Tiger, Tiger

         Nothing in this story is real, I'm going to tell you that right now. But that's really only because nothing in this story has ever happened to you. It has happened to me, in a universe parallel to your own, where you might say I am the equivalent of you, but it has not happened to you. So when this story is over, after you have heard all that happened and all that I did as your dark twin, your doppelganger, there is no reason for you to fear that these circumstances have somehow crossed dimensions and that you are living this very same drama yourself. Such a thing is mathematically unlikely, and you would never get yourself into the positions and situations that I do, for all our seeming likeness. Just relax, and listen to what might've happened to you, were you just one dimension to the left.

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"Heeey, it's me, I mean, Lisben. I, uhm, was just calling totellyouthatyou'reafather. Yeah. Uhhhm. I'm not going to get an abortion, so don't even bother trying to convince me, or tell me, or whatever. I'm not. I don't expect anything from you, just thought you'd want to know, ya know. Uhm...I was on birth control when we...did it, so I don't really know how that happened, I didn't skip any pills or anything like that, so it's not like it was either of us being stupid or irresponsible. Uhhhm...yeah, all right, just call me back, or don't, either way. I just wanted you to know....  Oh, and don't even think about...there's no way you're not the father, all right? Please don't...insult me by refusing to accept that. .... 'Kay, bye."

I think I pretty much nailed all the important stuff. One neat, if not entirely eloquent speech both informing and relieving him of any duties or obligations he might feel toward me and our mini-fetus. The way I see it, I don't need him, really, do I? I could probably do this on my own, right? If he doesn't want any part of it, I mean. I just don't want him to feel obligated to me, the 5-years-younger, not-even-out-of-college, three-times-is-apparently-the-charm mother of his child. Trapping a man like that would be like capturing an adult tiger from the jungle and sticking it in some shitty, backwater excuse for a circus. Not only sad, but dangerous. And I would never want to force anyone into something this important. That's not to say I wouldn't greatly appreciate some help (I mean, hello? Single mom, still in college? Enough said), but ... I want him to love the kid, not just occasionally see him or her and buy him or her diapers because he has to, because there's some law telling him that's what he has to do. I want to be a mom like my mom – take my kid to the aquarium on Fridays, and not give them too much soda or chocolate so it's still special when they get it, and never forget to squeeze them tightly when we hug because everyone needs to feel like they'll be missed. I'm going to be a loving, supportive parent, just like I've always planned. Except that this is a lot earlier and not like I've always planned... I'll make it work. I just don't want the stereotypical reality-show drama of an uncommitted, disinterested father. I think I'd be better off by myself if he was going to be like that.

The biggest problem I think we have is that we know nothing important about each other. I know his name (first and last), what his skin smells like (smoke, Big Red gum, and a mild, floral soap), what kind of cigarettes he smokes (American Spirits), when his next show is (August 8th), and how comical the smacking noises he makes in his sleep are (very). I know that he's an acceptably smart, generally responsible guy. If he wasn't at least an acceptably smart, generally responsible guy, we wouldn't be in this predicament to begin with. I wouldn't be wondering whether or not he's going to call me back, or if he's going to insist we get married, or if he'll just laugh at me and refuse to accept that it's his. I wouldn't be wondering whether I'm going to be a single mother or have a decent partner who loves our kid. I wouldn't be having a kid.

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See what I mean about the positions and situations? You're thinking, "Holy God, this is what my alter-ego does in her weird little version of my reality?!" I'm sure that analytical shrink mind of yours is ticking through lists to see what on earth could be wrong with me, wondering whether my father was as loving as yours (he was, so that's unrelated to my current circumstances), and whether I was as lost and confused as you were at 13 (I was, and that may have something to do with this, but not enough for you to make a case with). Later, when you're more tired, you'll undoubtedly wonder, in one of those sci-fi-movie moments of light-bulb brilliance, whether the father of my child exists in your world, and, if he does, whether you know him. Could he be your boyfriend? The thought will make you glance sideways at him, lying on the narrow, tidy bed you share, his scruffy curls flattened on one side from the pillow he's burrowed into. Let me just set you straight: he's not my type. You know the father of my child; he's not your type either. He's more dangerous than you like; he smokes too many cigarettes and doesn't need me in the way you're most comfortable with. However, both of our men destroy the usual stereotype by listening to their voicemail and returning their missed calls.

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"Hello?"

"Hey. I just got your message."

"Oh.... Okay." I can't help thinking that this is our first phone conversation. He may return his missed calls, but that does not mean he breaks stereotype enough to call when he says he will. Or maybe he said he probably would.

"Are you absolutely sure that --"

Oh, I do not believe this. "It's yours. You're the only person I've slept with since...yeah, you're just the only person it could be. Can't believe you actually asked me that, I told you already." I'm hurt, but not shocked. Like I said, we know nothing about each other. For all he knows, I might have slept with ten other guys in between our three horizontal tangos. God knows I scrambled into bed with him eagerly enough. How could he know that he's the only person I've slept with without love being the six-month precursor?

"Uh, okay, that wasn't what I was going to ask, so take a moment to get over it and chill and then we can talk."

         His voice was sharp with sarcastic irritation, and my forehead crinkled into a wincing frown. Well, all right, now I felt like a complete childish idiot. "Oh. Sorry."

