Disheveled

On the first weekend in March, I went up to Moose Lake to buy my first car. Sure, I had had cars before but I had never bought one on my own. My first car was given to me by my sister. My second, and most memorable car, was purchased from an Iranian man at a dealership in Portland by my ex-husband. The third was a gift, more of a trade actually, given to me by my brother. That car was totaled in an accident, if you could call it that. The girl who backed up into me had green hair and was only going 10 mph (if that). It was so cold that the back of the car cracked because of the frigid air. The bumper was hanging on by a string as I drove to work that late January evening. It took almost two weeks for the auto body shop to deem the car totaled, but I received a check of a little over $1000 to go towards a new car, or a plane ticket, or whatever I wanted really. I figured I was 23 years old and able and willing enough to buy my own car. My sister had connected me with a guy up north who bought, fixed, and sold used cars. She had been in contact with him for a few weeks so I concluded that he was trustworthy. The car would only cost me $1,500. According to my sister and Kelly Blue Book, I had been cut a pretty good deal.

It was the beginning of March in Minnesota and the roads were terrible. Every day for the past three weeks had been significantly below zero and the roads had thawed and froze enough times where it was almost always dangerous to drive. Since I didn’t have a car, I had to find a ride to Moose Lake. I asked Nate, the guy I had been seeing for several months, if he could drive me up north so I could pick up my car and drive it back down to the cities. He agreed. I had money ready, but just to be sure I wouldn’t reach a certain number in my bank account, I picked up an extra shift at the restaurant I worked at to make up for the time and money I would lose on my Saturday trip up north. Did I mention I was broke because I had recently paid for an

abortion? Nate was obviously the father, but I didn’t tell him until after I had the procedure done. He seemed fine until he went on a spell of severely sardonic jokes. They seemed forced and came one after the other, a coping mechanism for the stale uncomfortableness that had taken over the room when I told him.

Sitting on the couch with his arm around me, we watched a movie I saw in theaters awhile back. I decided to play it because I wanted to make fun of it with him, something we did often. It was one of those movies that’s shown on Lifetime on a Sunday afternoon, yet somehow it found its way to the silver screen. In other words, it should have never made it into theaters or even on FX to be frank. Failing to remember what the subject matter of the film was, I hastily selected it from an amazon prime category that was titled “Popular on amazon prime.” The basis of the film was motherhood. A woman had lost her baby after falling asleep with her on her chest in the bathtub, one of the women had a baby with an abusive man, and the other was barren. When the woman who lost her baby retold the memory, Nate touched my stomach, looked me in the eye with an overly dramatic shocked look and said, “You killed my baby.” If that joke had been made any time after that day, it may have been funny to me. This all took place on the night after my abortion. I was driven to Planned Parenthood early that morning by my friend Amy who was, in her words, “60% prolife.” She really proved this when she stopped for the lady on the corner who was handing out pamphlets with dead, bloody babies on them when she dropped me off.

After a series of bad jokes and fake laughs I finally told Nate that the procedure was painful. He looked at me with a blank stare and then turned his focus, or lack thereof, back to the television screen. I gave it another shot, “And I’m bleeding a lot,” I said. This was only partially

true because I was basically spotting at this point. My body healed quickly. He looked at me again.

“So does this mean we can’t have sex?” He said this sarcastically too.

“Not for two weeks,” I said. Another partial lie. The nurse told me that I could have sex again when I was ready.

“What? Well, I guess I’m leaving then.” Another stale joke. Another fake laugh. Later that night, while lying in bed, Nate began to grow restless. He stirred a few times and then turned towards me. Judging by his motions, I knew what was coming next. He began to tug at my t-shirt. “Can you at least take these off?” He asked me this as he was already performing the action himself. I asked him to stop twice and then gave in and took of my shirt and sweatpants. I figured he would leave me alone after that, but he quickly began touching me again. I asked him to stop and just like his routine of banal jokes, this went on for about 20 minutes. It was as if he wanted me to give up refusing and have sex right after I had had an abortion.

He wasn’t giving up so I said in a voice I rarely use with anybody, “I told you to stop.” The room grew so silent it became loud. The rattling of the train outside my window made itself heard, the soft trickling of the diffuser on the bookshelf and the buzz of white noise battled with each other. I turned to the wall and lay stiff. For some reason, I was more embarrassed that I had to use that tone than I was petrified by what had just happened. I stared straight ahead at the wall. If I hadn’t known the layout of my room, I would have been convinced I was staring into bleak nothingness. Suddenly my uterus began to clench and I fought back the urge to grab hold of my abdomen. Tears stung my eyes before eventually disappearing into the fabric of my pillow case. My subtle cry was interrupted by Nate’s hand grabbing my shoulder. He lay his chin on top of

his hand that was gripping me tightly. In the most sarcastic way possible, he whispered in my ear, “Sorry.”

I didn’t have contact with Nate until four days after that night. During my time of solitude, I desperately searched for another way to get to Moose Lake. I asked my mom, who was a lunch lady at an elementary school, if she could drive me up there on Saturday. I remembered hearing that her school was on spring break that week. A notorious worrier, my mom politely refused as expected, saying the roads were too bad and she didn’t know if her car would make the one and a half hour drive. My mom and I had become distant since I decided to drop out of college in Portland and move back to the cities. Not that she supported my choice to study English anyway. It’s a dead major, she’d say. I researched bus tickets, but there was no direct route to Moose Lake from Minneapolis. I decided to ask my sister, who lives in Moose Lake, to drive the car down to the cities. I offered to pay for gas. When she told me how much it would cost me, I declined. Feeling defeated and a little underprivileged, I asked Nate if he was still driving me to Moose Lake. He said yes and that he would prefer if we left early in the morning. I said that was fine and asked if he wanted to sleep over on Friday night or pick me up Saturday morning. He said he would pick me up around 9 am. I agreed and we didn’t speak until that morning.

