Unfixable

She says, “I’m pregnant.” He had been working in the garage, cleaning the drawers of his toolbox. Wrenches and drill bits and a hammer that had been his uncle’s, given to him on the day his father passed away, lay around him, caked in the dust of the far back corner of the garage where his toolbox has sat, unattended, for months. Maybe years. But yesterday, when the handle of the silverware drawer had become just a little too loose he had decided to fix it, and so found himself faced with the task of finding the appropriate tool within the mess of this box. But, while the drawer handle in the kitchen remained just slightly loose, he had set out on the journey to clean out and reorganize the box. And it is at the point that he has reached the far back corner of the bottom section and rubbed out the last little oily spot that she says, “I’m pregnant”. He pauses, first looking at his warped reflection in the polished chrome handle and then up at her. The glow of the yellow garage light casts pale shadows across her face. He searches her eyes for a clue as to what his reaction is supposed to be and comes up blank.

She had known for weeks, but she had ignored the signs. Every feeling and twisting of her insides told her change was coming. She had stopped by the drug store on her way home from work and bought four pregnancy tests, two each of two different brands. She had heard stories of faulty tests and false reads. She had to be sure, but was not sure of what she actually wanted to be sure of. Then, when she had pulled up in front of their home, the weight of the small brown paper bag on her lap frightened her. She had unrolled the top and looked in to see the four rectangular boxes spelling out her future. She stared at the boxes, lost in trying to decipher their meaning. She had crumpled the bag up and stuck it in the pocket behind the passenger side seat. She would just ignore it, she had decided. And there it stayed, wedged in next to the Thomas Brothers map that her mother insisted she keep. In case of emergencies. What if your phone dies? The map was over a decade old but it saved her from the lectures about the failings of technology her mother would have heaped upon her on their weekly drives to the farmers’ market. Her mother’s worries would mix with the smell of fresh-baked bread and the earthy aromas of root vegetables and fill the car with a damp suffocation as they drove back along Bradley Street. Bradley Street was not listed in the Thomas Brothers map. And it was just before this outing to the farmers’ market that week that she had remembered the brown paper bag and removed it so as not to alarm her mother. Those worries would be highly more suffocating and not as easily quelled.

They had discussed having kids, she and he. Several times. A couple of times. Sometimes she heard the clanging of her clock within, but he had just got that new job and wanted to wait until things settled down at work. He was certain that the excuse of children at home would be less frowned upon for men who had put in their time with late nights at the office, those who had earned some leniency. Other times he was ready to go, but she realized she still had things to do before being strapped in behind the wheel of a mom-mobile. Things she had always wanted to try, but had never tried, but knew she never could try with a small child clinging to her side. But that had been months ago, years ago, and life moved on. Each had taken on the assumption that it would happen sometime, just not at this time, and that was okay.

“I’m pregnant”, she says again. The dimmed lighting of the garage makes her look old. Did he look old? He didn’t feel old. Except on cold mornings. He caught himself on walks to the bathroom after getting out of bed making the same noises his father had made. Old man noises. But he isn’t as old as his father had been, is he? Maybe he is. Maybe he is too old now to be a dad. In the dim light of the garage he begins to do the math. How old would he be when this new person was going into kindergarten? Learning to drive? Going off to college? Had they waited too long?

She searches his eyes for some kind of reassurance. Something to tell all the voices in her head, the ones saying that this was all wrong, that this was alright. That everything was going to be fine. This is what they wanted, right? But there’s nothing there. His eyes look back with a question, one that she cannot answer because she has too many questions herself. And it is the surge of all her questions and those dancing in his eyes that bring forth the tears that start to leak down her face. He sees these tears, and begins to cry as well. Not the happy tears he assumes hers to be, but ones of desperation for all the times he had said he wasn’t ready and all the things he’s even less ready for now. They embrace in the shallow light of the cold garage and they try to hold on to the moment that passed just before she said, “I’m pregnant”.

And when the chill of the air grows heavy around them, he pulls away and looks at her again. Her eyes are old, and he knows his are too. He turns to the toolbox, grabs the screwdriver, and heads to the kitchen, determined to fix the one thing he can.