Guitar Hero

Kenzie thinks the sun is a hoax but has no problem believing her cat can tell when she’s pregnant. It’s Friday night and we’re in the basement playing Guitar Hero while her parents are at the Stevenson’s playing Canasta. “We should go to Walmart and buy a test,” I say.

“It’s a waste of money, Brock.” She looks down at Mittens doing figure eights between her legs. “Besides, I don’t need to take a test.”

Mittens rubs up against my leg and starts purring. I joke, “Does this mean I’m pregnant too?”

Kenzie doesn’t think it’s funny, but gets the last laugh when weeks later we find out Mittens was right all along. It makes me wonder what else Mittens knows.

—❉—

We talk about getting married. The kind of ring she wants. Whether we hope the baby is a boy or a girl. She holds out her palm and says, “The vein in the ring finger runs directly to the heart.” I want to tell her that’s a myth, that all veins lead to the heart eventually, but I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want to spoil the moment.

Mittens looks at me like there is no way any of this will ever happen.

—❉—

Another month goes by and now Kenzie doesn’t want to have the baby after all, but she still wants to get married. She says we’re both over eighteen so our parents don’t need to get involved. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything at all. But that night, I swipe my dad’s Mastercard from his wallet just in case we need it.

—❉—

Kenzie and I sit together holding hands in a windowless room. The counselor tells us the room has no windows because it’s safer that way. Safer for whom, I want to ask. The counselor says the longer we wait, the more expensive it will be. In the first trimester, Kenzie can take the pills and it will cost $800, but they don’t always work, in which case she’ll need aspiration. I always thought aspirations meant hopes and dreams. I didn’t know they could mean the opposite.

Kenzie makes her decision. They give her some forms to sign, ask how she intends to pay. It’s a business transaction now. I fish out my dad’s credit card and hand it over. They take Kenzie away at 5:00 pm. Half an hour later, a nurse comes out to tell me Kenzie is in the recovery room. I ask to see her, but they won’t let me because I’m not family.

—❉—

Kenzie and I are silent on the way home. She won’t look at me at all. We pull into the driveway and she starts crying. I ask if she’s okay. She just shakes her head and waves me off. I open the door for her. She’s slow to get out of the car. The porch light comes on. I lean in to kiss her, but her face is lost in the shadows for all time.

It takes us ten years to walk to the front door. During this time, our absent child says her first precious words, hits his first homerun, beats me at Guitar Hero for the very first time.