Perfectibility of Life
by Constance Gelvin

First off, don't believe everything you read about me and my Mom and...about what happened.

Right now I'm speaking into Shrink Lady's tape recorder. Somebody else will have to type my words up. I'm just going to tell what happened like a story or something, like something that happened to somebody else. Thinking of it that way helps, it really does.

People are saying, like, I can't believe you did that, blah, blah, blah. I know it's hard to explain; I don't even know if I can explain.

I don't feel like a bad person. Everybody will hate me even more when I say this--but it was only after I saw people's reactions that the total wrongness of what I'd done really hit me.

Like when that frizzy-haired lady yelled: "Murderer!" at me outside the courthouse. She wore a "Life is Precious" sweatshirt with a teddy bear hanging from the "L" of "Life." She hawked right in my face; her spit as thick and warm as snot. When I talked to Shrink Lady after it happened, she stared at me like she wanted to jump inside my head.

It's weird being so interesting all of a sudden to everybody, when most of my life I've been invisible.

I'll try and pinpoint what went wrong. First, just the facts: born February 9, 1983, height five two and about a hundred pounds, well, okay, may a few more. High cheekbones, fair coloring and almost invisible eyebrows which I hate.

Shrink Lady made a big issue of my child of divorce status. Which was interesting because that's one of the first things my former New Horizons' roomie told me about herself. She said it archly: A Child of Divorce, so I'd think it didn't matter much to her. A closed-faced girl with a cartoony devil tattoo, she'd been busted for puncturing her wrists with straightened-out paperclips--but this, she never mentioned.

But my Broken Home had nothing to do with what happened. My Dad had never been around much; doctors work long hours, you know. Have I heard from him, now, in my hour of need? I sounded dramatic there, didn't I? Uh uh. I hope the tabloid reporters hound him--after all, they tried to interview my sixth grade teacher. They could ask if he's talked to me, maybe lay a guilt trip on him. But when I imagine him calling me and freaking out, "How could you do this? This isn't the way you were raised!" like he had anything to do with how I was raised. So it's just as well he's not around.

I'm not supposed to read articles--Shrink Lady's orders--about what happened because of my "self esteem issues." But who could resist: "Prominent Physician's Daughter Arrested"?--not me. Or the eye-catching photo taken when I was still wan and puffy, on probably my worst-ever hair day?

Anyway, back to the divorce. A big deal has been made of the fact that, as a doctor's daughter, with "resources" and a "support system" I could do what I did. Because something must have happened for me to make such a dumbass, bad mistake, right? All I can come up with is our Perfectibility of Life thing, and how it ended up biting me on the butt.

So. I'll start at the beginning. One afternoon I walked home, tossed my backpack and coat on the loveseat, kicked off my shoes and Mom didn't even say: "Pick up after yourself, the maid's dead," her idea of a joke. She just blurted, "Your father's getting married again."

I was like: you're kidding, and she said, do I look like I'm kidding? She burst into tears, and I cried, too, in sympathy. He'd known this Ilsa-person for less than a year. She's a rich software developer, which would be cool in anybody else. When Mom said she had a seventeen-year-old daughter, Megan, I got all scared though I didn't know what it was, exactly, that I was scared of.

But I did soon enough, during required visitation to Dad's new house. The first afternoon I read, played Tetris, then looked through his drawers and stuff. He'd put my suitcase in a room with two matching futons instead of beds. "This will be the teen suite," he said, "I can't wait 'til you meet Megan."

Well, I could. I said I wanted some "alone time" with him, to "bond" (I was shameless) which he couldn't refuse. But get this: at dinner that night he whipped out (stupid me, I'd thought it might be a present in the bag) a "My Vacation" album of his rafting trip with the Delightful Duo. He poured over every photo, describing Megan as a white water-loving rafter, a strong swimmer, an amateur astronomer, a skilled wildlife photographer, a talented guitarist with a clear soprano, a camper who left no trace, an upbeat type who always pitched in.

Everything I'm not. The next day Dad took the afternoon off--a shocker--and we were supposed to meet them at the Botanical Gardens, but I felt sick. An odd look crossed his face and he huffed off. I called Mom, crying, and she told me to come back early, take a taxi to the airport.

Dad got real quiet when I said I was leaving. He asked if I wanted him to look at my throat, but I jerked backward. He looked so sad that a lonesome feeling of missing him washed over me. We hugged and I smelled his Dadness, but the spell was broken when he whispered, "Something else is going on with you, Meredith. I have enough love for everybody, you do know that?"

Enough for Mom? I thought.

"Maybe the time isn't right for you to meet Ilsa and Megan. But, just so you know, Megan's always wanted a sister, to ride with--they have horses, you know--"

But of course.

"and to go climbing with, and just hang out."

