The Inconceivable Life of Quinn Page 9

  “Jess?” she said. Her mouth was dry. She was scared that saying it out loud would make it true. And she didn’t even know what to say. “Jess?” she said again. “When you’re writing a story, or your screenplay, and you want to describe something, but there aren’t really words that describe it right . . . what do you do?”

  “Quinn. It’s . . . it’s three a.m. What the hell are you talking about?”

  She hesitated. Crickets chirped outside her window. A chorus: be brave, be brave, be brave . . .

  “I think . . . I think I need to have this baby.”

  QUINN

  There was silence on the other end for so long that Quinn wondered if the call had been dropped. She got out of bed and went to the window. Jesse was standing at his, the lamp on his desk casting enough light for her to see his silhouette.

  “You . . . you mean . . . not get an abortion?” he said.

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Wow, that’s . . . wow. That’s huge. I mean, why? You weren’t talking like this at the beach.”

  He was right. And she still didn’t understand how her thoughts had changed so completely. “It’s just . . . this intense feeling that I don’t want to get rid of it,” she said. “It’s hard to explain.” Again, she wondered what you were supposed to do when there was no word for what you wanted to describe. “And it’s not like I’d keep it. My mother said we could discuss adoption. When she was talking to me about the abortion, she said choice is important, that abortion shouldn’t be a knee-jerk reaction.”

  “You need to talk to her again,” Jesse said. “And, I mean, I know that it can’t be mine . . . but what if it is? Shouldn’t we talk about it? It would mean a kid of mine was out there, too.”

  Quinn couldn’t believe she hadn’t even considered that aspect. How self-centered of her! “Of course,” she said quickly. “Of course we’d talk about it. And we’re getting the paternity test results this week, I think.” She had given her mother Jesse’s hair after the beach. “But what if it isn’t yours? Would you think I was crazy?”

  “Well, no. I’ve never been pregnant, so I don’t know what it’s like. But it’d be pretty hard, right? What would you tell people?”

  “I’d leave town,” she explained, “before I started to show. I’d live in the house on Southaven or something. I’d just disappear and come back normal. No one would ever know.” She paused. “I don’t know why it’s here, Jess.”

  “Not to be mean,” he said, “but is there a reason it would be here, ever? It’s just a person. There are billions of us. Is there a reason that any of us are here?”

  Quinn stared up at the city-starless night sky. “I don’t know,” she said. “Obviously, it’s an impossible question. But what if there’s even a tiny chance? It’s not like I know the baby is a mistake I made. So what if . . . what if it’s not a mistake at all? I mean, you believe in fate, right?”

  He took a moment to answer. “I guess.”

  “Like, we were supposed to become friends,” she said. “We’re, like, connected. So, what if there’s something . . . similar. A destiny. What if it’s not a bad thing that the baby is here? And if it is yours, think of how crazy that would be. Impossible even! So what if it was supposed to happen?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” he said.

  Quinn realized she was straying into territory that made her sound like she was high. It was frustrating, because what she wanted to describe felt so real inside her. She tried again.

  “I mean, if we’d had sex without protection and I’d gotten pregnant, I’d probably be like, ‘Okay, that was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done that and this was not meant to happen.’ I think I’d be okay with an abortion then, probably. But I don’t know anything like that. How am I supposed to know that it’s not here . . . for a reason?”

  “Um . . . I don’t know, Quinn,” he said again. “I guess you don’t.”

  On Wednesday, Quinn’s biggest pair of jeans was fresh from the laundry, and for the first time, she couldn’t do the button. Couldn’t do it at all. She wiped her suddenly sweaty forehead, put the jeans aside, and found a pair of leggings that she could wear under a loose tunic. She’d have to buy maternity clothes soon. And how much longer could she stay in Brooklyn without anyone noticing? Whatever excuse she came up with would have to be really, really good for people to believe it.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe Dr. Jacoby could talk her out of this. (No. That wasn’t going to happen. Quinn and Jesse had talked about it ad infinitum during the past couple of days and she hadn’t changed her mind.) Well, maybe Dr. Jacoby could at least help her figure out how to tell her parents. Maybe Quinn could even tell them with Dr. Jacoby there as a buffer.

