Bellyache

Saturday afternoon, Darryl found Patsy on the bed, naked, watching the vast, blue-veined expanse of her belly ripple and twist. He stayed in the doorway, half hard at the sight of her. The outline of a tiny foot was suddenly visible, pushing out of her side, then gone. Like something out of fucking Alien, he wanted to say. Would she find that funny? He couldn’t be sure these days. God, she was a whale. That he knew not to say. He didn’t mean it in a bad way, just he was amazed at the size of her. She went on about how fat she was but it wasn’t fat. He’d gone out with this bigger girl once. She’d been soft. Pats wasn’t soft. Her gut was hard. She didn’t hardly have any fat at all really, just this big, round belly, hard like a ripe berry he could pop in his teeth.

“Come and feel this.”

He held up his hands, showing grease from his bike. Her belly heaved, pushing out on one side, deflating on the other. Jesus, sometimes he wondered what the fuck was in there, and how they would ever get it out. The long sheet of wallpaper slipped slowly through the water tray and Darryl lifted it, dripping, up to the last section of bare wall. Pats had seen a picture in a magazine at the doctor’s office: a nursery with striped yellow and white wallpaper. They’d found some at Home Depot. Just looking at the picture made him feel happy. He could imagine them: Pats in the rocker, the baby in her arms. He smoothed the damp paper with a soft brush.

Some different from how he came up, with six of them kids at home. Six! The closer he got to having a kid of his own, the more he was amazed at the thought of them all crowded into that little house. Every time Pats came home with another load of baby gear, he understood a little better why they hadn’t had shit growing up. Pats could drop a hundred bucks at Walmart no problem, then come home and put it all in one drawer. Imagine that times six. No wonder he didn’t have new shoes until high school.

Still, they could of had fewer kids. He never understood it. Banging out kids you didn’t give a shit about. His own kid, he wanted to have good stuff. Darryl didn’t mean expensive shit, either, just decent. He stood back, the final section of paper smooth and perfect. Didn’t seem like too much to want your kid to have some decent stuff.

Pats came down the hall and stopped in the doorway, watching him pack up. She fished a fig out of the bag in her hand, and popped it in her mouth. She had a craving for them, these fancy dried figs from the import store downtown. He thought they looked disgusting, like wrinkly monkey nuts. She bit into it concentrating, sinking her teeth in with her eyes closed like she was coming to Jesus every time. “Try one,” she said, holding it out. “It’s like caramel, sort of. Chewy but like sand in the middle.”

“You got some weird ideas, girl.”

She tried to chase him, slow and awkward as hell, down the hallway to the living room. He fell on the couch, letting her catch him. She laughed, poking his cheek with a fig, and he opened his mouth for her. The fruit felt weird, hard and puckered on his tongue. But it tasted good. He took another one and bit it in half, the tiny, brittle seeds bursting and gritty between his teeth.

She slid down to the end of the couch, putting her feet up in his lap. “Your dad came by today.”

He took her foot, gently pressing his fingertip into her ankle, checking for swelling like the book said might happen. “What did he want?” No swelling.

“Not much. He’s lonely, I think.” Darryl ran his knuckle along the arch of Pats’ instep, staying quiet.

“Maybe you should go see him.”

The last time he’d seen the old man was six months ago after Darryl had taken his ma to the bus station. Darryl’d found him standing in the middle of the kitchen, lost.

“Why would she ever do a thing like that?” he’d asked, over and over, talking to himself.

But Darryl answered. “Cause you treat her shitty,” he had said. “Cause you’re a miserable prick.”

The old man had turned on him and raised his hand, an old habit, then seemed to remember Darryl wasn’t a kid anymore. “Get the hell out.”

He pinched Pats’ toes, gently tugging each one. “He comes over here when he knows I’m at work,” he said. “I wish he wouldn’t come around here at all.”

She said, “You’re his kid, having your own kid. Of course he wants to come around.”

Darryl slid his hand up onto her belly, rubbing the hard roundness of it. “Don’t be thinking he’s interested in our kid.” The baby bumped his hand. “He hates kids. I should know.”

The spring he turned thirteen, Darryl came home from school and found an old Camaro in the yard. The old man went on and on how it was like one he’d had as a teenager. It was a rusted up piece of shit but he was going to fix it. He didn’t work on it much, but he talked about it a lot.

“I still wanted him to be proud of me, you know? I already knew some about engines and that, so I go see our neighbour who happens to be the shop teacher, and I ask him to teach me about starters. He’s a decent guy. Doesn’t mind me hanging around. He starts showing me stuff and I think he’s shitting me because it’s easy, you know? The old man goes on about rebuilding engines like it’s some kind of brain surgery.”

“Yeah, but you’re really good at it.”

“I didn’t know that. Not then.”

By the end of summer he’d had a couple looks under the hood, found a junk part at the wreckers, figured he could do it. He pulled the starter out, took it apart, built it back up.

“Sounds like a fucking jet engine but it starts. I time it so I’m sitting in the driver’s seat when the old man pulls into the yard. I fire it up, grinning like I really done something.”

“Let me guess, he wasn’t impressed.” Darryl didn’t answer.

“But why, though?’ Pats asked. “I mean, you fixed the bloody car.”

Darryl kissed the top of her head. “Old man was big on knowing your place.”

Pats hauled herself to standing and took a step, then stopped, curling forward slightly.

“You OK?”

She rubbed her hand along the bottom of her belly. “Yeah,” she said.

Later, when Pats was in the bath, Darryl got the book out, and looked up the list of things that could cause belly pain for an eight-and-a-half months pregnant woman: everything from tight ligaments (uncomfortable but harmless) to placenta abruption (potentially fatal).

“Pats?” he called to her.

“Yes?”

“There’s no bleeding, right?”

“No babe.”

“Pats?”

“Yes?”

“Is it a sharp pain? Or achy?”

“Just achy, babe.”

“Pats?”

“Please put the book away, babe.”

“But – ”

“Please.”

He put the book down on the bedside table, and walked into the bathroom. Pats held out the bath sponge, turning her back toward him.

“Everything’s OK,” she said.

“I know.” Darryl squeezed the sponge over her shoulders, watching the white lather run down her arms.

“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer,” Pats said. “A worse ulcer.”

“I’ll just be glad when the little guy is out, and I can see he’s okay.”

“Yeah, but then you’ll worry about crib death,” she said. “Then he’ll start walking, and you’ll worry he’ll fall and bump his head. Then he’ll go to school, and there’ll be bullies. Then he’ll ride his bike in traffic. Then he’ll drive. Then fall in love with the wrong person, or have an asshole boss.”

“Fuck,” Darryl said. “I changed my mind.”

Pats smiled at him, sideways, over her shoulder. “No, you didn’t.”

But at night, tight with a lifetime of things to go wrong, he sort of did. He didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know any of it.

And now it was too late. Pats shifted beside him, her head on his shoulder, her belly pressed against his side. He reached out with his free hand for one of the chalky heartburn tabs she kept on the bedside. The baby kicked him, hard. Pats breath stayed even. How did she sleep through that? Little bugger was so strong. Maybe it was the kicking that caused her bellyache. Tomorrow he’d look and see if it was in the book.

Tomorrow he’d paint the trim and finish the nursery.

Tomorrow.

He breathed in, paused, breathed out, matching his chest to Pats’ peaceful rhythm.

Tomorrow he’d go to the import store.

The baby kicked him again.

Tomorrow.

Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash