Candy a cheeky smile. “I can take some selfies to memorialize it.”

“Okay, but this is babysitting.” 

“I know, I know. But why not make it meaningful for both of us?”

“You’re a masochist.”

“No, I’m an artist.” She said in a fake French accent. “Eventually, I’ll write a song about babysitting before the abortion, but for now I’ll take pictures.” 

Candy shook her head and cleared the breakfast dishes. “I’ll see you this afternoon. And remember, this is babysitting, not performance art. It’s with an actual kid, like my daughter.”

*

Rae handed the note from Candy to the preschool teacher and scanned the room of toddlers at Tiny Tots Preschool. She wished she were babysitting the rowdy towheaded boy instead of Madison. She wanted to borrow a kid who looked like her. Plus, she had a hunch the parasite growing inside her was a boy. If born, he’d be blonde, loud, and decisive in a despicable yet charming way. If he grew into a man, he’d be one of those men who’d accomplish things she wouldn’t, like becoming a famous musician. He’d probably be an asshole. But Devin wouldn’t raise that kind of son. Devin was caring and gentle. He liked baking more than mechanics, jogging more than shooting off rounds, and country more than metal. He listened more than he talked. He’d be a good father. She didn’t want to think about that though. 

She squatted down in front of Madison. “I’m here instead of your aunt today. Want a hug?” Sparkly pink barrettes held the child’s curly auburn hair out of her wide set hazel eyes. She blinked and shook her head ‘no.’ The child’s lack of warmth didn’t faze Annie Rae, and she told Madison that they were going to hang out and then meet up with her mom. “Go get your stuff.” She stood to talk to the day care worker while observing Madison in her natural environment. The child cantered over to a group of girls playing with plastic kitchenware. She appeared demure at first, maybe even slow, but when a nicely dressed girl wouldn’t let Madison have a muffin tin, her snarl-smile revealed a mouthful of pointy teeth. Her face returned to placid sweet on the way to her cubby to get her pink backpack and say bye to her teacher. But on the way to the car she flashed Annie Rae a demonic expression: slit eyes, crinkled nose, lips pulled back to expose her sharp teeth. The child was part elf in that woodsy way that was not entirely good; the elf’s nature was also mischievous, in small part evil, whereas innocence had to be coaxed out. Because of this Rae liked the child.

But then Madison scratched Annie Rae’s arm as Rae reached to buckle the kid into the borrowed car seat. Rae pulled back and told Madison, “oh hell no,” in such a serious tone the child pressed her head into the back of the car seat and stared at Rae in astonishment. “Aren’t you too old for that?” And then, because it looked like she might cry and Rae wanted their time together to be perfect, she asked, “How about we pretend it’s your birthday?” 

Madison’s shrill “yehhh” made Rae’s head snap back and she fixed her face with a smile. “Great. Don’t tell your mom that we are going to get ice cream and a pony ride,” she didn’t know why she added the pony ride but realized immediately it was a mistake. The girl chanted pony, pony, pony! Annie Rae made up a ride that pony song as she drove towards the less bougie mall wondering where the hell she’d find a pony. The image of a mechanical horse filled her with relief. 

Annie Rae found an ice cream parlor and carried their cones out to the food court. Madison kept biting her ice cream, and Annie Rae told Madison to “lick it.” Madison licked the cone and continued taking bites of the mint chocolate chip ice cream. “Whatever you like, girl.” Rae laughed when the child bit off the waffle cone’s bottom and sucked the ice cream out. Soon she was covered in an unnatural color of mint. “Green looks good on pink,” Rae said. 

Madison said pink and gween, which made Annie Rae laugh and join in: “pink and gween and pink and gween!” She was better at this kid thing than she’d thought. Twenty minutes later during a meltdown at a JC Penny’s make-up counter she ate her words and thought about finding a pay phone and asking Candy to come meet them. But she’d gotten attached to the idea of photos. “Ok, get up off the floor. It’s time for your first pony ride of the day.” 

“Whewe?” Snot and tears exaggerated her lisp, which made Annie Rae smile. 

“First I’ll be the pony and then we’ll go find one.” She put away the sample of Berry Me Plum lipstick and squatted down so Madison could climb on. 