  She went downstairs. Coffee was brewing, mugs were set out with milk to be warmed by the steamer, but neither of her parents was in the kitchen.

  The house phone’s irritating ring cut through the silence. Quinn answered.

  “Hello,” a man said in a friendly voice. “Is this the Cutler residence?”

  “Mmhm,” Quinn said, grabbing a Greek yogurt from the fridge. “This is Quinn.” Yogurt. That should be good for the baby. All that protein. She had to start thinking about these things now. She was already worried about ways she might have unintentionally screwed up over the summer—drinking an occasional beer or two, not taking those special prenatal vitamins . . .

  “Quinn,” the man said. “Great. Hi. You’re the one I wanted to talk to. Sorry to call so early, but I didn’t know when to catch you. Kept getting your sister when I called.”

  Quinn sat down, more alert.

  “Who is this?” she said.

  “My name is Peter Vega. I write for Gotham Gazer. The online news site? I have a couple of questions for you.”

  “For me?” A chill scuttled down her spine. “Why?”

  “Well, to start, how are you holding up?”

  “Holding up?”

  “With the pregnancy. Your dad said it came as quite a shock.”

  Quinn pressed down on her knees under the table to keep her legs from shaking. “All I remember is that his name is Peter and he writes for some website. I didn’t tell him anything.” She’d hung up immediately, not sure what else to do. “Lydia might know who he writes for. He said he talked to her.”

  Gabe was pacing. “Okay . . . Taylor will follow up with him. She’ll know how to handle it. Tell him it’s a lie, a rumor, whatever . . .” He began typing on his phone.

  “What did he mean, you said it was a shock?” Quinn asked, still processing all of this. “You talked to him?”

  “Of course not. He was trying to catch you off guard, pretend he knows more than he does. You think we can trust the people at the clinic tomorrow, Kath?”

  “I didn’t make the appointment under ‘Cutler,’” Katherine said. She was at the table, next to Quinn. “I made it under ‘Wells.’”

  “Maybe we should consider getting it done somewhere out of the city, instead,” Gabe said. “Just in case.”

  Quinn gripped her knees tighter. There was too much going on all at once. Too much to think about.

  “So, um, the thing is . . .” she began. It had to happen now. “I don’t think we have to worry about the people at the clinic.”

  Her parents turned their eyes on her. Her stomach dropped to her feet, through the floor and into the basement.

  “I think I might want to keep it. I mean, not keep keep, but you know . . . go through with the pregnancy.”

  “What?” Gabe and Katherine said in unison.

  “I’m in no mood for jokes,” her father added. “Not now.”

  “I’m not joking. It’s like . . .” Quinn struggled to find words that weren’t as vague and watery as the ones she’d used with Jesse. “It’s like, if there was someone at the door, and you weren’t expecting anyone, you wouldn’t just send them away without seeing who it was, right? It could be anyone.”

  “Someone at the door?” he said
incredulously.

  “Quinn,” her mother said, eyebrows drawing together. “You’re not . . . you’re not saying you think the baby might be divine, are you?”

  “Of course she’s not,” Gabe snapped.

  “No,” Quinn said. “I just . . . I don’t know. I didn’t make it on purpose. I don’t know how it got here.”

  “We’ll get the paternity test result in a couple of days,” Katherine said. “Then we’ll know.”

  “Only if it’s Jesse’s,” Quinn said. “And even if it is his, it was created in such an impossible way. Even Jesse agreed—”

  “Wait,” her father said. “Jesse knows you’re pregnant?”

  Shit. Quinn nodded. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep it from him. But he’s not the one who told the reporter. I swear. He wouldn’t tell anyone. And he’s been helping me try to remember.” Over the last couple of days he’d helped her fill in a few more things on the calendar, and they’d even practiced hypnosis in an empty study-group room during a free period. Not that it had worked—too many distractions, and it felt totally ridiculous. But it was a start.

