Free Empty Arms: A Novel by Erika Liodice

“What’s so funny?”
    “Oh come on, Jonathan, don’t be a sucker.”
    His cheeks blazed. “What are you talking about?”
    “A sick aunt in Florida?” Her grin grew wider. “That’s totally code for maternity home.”
    Her words knocked the wind out of both of us, but no one noticed my reaction. Everyone was staring at poor Jonathan. His jaw fell open, as did mine, and we both stood there, frozen like statues. Suddenly it all made sense, the nausea, the tiredness, and the crying spells—I was pregnant
.
    “Fuck you, Angela,” Jonathan said, his voice trembling with fear. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned and ran toward the school and Angela just laughed.
    I did the math in my head as we walked across the parking lot and into the auditorium. I followed her toward two empty seats in the last row. While Angela talked about the first big bash she was going to throw, which meant she was over the whole James thing, I half-listened and sifted through dates in my mind, counting how much time had passed since July 28. It had been almost seven weeks since my last period. And about five since I’d had sex with James.
    “Good morning, ladies and gentleman.” Father Thomas’s voice boomed through the speakers. He raised his hand to quiet us. “May the Lord be with you.”
    How had August come and gone without it?
    “And also with you,” everyone but me responded.
    Worse yet, how had I not noticed?
    I felt a tap on my shoulder. Sister Josephine’s big, round face and stern brown eyes glowered at me. “Pay attention,” she warned, pointing her finger at me. When she moved on to the next offender, Angela looked at me and I rolled my eyes. “Bitch,” she muttered and we both grinned. The problem was, Sister Josephine was right; I hadn’t been paying attention—to anything. I’d been so wrapped up in losing James that I hadn’t noticed my absent period. But pregnant? It seemed impossible. So impossible, in fact, that as Father Thomas droned through his sermon, I decided that I was just late
.
Very late.
    I started wearing a panty liner every day, anticipating its arrival. I was certain it would sneak up on me and ruin a pair of pants or embarrass me when I went to write on the chalkboard. But every time I went to the bathroom the panty liner was as spotless as a blank canvas. It will come, I told myself.
    But it didn’t.
    And instead, my pit stops at Mr. Buckley’s farm became a daily ritual.
     
October 3, 1972
     
     
Dear James,
     
     
In case you’re worried that I’m mad at you for not writing, I’m not. But I really need to talk to you. I just found out that I’m pregnant. Nobody knows yet, not even my parents. I don’t know what to do and I’m scared. I’m not sure how long I can keep this a secret. Please call me as soon as you can.
     
     
Love,
     
     
Cate
     
    Every afternoon I checked the mailbox, but like my elusive period, his letter never came. Waiting for him to write gave me new appreciation for the term “stir crazy.” I chewed my nails down to the quick, and Mom scolded me and made me paint them with a clear, bitter-tasting polish. I don’t know if it was my anxiety about my secret pregnancy or the surge of hormones I’d read about in the pregnancy book I’d sneaked a look at in the public library, but the bitterness tasted good and it spurred my habit.
    As if waiting for James’s letter wasn’t torture enough, horrifying things were happening to my body. One morning, I stumbled into the bathroom to find a swollen red zit camped out in the middle of my forehead. It was the thick, meaty, unpoppable kind that no amount of concealer would cover up. I poked it with my index finger and flinched under the pain. I skipped school that day and locked myself in the bathroom, scrubbing my face with soap and hot water until my skin was crimson with irritation. I tried icing it, which helped a little, but it hardly mattered because two new pimples appeared along