They galloped, walked, galloped across the mall to the photo booth, into which she cajoled Madison with the promise that they could be animals for the pictures. They started with monkeys: their mouths making hooting noises, eyes wide, eyebrows arched. Madison liked duck face, even though she didn’t have time to imitate Annie Rae’s pouty lips before the lights flashed. Annie Rae asked, “What animal next?” Madison looked overwhelmed and like she might cry so Rae threw out kitten and purred loudly. Soon they were rubbing their heads against each other’s shoulders and licking the backs of their hands and stroking each other’s bangs and laughing. The last two photos were action, action, action, kitten. They captured the best of their time together—those moments when Rae forgot why she was doing this. She wanted to crawl around in Madison’s world. Fuck what people thought. The light flashed once more, but they didn’t stop playing mama cat and kitten until Annie Rae said, “Ok, now be a monkey again and wrap your arms and legs around me so I can stand.” Madison did and the weight of her body in Annie Rae’s arms made her breath catch. The pleasure of it fizzled through her chest and then dropped down deep into her guts. She parted the curtain and stepped out into the mall’s fluorescent light. Madison nuzzled her damp hot face into Annie Rae’s neck. 

Rae was grateful to have photos to remind her of that moment because the pony debacle and the tantrums leading up to it were also etched in her memory: Madison wearing a shit ton of blush and flopping around in front of the make-up counter like a fish out of water; Madison refusing to get in her car seat and Annie Rae performing the Wicked Witch of the East—which Madison had undoubtedly not seen—“I’m melting. I’m melting.” Rae pleading, if only they could get in the car where there was AC, Madison dissolving into screaming tears, and Annie Rae shedding a couple from behind her big sunglasses before remembering Madison’s water bottle. Madison gulped water and ate handfuls of gold fish until she calmed down enough to let Rae strap her into the car seat where she immediately fell asleep. Rae dropped Madison off with Candy and kissed the child’s sweaty forehead goodbye, catching a whiff. She smelled intoxicating sweet and slightly sour.  

*

A desolate mesquite tree in the middle of Planned Parenthood’s parking lot provided a sparse patch of shade where she parked, scanning the foyer for protesters. None were willing to sacrifice their Friday afternoon. The intake paperwork and counseling took fifteen minutes and left her feeling stoned, numb, calm—it was hard to tell which. She welcomed the height from which she peered down on her own thin arms—her fingers signing the informed consent form, her body weaving down the hall, changing out of her clothes, and climbing up on the examination table in her blue paper slip. She braced her feet in the stirrup like she was preparing for a bronco ride that would end with her on the ground protecting her vital organs. An antique key hung on a brass chain around her neck and felt warm against her skin. She fidgeted with it and pressed it hard into the skin over her clavicle to see if it would leave a mark. Devin had found it in the Auto Exchange and the comfort it brought was mingled with guilt. She should have told him the truth instead of pushing him away, telling him she was leaving him. But there wasn’t time to think about it because a female doctor was telling Annie Rae to take a deep breath, at which she laughed and told the doctor that’s why she’d ordered the IV drip. When the medical assistant had explained the difference between oral and IV—commonly known as twilight sedation—Annie Rae had exclaimed, knock me out! Almost adding, since I’m already knocked up, but she’d suppressed her tendency to make inappropriate jokes when uncomfortable. Now the medical assistant rolled out the IV drip, and she felt giddy with relief. Pain didn’t scare her. But staying present for that speculum did. 

Annie Rae had been pregnant once before. She’d been sixteen. Her Aunt Viv had driven eighteen hours straight from Southern Arizona and arrived wearing her stomping boots and a ready-to-kill expression. Her Aunt Viv had packed Rae’s belongings in a red patent leather suitcase, started Rae on cups of pennyroyal and angelica tea, and called an ex-boyfriend to have him teach Annie Rae’s stepfather a lesson. After hanging up, she’d knelt in front of her sister, whisper-screaming how could you have let your pig-husband rape your daughter? She’d said it straight and ugly like that. Rae’s mom had cried mutedly, mumbling something about him being drunk. Her mother had looked like a building getting demolished from the inside, and Rae had wanted to slap her, but instead she’d walked out the door without saying goodbye. She’d miscarried three days later in her room in her aunt’s adobe bungalow outside of Águila. Her aunt had taught her to stay busy—paint the bedroom mulberry purple, get a movie theater job, practice guitar. She’d even gotten Rae guitar lessons for her birthday and Rae played Emmylou Harris, Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline, and Patty Loveless covers all summer long.

Emmylou Harris’ Red Dirt Girl played in Rae’s head as the needle for the IV sedative slid below her skin and into the vein without her feeling it. Soon this would be over. The doctor told her she was going to insert the speculum; it would feel cold; there would be slight pressure when she swabbed her cervix. Annie Rae wanted to get the photobooth pictures out of her purse, but she entered the twilight zone. The fluorescent lights dimmed and a speculum-sized ice burg spread her labia. She was transported to her bedroom at aunt Viv’s house. The mulberry purple paint was the same color as the inside of her eyelids. 

She knew what she felt wasn’t true: that any child she bore would be her stepfather’s. But it felt true, and what feels true often matters more than what is.