  Gabe took a deep breath. “Okay. We’ll talk about that later. Right now we need to stay on track, because I’m not sure what’s going on here. Have you been reading anti-abortion propaganda? Or what? Where is this idea coming from?”

  “It isn’t about abortion in general,” Quinn said. “It’s about the circumstances. The mystery.”

  “The mystery?” he echoed, biting the word. “Are you actually romanticizing this?” His phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at it, his jaw clenched, pulsing a bit on one side. “This is an emotional situation,” he said. “But let’s try to approach it with logic. Okay? Let’s start with what we do know. Once again. Because this is not entirely a ‘mystery.’”

  “Okay,” Quinn said.

  “We agree that there’s only one possibility here. You were impregnated by a man. That is how women get pregnant. Correct?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So in what scenario would this be a baby you want to keep? If it’s Jesse’s baby, you guys obviously aren’t ready to have one. And if Jesse isn’t the father, it’s either someone you can’t even admit to sleeping with, or you truly don’t know how this happened, meaning someone probably hurt you. Is this someone whose baby you want to bring into the world?”

  The same thought had gone through Quinn’s head hundreds of times, and she didn’t know how to argue against it. Partly, the problem was that she didn’t feel any past violence, so had no emotion about it. After that swim at Rockaway, the pregnancy had stopped seeming bad.

  “Not to mention what to do when it’s born,” Gabe continued. “You certainly can’t raise it yourself, whether or not it’s Jesse’s.”

  “I know. I’d put it up for adoption.” She turned to her mother. “You said we could discuss it.”

  “You said what?” Gabe barked at Katherine. Before she could answer, his phone vibrated again. This time he picked it up. “Not now, Taylor, okay? I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” His voice was scarily calm, totally different from the one he’d just used. “Yup. Thanks.” He set the phone on the table and directed his attention back to Katherine.

  “I said we needed to discuss the abortion before she goes through with it,” Katherine explained. “That it shouldn’t be a knee-jerk reaction. That’s what pro-choice is about. I never thought—”

  “Jesus Christ. Which side are you on?”

  “This isn’t about sides, Gabe.”

  “If it’s not Jesse’s, I know I must have been raped,” Quinn said, rubbing her pendant between her trembling fingers. “And I’m going to figure out by who, hopefully soon, and I know it’ll be upsetting. Still, though . . . What if it’s wrong to get rid of it? What if it’s the wrong decision, and I regret it forever? There’s no way to get it back.”

  “I guarantee,” Gabe said, “that will not be your opinion. Once it’s gone, you’ll go back to being the girl you were. What about your grades? And college? The trauma has obviously impacted your judgment. You’re not thinking through the consequences.”

  “I’ll only be pregnant for five and a half more months,” Quinn said. “Then it’ll be over. I’m the one who’ll have to deal with it.”

  “You really think your mother and I won’t have to deal with it, too? Do you have any idea of the difficulties this will cause? At home and . . . out there?” Gabe waved his hand toward the buildings outside the kitchen doors. “I’m running for Congress, Quinn! You’re sixteen years old!”

  “No one has to find out!” Quinn explained, realizing she hadn’t shared the most important part of the plan. “Before I start to look obviously pregnant I’ll go away. Go live in Maine, or something. We didn’t get new renters yet, right? Until then I can just wear baggy clothes. No one will suspect! And I’ll leave before they do.”

  “You’re not going to Maine!” Gabe was shouting now. “You’re not going anywhere. Not since it’s already leaked to Gazer. The lie would be obvious! And what about school? This is irrational, Quinn. Completely irrational. Don’t you see that? Where are these thoughts coming from? What is wrong with you?”

  “Gabe,” Katherine said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But she supposedly doesn’t even know whose it is! And even if it’s Jesse’s, this is completely insane!” He reached out and grabbed Quinn’s wrist, hard, pulling her hand away from her pendant. “Stop touching that damn necklace and tell me—what the hell is wrong with you?”

  A chilly fear swept over Quinn’s skin.

  All she could say was, “I don’t know.”