Hel-lo. I despise horses, I'm afraid of heights, her Ex-Boy-tation posters in the teen suite disgust me (I prefer Deathrocker.) I hated her whole straight A's, blemishless skin, buff body, and dating-the-star-hockey-player self. And I didn't have to meet her to know that.

Back at home Mom pumped me for information about the two superwomen. She frowned, then said, "We must fight fire with fire. You know I believe in the Perfectibility of Life--we will be the absolute best Jain and Meredith we can be."

Beauty is a choice became her mantra which wasn't even original; she got that from this hairdresser guy who called himself a "beauty-ist." Mom threw herself (and a reluctant me) into a self improvement program even more rigorous than when she was Trying to Save Her Marriage. We visualized: her twenty pounds lighter, chunky blonde streaks framing her face, dressed in short skirts and jackets with nipped-in waists instead of the slouchy, comfortable clothes she favored. And me: clear of skin, ballerina posture, a Seventeen-worthy wardrobe, more A's, a doting boyfriend, the whole schmear.

But we also "walked the talk." She would bounce into my room, disgustingly perky, for a morning run. Our fridge was filled with yogurt, fruit and lowfat cheese. We read fashion magazines and countless self-help books.

And you know what? It worked, just like The Seven Secrets of Personal Transformation said it would. I'd gaze at the mirror and woo hoo! I liked what I saw. Mom looked totally different, I kid you not. She got the same haircut as the bitchy Carly on "Covington Place." Our daily runs and her spinning class helped her drop two dress sizes, as she put it.

"The pimp daddies are going to be all over two hot babes like us," I joked. She always laughed when I tried to talk street. I've given up men, she'd tell me, which should have been my first clue--protesting too much, and all that.

So here comes the part about my guy--it's pretty obvious there had to be a guy involved, right? His name is Brad Swenson and I've known him since North Middle School. He'd always wanted to copy my Math homework. He'd gone with Brigitte Schultz all of eighth grade; she's an snobby twit whose mother somehow got elected mayor.

Brad was the first person to notice how good I was looking, other than my best friend Steffie. He made a point of talking to me after French, and I was always Warm and Welcoming. I asked about tennis and his weekend job, I laughed, did everything I'd read in this article: "Just Friends? How to Make Him Crushworthy." (You're probably thinking: what's all this have to do with what happened? I'm getting to that.)

When Brad actually started to flirt with me, I was in heaven. My insides would tingle, and I thought about him all the time, what he was doing now, right now, and whether I should try out for tennis (though I've never returned a serve in my life) or stop by the Wok and Roll where he worked.

Then I got my best report card ever. Mom auctioned off an antique necklace (Dad's family heirloom) on eBay, and put a down payment on a lime green Miata. She had her attorney write Dad to say he had to make the car payments--after all, I'd need a car for college, right? Dad would phone occasionally and was always lavish with praise about my clubs and grades and fitness regimen, and, best of all, he didn't breathe word one about Megan the Magnificent. And me? My stint as the Perfect Girl was addicting, nothing less. And Mom? Well, she forgot all about Being Done with Men when she met the Famous Writer.

She'd dabbled in writing when I was younger, doing the 'Round Town column about society fundraisers and balls and such. She'd published a few poems, and won the Telegraph's Christmas essay contest twice. But she began to write more--Secret #4 of Personal Transformation being: "Harness Your Creativity." Her short story: "Small, Painful Things" won an Honorable Mention in the Rockies Gold Contest. She met Writer Boy because he was one of the judges. They got to talking, and the rest, as they say, is history. And that was the weekend (my first without the neighborhood spinster staying over) that Steffie and I happened to run into Brad at the Compleat Gamester.

After Mom met The Writer, you'd think I'd be glad she'd stopped dropping zingers into the conversation about how Dad "had found a new audience," and how he "preferred adoration to real love." But it wasn't an improvement since our conversations were now full of The Writer's countless charms and witticisms. She barely listened when I'd talk about Brad, "Ah, young love," she'd interrupt, then launch into some anecdote about Mr. Wonderful. Whose name, by the way, is Otis (a hick name or what?) Black Barrington, the barely-famous fantasy writer whose stories are all: when Cynnric the High Templar journeyed to Galaryn and blah, blah, blah. Just so you won't think I'm exaggerating, here's an example of a typical exchange between love-struck Mother Dear and me:

"Brad cut his hand during practice and bled all over his new Sammy Bellweather sweatshirt. When he told me, I said, "Poor baby and--"

"Ah, the genericization of American dress. In Sceptre of ShiningIsle, Otis parodies the whole Bellweather shirts, Swoosh running shoes phenomenon by having the Druid maidens wear--"

"Then I kissed his bandage and he said, 'Meredi, you made my boo-boo all better. And--"

"He calls you Meredi? Tell this Brice--"

"Brad."

"Brad, that if I'd wanted you to be called Meredi I'd have named you Meredi."