The Doctor clamped a vice grip—stabilizer my ass—on her cervix that made her scream, but it came out a muffled, dreamlike. The procedure was as quick as they promised, not that she had any sense of time. Soon the medical assistant was wheeling her to a room where she was going to rest. They’d monitor her vital signs and bleeding for a half hour during which time she might experience more intense cramping. Through the heavy sedation Annie Rae thought the medical assistant had her aunt’s eyes: dull brown when she was tired but sparkly with flecks of gold when she was near water or listening to Annie Rae play the guitar. Ropes pulled her uterus in all directions. When the cramps subsided her body ached, and she wished her aunt were waiting for her in the clinic lobby. Through the fog, she felt Devin had abandoned her. Only when the sedatives wore off did she remember she hadn’t given him a chance. 

She’d felt like Devin had abandoned her when he’d gone to live with his mom in Idaho shortly after they graduated high school. Even though he’d invited Rae to join him, it’d been too late; she’d felt like she was five years old listening to her mom explain where daddy had gone. She’d ignored Devin’s calls and flirted with Tommy Rhodes, who was shining from the glory years of high school football. Tommy had plans to play college ball or join the marines, but had torn his ACL playing ball drunk a few months into their relationship. Without a very expensive surgery he hadn’t been able to do either. The pain pills had gotten to him and then the drunk, torn dreams: No Ball, No War, which had bit him especially hard after 9/11 when he’d joined the National Guard and still hadn’t gotten deployed. Luckily, she’d left him before that. 

She and Devin had gotten back together, and she’d liked that he was different: he wore protective gear while woodworking and wasn’t jealous of her friends. He’d planned to open his own bakery and wanted to please her in bed even though the attention embarrassed her. He’d alluded to experiences he’d had during his time in Idaho that made her jealous, and yet she’d liked that he had secrets. She, after all, was mysterious as hell. She put her pissed off in her songs, wore no smudge mascara—not that she cried—and smoked a half pack a day until she quit, cold turkey. Devin had liked her tough, funny, sexy. But he’d wanted more intimacy. He’d talked about wanting kids. No, Annie Rae thought as she plied her body off the teal blue vinyl medical table, she definitely wasn’t ready to tell him what she’d done. 

*

The abortion aftercare pamphlet suggested to get lots of rest. But by Saturday night Rae said music, beer, and dancing was just what the doctor ordered. Annie Rae went with her girlfriends to the Country Thunder music festival. Candy whispered to Annie Rae that she belonged up on that stage. She was the next Reba McEntire. Rae’s face hurt from grinning and she forgave Candy all the jokes she’d been making about Madison coming home covered in mint ice cream and horse piss. 

Rae’s hips swayed to the music, dissipating the tension from bracing her feet in the stirrups. 

*

Annie Rae left Candy’s house Monday night and got on the 1-19 south, and turned west just before Amado. It was dark by the time she turned off the paved road onto their dirt one. Johnny Cash’s Cry, Cry, Cry came on the radio. Rae felt a tenderness she wanted to carry into the house and apologize to Devin for being a bitch these last couple of weeks. Candy, who read self-help books and whose sister was a stripper, had told Rae once that ‘some of us pick fights when we’re getting too close because intimacy scares us.’ Annie Rae had told her, “my problem is I’m smart enough to see what I’m doing, but not quick enough to stop it.” 

Pulling up to the house, she vowed to make things right between her and Devin. Once things were good, she’d tell him what she’d done and why, and he’d forgive her. But his truck was gone, and the house felt oppressively hot and empty and sad, which made her angry. She wanted him to hold her after she apologized. The aftercare pamphlet said she might feel bigger ups and downs, but this fear was different. When they’d said goodbye Candy had asked, what if Devin thinks it’s over? She’d shrugged the question off. But anxiety now coursed through her and she took a sleeping pill along with the pain killers.

Her radio-alarm clock played Merle Haggard and she pulled the pillow over her head and counted down from ten. At two she staggered to her feet and blood gushed out like she’d turned a hose onto her maxi pad. A pile of sheets lay on the couch. She’d heard Devin leave for work early this morning. Panic and cramps knotted her stomach, and she swallowed pain killers without water. 

She worked the front desk at a historic hotel and it was a day of clogged toilets and entitled older women in need of immediate assistance. She came home exhausted to find Devin in the kitchen. The extra moment it took him to turn and look at her made her stomach contort as if in some fucked up yoga position. He might have looked relieved to see her, or angry, or hurt, but instead he looked tired and sad. She moved closer, “Where were you last night?”

“Did you come back to get your stuff?” His voice sounded hollowed out.

“Fuck, Devin, I’m sorry. I should haven’t threatened to leave.”
“You didn’t threaten to leave, you did.” 

She didn’t want this to become a fight. “I went to Candy’s like I planned.” 

 “It gave me time to think. It’s over Rae. We don’t have to fight anymore.”