  What is wrong with you?

  She’d heard those words before, in that same angry voice.

  The memory flooded her as she sat in Dr. Jacoby’s waiting room.

  That summer she was seven. She’d been forbidden from swimming at Holmes Cove after the near-drowning scare in June, but she kept doing it because her friends did. Her mother caught her a few times. The last time it was her father.

  Vivid details flashed in her mind: his khaki pants clinging wet to his legs as he charged out to grab her. Explosive pain in her arm socket as he yanked her from the water. That question: What is wrong with you? The blur of his hand coming toward her face. Her butt hitting the sand, hard. A puddle of accidental pee. That bumpy ride in the car: No more lies! No more lies, Quinn! Questions about her blackening eye at the doctor’s office. The purple lollipop after her dislocated shoulder was reset. Its sweetness made bitter by shame.

  GABE CUTLER

  Gabe didn’t know what he was looking for. Quinn was at the therapist; he was meeting her and Katherine there for a family session in an hour, to talk her out of this insanity. For now, he was alone in her bedroom, searching through the crap in her desk drawers. Looking for what?

  Pictures or letters from a lover, someone whose baby she’d want to keep? Someone she couldn’t tell them about. Someone older, maybe. A teacher? That one who chaperoned those weekend trips? Or a coach?

  That would explain it. Or maybe she had fallen for one of his campaign workers. She’d spent time at the office . . . Different men ran through his mind, fueling his manic energy as he sorted through her mess.

  Looking for something. Anything. Anything to tell him that this wasn’t what it seemed. That she was just plain lying, not that she was really having these irrational thoughts. Anything to get his mother’s words out of his head.

  But there was nothing.

  Her laptop was password protected. He should have insisted on having access to his daughter’s computer.

  He got on the floor, reached under the bed. Pulled out stray socks and cat toys and dust bunnies the size of small children. Found a couple of shoeboxes way in the back. He pulled those out, surprised by their weight, and opened them: folded papers—drawings that looked like scribbles; some unremarkable shells and sand dollars and other junk from the beach; and rocks, probably those fucking rocks she
’d dragged here from Maine. She’d used them to make a damned tide pool on the floor, filled it with water and dried seaweed, and had ruined the wood. She’d saved all of this?

  The heat in his body built. Rage. Hatred. No. It was his mother, his mother he hated. Not Quinn. Never Quinn. He needed to get ahold of himself.

  He stood up, brushed off. Put things back vaguely where he’d found them, but her room was such a sty she’d never know, anyway.

  On his way out he noticed—how had he missed it?—on her dresser, the necklace. He picked it up and squeezed it in his hand. It wasn’t what he was looking for, but taking it at least made him feel like he’d accomplished something. He never should have let Katherine talk him into giving it to her. It was part of Katherine’s whole idea that he should be processing his feelings about Meryl, like when he’d made the mistake of going to see her. Katherine said he needed to stop demonizing her, to stop internalizing the anger.

  But his mother had been a demon, in her own way. If he believed in curses, he’d believe she put one on his daughter.

  QUINN

  Things happened quickly. First, instead of school on Wednesday, a series of hastily scheduled appointments—with Dr. Jacoby and her OB—none of which changed Quinn’s mind. But her parents refused to accept her decision as final until they got the paternity test back. “We want you to be very clear about the facts before you commit to anything,” her father said. Since his explosion, he’d been using his professional “problem solver” voice with her, as if he didn’t trust himself to talk as her parent. Just being in the same room with him made her insides tighten in a vicious knot.

  The paternity test result was due on Thursday afternoon. All day at school, Quinn kept thinking about Scout and Spock, willing one of them to life.

  “Maybe we should keep it,” she said as she sat on Jesse’s lap on a bench near the park a block up from campus when they should have been getting ready for ultimate practice. “If it’s yours, maybe we should run away to somewhere tropical and live off rice and beans and never cut our hair or wear shoes. We can bring it along on our islands trip. Your film will be even better if we’re teen parents,” she joked. Jesse planned to make a documentary about the year they spent traveling.