See what it was like? But I kept talking to, and laughing with Brad, and accidentally (yeah, right) running into him at the Gamester (where I got pretty good at DragonSquelcher) and then--yes!--he asked me to Winter Wonderland.

We had an amazing time, then skipped out early and went to Renee's Patisserie then walked around downtown, everybody looking at our formal clothes. I felt what it must be like to be famous, which sure seems ironic now. I mean, people always assume they're going to be famous for something good, right? It was the most perfect evening of my life. And now, remembering how he got all quiet and scared when I told him, and how he didn't really come through for me, I still love him. But it really hurts, because how could he ever love me again after what I did?

But I'm jumping ahead of the story. Everything was cool, and Mom was falling in love, too. Even though Otis wasn't exactly a hunk, to put it mildly. He had real granola-ish long hair liberally threaded with gray, and under his eyes were navy blue smudges. Actually, he kinda looked like the mug shots of pervs you see in newspapers.

Mom relished telling me the latest installment of the Adventures of Otis and Jain. "You know the story I'm working on? The one where I couldn't decide if Tina should be a undercover cop or a bulimic? Otis read a draft and said he was 'blown away' by my writing. He said I'm a natural. Can you imagine? Someone of Otis Black Barrington's stature likes my work. He also shared his romantic resume, so to speak. He told me I'm a breath of fresh air, that he'd grown weary of Lainie's posturing, her pretentiousness. A drama queen, he called her."

The short story writer Lainie Calvin had been Otis's last love, and Mom seemed to hate her even though they'd never met. When I pointed out that was exactly how I felt about Megan, Mom said, "Otis says truly gifted individuals stretch their lovingness muscles like they do their creativity ones. Only judgmental, negative drones are jealous, possessive--"

"Sounds like Dad's 'enough love in my heart for everybody' number."

She smiled weakly. "I've mean meaning to tell you…I'm sure Megan's a wonderful girl. I'm looking forward to meeting her and Ilsa."

Huh? I put both hands on Mom's shoulders, looked into her eyes and said, "May the spirit who has taken control of Jain Hubbard, release her now. May--"

"Very funny," she said.

I had dinner with Otis and Mom and it wasn't half bad. At first. He told funny stories about Stephen King whom he called "The Kingster," and I couldn't help but laugh when he described his Honors English teacher who'd flunked him. I wasn't even grossed out by the bread crumbs flecking his droopy mustache. Maybe it was the bottle of wine he drank, but as the evening wore on, the words seemed to pour out of him about: his agent, his hard/soft book deal, his upcoming Fantasmagoria Toastmaster gig, his take on immigration laws, and even his dislike of creamed corn.

Mom didn't seemed to mind, though she'd complained that Dad was "completely full of himself," and had had absolutely no curiosity about her. Otis must have noticed my glazed look, because he asked Mom what she was working on. It turned out she had a copy of a poem in her purse (shades of me at the Compleat Gamester.)

She blathered about how a found poem is one where you piece together your own words with ones you hear or read, on signs, whatever, and said it'd been inspired by my Dad (whom she called "The Good Doctor.") Otis nodded impatiently, probably eager to monopolize the conversation again. Her voice quavered when she read her poem which was about the warm, wet air and being reborn and that kind of thing.

I sat, silent, and fiddled with my silverware. I looked up at Otis and realized he was laughing inside, but pushing it down. It was then I knew, so what happened later didn't come as much of a surprise. Well, the Otis and Mom part anyway.

But I kept my lips zipped when she'd babble about their plans to take a road trip (it was then I knew they were lovers), about how he'd introduced her as his dear friend at the World-of-the-Book Conference, about how he made her vow to write daily, no matter what.

But I didn't think too much about Otis being a jerk who was probably going to break my Mom's heart, because things were heating up on the Brad front. And I mean heating up. When I was just, like, reading in Health and Hygiene, or talking to my girlfriends it all seemed so easy. You just pull back when things get too passionate, and remind yourself about diseases and babies and then you cool off because you respect each other and blah, blah, blah.

But they leave out how you feel when he kisses you and shivers, and smiles and says "I adore you," then moans so softly when you touch him, and...you get the picture. And, well, we're finally getting to the good and the bad stuff now. And, yeah, I'd read about safe sex, and studied the illustrations of question mark-shaped fetuses curled up inside side views of bulging bellied women.

So here comes the part that nobody's going to believe, but I don't care because it's the truth. We didn't use any birth control because we didn't actually have sex, you know what I mean, we didn't, uh, go the whole nine yards, but just fooled around, and touched each other, and, yes, our private parts kinda came into contact.