"Yeah. I was going to ask you if you were absolutely sure that you were pregnant. Like, there's no doubt? The little stick thing couldn't have been wrong?"

That's a much better question, and one that I asked the doctor when she came to me with her tired, pitying eyes and flat voice. "No, it wasn't a pregnancy test, I went to the doctor; they told me. Believe me, I wouldn't have even have mentioned this to you if I wasn't absolutely sure."

        There is the silent sound of him thinking, and again my mind connected him to a tiger, except this time, he's looking for an escape route through a wall of steadily advancing hunters who are preparing to throw a weighted net over him. I felt the same way when I found out, as though the words "You're pregnant" had surrounded my world like a ball python and were slowly clenching away my life, squeezing my options out of the picture. I wanted to tell him that it gets easier to handle the longer you have to deal with it, but I didn't think he'd believe me.

        "I don't really know what to say. Or do. You're way too fucking young for this. Hell, I'm too young for this. Neither of us is ready to do this. This is going to mess everything up for you, you know? All that hard work you did to get into college..."

"No it won't. They have online classes for pretty much everything now, so I'm just going to enroll in those next semester. I'll do whatever I have to do for this kid, and I'm not planning on giving up on my dreams." I'll make it through this. Just like I've done with all the other ridiculous obstacles in my life.

"You say that now, but...Shit. I know you said no, but -- "

"No." I said it before I stopped to consider that I may have jumped to a very wrong conclusion once again.

He sighed into my ear, the sound almost condescending as it crackled through sound-distorting transmitters on its way to me. Maybe that was just in my head, but he always, always brought up my age, the fact that I hadn't done as much as him, or been as heartbroken, I still had so much to experience, blahblahblah, whatever. I've been through more than he knows about, and I came out on top.

        "I can't really see why you're so against it. It's not religious stuff, is it? The whole 'abortion is murder' thing?"

I'm shaking now, like I do when I'm cold, except it's a Southern summer, and totally not chilly. It was not a wrong conclusion. "No, that's not it. I mean, I do think it's...killing something, but not because of religion." I can only think of how sad it is how little he knows me, to think it's religion that's making me unwilling to have the tiny living thing inside me sucked out by some cold doctor's vacuum. "Look, I'm keeping it. End of subject. I don't care what you do; like I said, I'm not going to try to force you into anything. I know you have...your own life, your music and stuff, and I would never forgive myself if I took you away from that, so that's not something I'm asking for." Pause. Take a shaky breath that I'm sure he can hear, and hate myself for it. "I mean, I would love it if you wanted to be a part of this kid's life, but not if you felt...trapped." Like a tiger, I think.

There is only silence. I can't hear him thinking, I can't even hear him breathing. I wait for what I think is an appropriate amount of time, then try to sound as if I've calmly accepted his decision. "All right, well, uh, I guess..." (insert a breathy, self-deprecating chuckle here) "I guess this is it, then."

Finally, the brick wall on the other end of this terrible conversation breathes. "No." Now he's the one hearing nothing but silence, but I'm really, literally not breathing. No what? No what?! "It's not. This is half my mess, and I'm a grown man, not some dumb teenage boy without...whatever. I'm not going to be that guy who gets a girl pregnant, then leaves her lying there alone nine months later. If you can manage it, with school and everything you have to do, then I'll be damned if I can't too. Just..." Here he sighs again, but this time, there is no sting of condescension, just a small weariness, a small glance into the future he has just opened the door to. "Never let me forget that I chose to do this, all right? Because I'm definitely never going to let you forget that you did. Actually...yeah, this is going to sound ridiculous, but let's swear right now, before we go one word farther, let's swear that we'll never blame the other person, we'll never point fingers and say 'You did this to me!' Because that shit will get real old, real fast."

I nod. "Okay. Yeah. Let's do that. It may not actually stop us, but at least it's something to hold ourselves to." I take a deep breath, and realize that he's waiting for me to say something. "I uh, I swear to never blame you for...this. To remember that this was a choice that I, that we made." I swear to never regret our baby, I add inside my head.

"And I swear to never blame you for this either, because you gave me plenty of room to run away, and I chose to be a man and stay. Don't forget that either." He takes a breath as shaky as my own, and I'm shocked to hear what I know is an ironic smile in his voice when he says, "If I ever go back on that, feel free to hit me in the head with a lamp."

        I have never loved his inappropriate, facetious humor more than at this moment, when I see that in his mind, I am finally a real human being, who he needs to get to know and hopefully like. He's going to learn my thoughts on caffeine for children, sleepovers with more than four kids, home births, and appropriate punishments. He may have to deal with the fact that I'm going to be totally lost when I can no longer sleep on my stomach, and that I will probably crave large quantities of questionable ethnic foods. Somehow, from that one moment of dark comedy, I know that he'll be there, teaching our kid how to play Guitar Hero and surf, showing them how to drive stick, and turning them into one of the biggest musical snobs on the planet. The feeling that gives me goes beyond simple relief. It's as though I was in the middle of changing, in the dark, when someone hit the anti-grav switch, but at least now I'm finally floating in an upright position, pinky-locked with another living, breathing entity who is at least not a serial killer or a crack-head or a woman-beater. I won't say it, because that's just asking for trouble and rain and worse, but I'm sure you know what I mean. It really could be.