“Devin, I didn’t mean it. Let me explain. I had a doctor’s appointment on Friday. I was freaked out about it, and it made me act all sorts of ways. I’m sorry. Ok.” He tried to interrupt. “Wait, Devin can you just let me finish?” Tears filled her voice. 

He said quietly, “It’s over.” But it came as more of a question. 

“Look at me.” She went and took his hand. 

He said, “I’m sorry.” It was her turn to feel the clutch slip and the gears around her heart grind. Did he want it to be over? 

Tears glossed his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him. “I should have told you what was going on, but I felt ashamed. You know how I have all this pain when I bleed?” She could have doubled over with it now except the fear of losing him kept her rigidly upright. He nodded vaguely. She told him her periods were getting worse and she had something called endometriosis. “I’ve been worried, because I know you want kids, and I probably won’t be able to. I feel like I failed you. I was scared you wouldn’t want me.” This part was true, and eventually she’d tell him the whole goddam truth. But for now, she was borrowing time.

His shoulders hunched, and he looked confused. “What’s been going on?”

She had to break it down for him: Anxiety had turned her into such a bitch these last few weeks. Their break up wasn’t real. She’d been worried about endometriosis. They probably couldn’t have a baby. “I needed space over the weekend because I knew this was going to be hard for you. I was always going to come back.” Except for that moment when she wasn’t. 

He kept apologizing and a swirling cloud of grief-guilt dizzied her. “Devin, stop, I’m not dying. You don’t need to apologize. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry Rae. I thought we were breaking up.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong Devin.”

“I did, Rae, I thought it was over.”

“Don’t make this about you Devin.” Something in his expression was sprung like a mousetrap. Snap. The teeth clamped down on her uterus and she doubled over. The next thing she knew he was helping her to bed.

He brought the heating pad and a glass of wine. Her insides were pouring out and if he stayed too long the clotted-red-truth would gush out too. But he returned to the kitchen. She waited for the pain to dull to a mild throb, and then she wanted to sleep. 

“We still need to talk,” he said when he came to check on her.

“I’ve always known I wouldn’t be able to have kids.”

“Because of what your stepfather did?”

She didn’t want to talk about that. “I babysat Candy’s daughter on Friday, and I promised Madison a pony ride. At first, I was a pony, and then we found a mechanical pony, but it still wasn’t enough, so I found a place with real ponies, like live, pooping, pissing ponies.” A glance at her empty wine glass told him that serious subjects were now off limits, and he leaned against the pillow to listen. 

A Wild West themed ranch had ponies hitched to the metal arms of a rotating machine that led them in slow wide circles. The machine had stopped, and she’d helped Madison pick out a blonde pony with a white mane and tail. Right before she’d lifted Madison into the saddle, the pony had spread its back legs wide and extended its pony-sized penis. Before they could jump back, a stream of hot pony piss had splattered them. Madison had inhaled sharply and shrieked and cried. “In the end I taught her an important life lesson: fake shit is better than the real deal. And she got a whole pony ride because I’d already paid.” 

Devin laughed and gave an exasperated snort. “You made her ride the pony anyway?” 

“She stopped crying after a lap and enjoyed what was only ever going to be a boring and slightly uncomfortable ride.” 

“Who wants anything but?” She asked and they laughed. 

He asked how her cramps were.

“Better.” She touched his arm. He covered her hand with his and asked if she wanted him to turn off the lights. She told him she was going to read. When he went to shower she removed the photo booth pictures. A grin spread across her face and she realized she’d been gritting her teeth, bearing down on the pain. 

Outside at the horse ranch, the mid-day heat had pummeled them. She’d walked alongside the palomino pony with one hand shielding the sun from her face and the other hand cupping the small of Madison’s back. The contact had steadied Rae. The knowledge that she was capable of loving children made her throat constrict. She stuck the photobooth pictures in her mystery novel and hummed Ballad of a Runaway Horse to keep from getting all fucking mushy.

***

I’m a queer, non-binary writer, musician, mental health worker, and social justice organizer. I currently work for CAHOOTS, a mobile crisis program in my hometown of Eugene, Oregon, after living in the Southwest for thirteen years. I received my BA from UC Berkeley and my MFA from Arizona State University and have worked with James Hannaham, Stuart Dybek, Melissa Pritchard, Tara Ison, and Alberto Rios. My work has appeared in Entropy, Crab Fat Magazine, Educe Literary Journal, CounterPunch Magazine, and Waging Non-Violence. I’ve attended Tin House’s writing workshop, Playa’s Artist Residency, Signal Fire’s Juried Artist Retreat, and received fellowships from Community of Writers, Prague Summer Program Fellowship, and the Virginia Piper Fellowship for Creative Writing.