So where was my mother during this time when I should have been confiding I was Sexually Active? Gone a lot, at first, but I didn't notice 'til later that her absences had tapered off. Once I snuck in late and found her dozing with her cellphone on her lap. And then one night when I thought Mom was at her Book Club, Brad and I got a little, uh, involved, but he had to go close the Wok and Roll, and when I walked upstairs Mom was there. Was that weird or what?

I was totally pissed and screamed at her for invading my privacy, but she just stood there, mute, taking it, which wasn't like her. Finally she said, "Be wary of passion, my sweet Meri-dee-dee. It can make you lose yourself." I sulked all the next day, not that she noticed, but she didn't forbid me to see Brad or give me the sex talk or anything.

Finally it came out. Otis and his supposed-ex Lainie were still very much a couple. Mom had showed up at the Fantasmagoria Conference to surprise him, and she'd ended up being surprised. "I saw this woman kiss him, and, even though she looked nothing like her book jacket photo, I knew it must be Lainie."

Mom screwed up her courage--"Secret #3: Face Your Demons"--walked by Otis and waved. He'd looked taken aback, nodded slightly. She never heard from him again.

I would have been more comforting to her, but that's when I started noticing The Symptoms. You have to believe me, please believe me, that I didn't know what I was experiencing. I've always had irregular, light periods, and what with the dieting and running, well, I thought it was that. I wanted it to be that. And who could blame me? I was still technically a virgin.

And the throwing up? Everybody at school had the flu, a bad strain from Indonesia or somewhere. And, later, the weight gain? I chalked that up to Mom and me getting lazy about running, our snacks of Cheezies and Mocha Madness ice cream instead of fruit. Besides, I only gained fifteen pounds which was less than I'd weighed before our Perfectablility of Life program.

Why didn't I do something, go to the clinic only a couple miles away? Because then I'd have had to admit what was happening, to tell people, and I just couldn't do that. I thought I could will it away. I mean, I'd steeped myself in Your Life is What You Make it, You are What You Think, and what I thought was: please God, please God, just make this go away. Notice I said "this"--it didn't seem real to me.

It didn't seem like a baby. When I told Brad about what was going on, he was, like, completely incredulous, "But we never, you know, actually..." he looked at me helplessly. And one good thing: though I saw a glimmer of the question cross his face, he never once said: "Are you sure it's mine?"

And then, at first, when I felt the thumpings deep inside, I couldn't tell Mom. She was, like, in mourning for Otis. Her energy had evaporated, and only spurts of it surfaced when she looked at me: for she still saw the Perfect Girl. I didn't think she could handle another disappointment, a screw-up of such enormous proportions.

So I decided to handle it myself. I had money checked out, and a duffel packed. When I woke up drenched, I knew. But I still went to school, though several times I buckled over in pain. And I mean pain.

An overnight with Steffie was my cover story. That evening I checked into the EconoLodge, using my own name (much has been made of that), and it was the worst experience of my life. My thighs go weak just thinking about it. Thank God it was over in about four hours.

I squatted on some towels, but didn't look, even when I took the scissors I'd remembered to bring and--gross!--snipped. And all I thought was: get rid of it, just get rid of it. I vomited after I picked up the sodden bundle of towels, and I cried and rested my head on the toilet bowl. I mopped myself up down there.

And that was that.

And no one would have had to know, no one would have been hurt if it hadn't been for that stupid John Rendon, that recycling derelict rummaging for cans in the dumpster behind the EconoLodge. The police investigated, looked at the motel's records, and...busted.

"Your Mom's here." A middle-aged woman in a Rent-a-Cop shirt snarled.

We flung ourselves into each others' arms. "Oh, baby, are you okay? Why didn't you tell me? I would have..."

If you think you know someone, Mom said in an interview later, you're fooling yourself. She's described as cynical, but isn't she right? She cashed in her retirement accounts, and hired a team of medical experts. They testified: 1) stillborn--which makes sense to me, that's why there was no movement or cries. 2) temporary dementia due to untreated toxemia.

And that's why I didn't end up accused of murder. Murder. That word again. Mom had her attorney invoice Dad for half the expenses. He sent me a card with a kitten dangling from a tree branch. Hang in there, it read. Inside he wrote he'd gotten married, and Megan went with them on their honeymoon to Paris. He thinks of me often, and knows I'm strong enough to withstand this "setback."

I've never named the father, but the Tattletale nosed around and announced in an inch-high headline: "Jock Father of Econo Mom's Baby."

And me? I see babies in strollers, a-snooze in carriers strapped to their mother's chests, and, well, it's starting to sink in. That was a real, live, little baby who tried to come into the world. Because I am in the world.

The good news is that the energetic, taking-care-of-business Mom from our Brad and Otis days is back. When I get out, she says we're going to dye our hair, change our names, move to London, put this behind us.

I say nothing, just look at her, perfect in her imperfect love for me.

Constance Gelvin's mystery novel No Reason to Lie will be published by Hard Shell Word Factory in 2004.