Late as always, Nate showed up at 10:15. He rang the buzzer to my apartment, this time without the fair warning of a snowball hitting my living room window. I jumped when I heard the sound. Even though I was expecting it, I could never get used to the loud shrill. I pushed the button to let him in and he walked through the door with swift confidence. For some reason, his confidence never seemed real to me. It was as sarcastic as his jokes were. We greeted one another hesitantly. The same agonizing silence that had filled the bedroom the night after my

abortion now fiercely crowded the living room. After filling my purse with my things, I asked Nate if he wanted to leave right then. He said we could stay and relax awhile before leaving. He looked uneasy. I asked him why he was still standing by the door with is shoes on then. He let out a pathetic chuckle and quickly untied his shoes and walked over to the couch. I tried to lighten the mood by telling stories about my vapid friends and work gossip but he sat on the couch looking tense, uninterested, and a little in pain as he rubbed his palms on his forest green khaki pants.

His uneasiness was contagious. I fidgeted a little, fumbling with my keys before suggesting to leave. Nate finally gave in and we made our way towards the door, every step feeling like a trudge through deep, wet snow. Nate turned to me and suggested we go eat somewhere. “But on the way,” he said, trying not to make a gesture of it. I said okay and we made our way out the door.

The car ride was quiet. It felt like any move I made would irritate Nate. I tried not to speak, but out of sheer discomfort I began talking about my friends and how much I hate almost all of them. Whether it was a topic he was interested in or not, Nate liked to disagree or argue every point I made. This time he chose to disagree with my attitude towards my friends. “Why do you hang out with them if you hate them so much?” At times, every word Nate spoke to me sounded like those of a condescending father.

“I don’t know. They’re my friends,” is all I could muster up in the moment. I looked down at my fingers and chipped at a loosening piece of grey nail polish on my pinky and then my index finger. I tried again, “One of my friends sent me the most ridiculous Snapchat.” Nate was silent, so I felt like I was in the clear to continue. “She took a picture of herself, her hair all messy, and the caption read, ‘Sorry if I’m looking a bit disheveled today. My man ate my ass

like a cupcake last night.’” I laughed at the caption, reminded of how silly it was and wondered if I had ever sent something like that to her, although if I had, I would never tell Nate. “She said ‘sorry if I look disheveled…” Nate questioned, repeating the entire line, but my heart stopped at the word “disheveled,” the word I had pronounced with a soft “hh” my whole life. Dis-Heve-led. Heave. Disheave. Disheavled. How had I not known? That the “sh” in that word meant just that: shh. DiSHeveled.

We reached our destination, after stopping at Doc’s Pub. We ate. We argued. He accused me of being uneducated. I accused him of being unruly. At my sister’s, we smiled, and made small talk. We kept it short. He told her he loved her place. I told her I loved her book collection. We went on a test drive, one that wasn’t worth it. The car was shit—everyone knew it. On the drive, there was a clunking noise coming from the back of the car, like there were pieces of different sized metals colliding in the trunk. It was probably just the old struts that were replaced, clanking together in the compacted space. On the test drive, my sister asked if Nate and I wanted to accompany her at the casino. I held my breath, waiting for Nate to answer. He said he had to get back before dark. I heaved a sigh of relief.

On the ride home, the car shook and jolted. A sharp pain ran from my diaphragm to my loins. I jolted forward with the weight of the car. My head felt tight and cloudy, my chest constricted like two hands were wrapped around my breasts, pressing inward. I pressed my lips together tightly, the things I used to utilize to pour out stories, in that moment seemed useless— fleshy colored lumps, hanging above my chin. My eyes, I wanted to close them and imagine I was on a different road—one that didn’t lead back to my life—the life that had done everything it could to make sure I knew exactly where and who I was. I began to sweat. In what felt like the dead of winter, I drove on a mostly empty highway. I sped past trees and dead grass partly

covered in snow. It looked as though someone had taken a paintbrush and smeared the tans and browns together, the white of the snow making itself seen boldly under the dying sun. I didn’t want to be the snow. But I wanted to be the sun.

I parked in front of my apartment building and turned off the engine. With the twist of the key, the jolting came to a halt. I lay my head on the steering wheel. It was quiet. But this time, the silence wasn’t suffocating. There was no uproar of white noise or the overbearing sound of background clatter. It was just me, alone. I felt safe surrounded by the car’s padded interior. Microfiber upholstery that smelled of trapped dust. Before opening the car door, I grabbed the pack of Camel Blues I had purchased on my drive back to the cities. I didn’t smoke much, or that’s what I told myself anyway. I stepped out into the freezing air; I breathed in. I heaved out. Upon entering the apartment complex, I felt the rattle of the train start up. The steam whistle blew a loud shrill into the night announcing its arrival.

While I lay in bed that night, I stared at my ceiling. The glowing white of the winter night sky peaked through the slits on either side of my curtain. I thought about Nate, and how we would probably never speak again. I thought about the night after my abortion, and how I wished things could’ve ended differently. And then I thought about that damn word: disheveled. Shh. Rattled and unable to sleep, I jumped out of bed and threw on a pair of sweatpants and my winter coat. I pulled a single cigarette from the pack of Camel Blues and headed down towards the back of the apartment complex where the train was visible and the dumpsters sat with their lids half open. I smoked and I breathed.

This would become a nightly ritual until the feeling of Nate’s presence was dim enough for me to sleep through the night. For months I would wake up in the wee hours, smoke and watch the train pass by. Sometimes, I wanted to cry for my unborn child, but I haven’t truly cried

since I was a little girl. I learned not to cry over things I haven’t seen. And all the things I’ve seen are not worth crying for.