Ode to Olive

Oh, shit. Well, really it was an "oh, fuck" moment. No, actually, it was one of those moments where you have to break the Commandment about saying The Someone's name in vain, but even in this moment, the blasphemy couldn't cross her lips. Even if it would have helped her, she could not. She scrunched up a little more towards the pillow. Really, her cycle had always been late, never really on that 28 day schedule, more like 34 or 36, and while it had caused some stressful days of anticipation, she had finally gotten used to it. Maybe it would have been better this time, if she had watched it. And even though it was late, she would have dismissed it, but for these, the agonizing stomach pains, the urge to vomit; these were not good. Not even okay. No, they were pretty fucked up, just like she would be in a month or two. Unless.... unless she ran. Unless she told now. She could hide it for a month or two. Unless she could hide it for longer than that. She could jog everyday, she could eat less, wear progressively larger clothes, anything anything anything. The thoughts were starting to spiral; in the back of her mind, she heard her sister start the hair-dryer and her dad making breakfast. Why didn't she keep that list she saved, the last time it was late? The last time she was scared? The list of convents and American hostels...... the pictures of the severe orthodox nuns in their dark chapels ran before her eyes. It was hopeless, she knew it. No one would shelter a 16 year old, especially a pregnant one. If that's what she was. Because, maybe, she wasn't! She was just probably a little sick! But she knew that wasn't the case. She'd never hurt in this place or way before. Big breath. Lie back. Wait for it to dissipate. The next question- does she tell him? He always swears if anything happened, he's totally responsible. He refuses to let her take blame. He wants to keep the child, if ever a thing happened, he says. She always sadly shook her head at him, unwilling to ruin his life, so close to breaking free out of the stagnant place they live. Of course, they never believed it would happen. She was very careful. She put a hand on her stomach. She imagined pushing her hand down, what would happen? Would she kill it? She moved her hand away quickly. That was never an option. Ever. Only in her wildest dreams would she punish an untested human for sins of her own. One hand on her head, one reaching for her glass of water, she called her mom to arrange a day home from school, to quietly think and plan by herself. And pray, that too, if she remembered how.1

Months pass...2

In the car, her music ran softly now, not the loud, vibrant and violent pulsing of months before. At a stop sign, with no one behind her, she took a moment to look behind her. Olive sat sleepy and secure in the somber blue child seat, with a plain white bunny forlornly buckled in the middle seat. What a quiet child. Maybe it was the lack of cutesy baby toys that other children had, or the bubbly talk and music they were exposed to. She gave none of that to Olive. Even Olive's little outfit, down to her tiny booties, was dark, dark green, with a few tiny purple flowers on her overall straps. There was nothing pink or cheery except for the faint coloring on the cheeks of the child. As much as she said she would not punish a child for her sins, unconciously, she wondered if she had, it was hard to remember the last time Olive laughed. However, it was obvious that Olive was going to be intelligent. Probably greater than her parent. Yes, that's singular. Which hurt her. Not Olive, I mean; it hurt the girl- it hurt the her to think that. Olive's father, he- no, the girl stopped herself. Don't think of him. She thought of herself and Olive again. A little funeral marched around the pair; shame, hopelessness, and regret the palbearers. The girl took her foot off the brake and put her car in park. No one was a threat to drive up to this God-forsaken, gravelly intersection (she broke that Commandment a lot now, the name-vain one), and wondered, again, why Olive wasn't in some adopted parents' home right now. She hoped that Olive wouldn't always be this quiet, and if she was, that she wouldn't be so shy. She also hoped, selfishly, that Olive would be, so that she could go and achieve her own goals still. Her desire to change the world had not completely been forgotten, but faded... yes. So faded. Olive looked sleepily at the driver, whose eyes were rimmed with tears that were not allowed to fall. Olive gave a sweet, little smile, and looked more like the Mona Lisa than any baby should. The girl wondered vainly how much Olive really knew, and how much an infant was capable of absorbing. A hog truck appeared in the rear view mirrors. The girl sighed and put her car in drive, rolling up the windows to protect Olive from the smell. Olive's little face tilted down again, her chin on her chest. The girl's heart broke for the infant. It was hard still for her small neck to support her head, but she tried, she tried so hard, even at such a young age, at so many things, and the girl knew, in her heart, that her whole life, Olive would try. And try, and try, and try.