Jumping Off Swings (19 page)

Caleb and Dave were pretty upset when I told them, but they’ll get over it. They understand. My parents say a fresh start is probably a good idea, but they both look sad when they say it. I wish it meant a fresh start for them, too. But who am I kidding? Is there really such a thing? Whatever. One more month and I’ll be out of here.

The crickets and frogs sing away as I walk through the warm, dark air, all the way to the chain-link fence. I run my hands along it until I come to the gate. Then I stop. I put my fingers through the metal wires and push. The gate whines as I move it forward.

I walk across the dew-covered grass, cut smooth by the same ancient guy who’s been cutting it every summer since I was a kid. Dave, Caleb, and I used to beg him to give us a ride on his mower. He never did. He always said he would if he could, but it might get him fired. Or that if he gave us a ride, then he’d have to give all the other kids one. But he knew we were the only ones around. We were the only ones that came every day, by ourselves. We were the only ones who really needed a ride on that stupid mower with him.

When I get to the swings, hanging still in the darkness, I’m almost afraid to touch them. Just like always.

I know her hands touched these chains. She sat on this seat, with the baby inside her. Swinging inside her. And so this is all I have left.

The last day of school I went to her locker to fix the word, but someone already had. Probably Corinne. I couldn’t even do that for Ellie.

I screwed up even that.

I turn around and reach for the chains, back up with my legs, and let go.

I start pumping.

The warm air blows against my face.

I close my eyes.

I fly forward, then fall back.

I pump harder, rising higher with each swing.

But it’s always the same.

No matter how far I go forward, I swing back just as hard and fast.

I keep trying anyway.

I keep thinking, maybe this will be the night.

Maybe I don’t have to wait another month.

Maybe this time,

if I pump hard enough,

I can jump off

and fly

right

out

of

here.

C
ORINNE IS DRAGGING ME
to the grocery store. She wants to buy cake mix for Caleb’s birthday party. She thinks it will cheer me up to bake a cake. I don’t tell her about the dream I had last night. The same dream I have almost every night.

I’m in the hospital, holding him. He’s all wrinkled and red, the way he was when he was born. So small and fragile-looking. At first I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. He’s so little. But as my arms get used to him, I relax. I lean forward and kiss his soft little head. His dark eyes look into mine. He’s such a warm little bundle in my arms. Even though he’s tiny, I feel his solid weight against me. Until a nurse comes and lifts him out of my arms. And I wake up cold and weightless.

“Where’s the damn baking aisle?”

Corinne doesn’t see me touch my empty stomach. She doesn’t know I trace the scar with my finger before I fall asleep. Most people don’t even know I have the scar. People who don’t know me don’t stare at me anymore. They don’t give me those disapproving looks. They can’t tell by looking at me, the things that I’ve done. They can’t tell I ever had a baby. Or that I gave him away.

I’m following Corinne down the cereal aisle when I see him. The baby boy. He looks right at me and smiles. I glance around to see who’s watching. The woman pushing his cart is a few feet away, comparing labels on Cheerios and Special K boxes.

She doesn’t see me smile back at him. She doesn’t see him reach toward me with his tiny hand, like he wants me to pick him up and carry him away.

I step closer, ready to take him. Ready to lift him out of that seat and run. But then Corinne is behind me with three cans of frosting and I have to help her decide which one Caleb would like best.

Before we go, I turn toward him again. Corinne turns, too. He sticks out his hand and reaches.

“Bye-bye,” Corinne says. “Look how cute, Ellie. He’s waving bye-bye.”

Corinne waves back. She doesn’t understand that he’s too little to know how to wave. Only I know he’s reaching for something. For his mother. For me?

I start to go back to him. But then the woman is there. He makes a giggly noise when he sees her. She kisses him on the nose.

Corinne takes my hand. “C’mon, El. Let’s go.” Her hand is warm and strong in mine.

I squeeze it, and she squeezes back. I start to say OK, but the word gets caught in my throat. So I just nod.

Corinne pulls me down the aisle, away from the baby. Past Tony the Tiger and Fruity Pebbles and the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

I don’t turn around, but I can still hear him behind us.

“Gaaaaaaaaaaa,”
he cries just before we turn the corner.

Good-bye.

JO KNOWLES
is the author of
Lessons from a Dead Girl,
an American Library association Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers.
Jumping Off Swings,
she says, was inspired partially by a girl from her high school who got pregnant. “When she came back to school after having the baby, no one said a word about why she’d been away. Her ex-boyfriend acted as if nothing had happened. I used to watch him in the halls and wonder if he’d been changed at all. One night she told me it was her baby’s birthday, but she hadn’t seen him since his birth. I could see the pain in her eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about the silence surrounding what had happened, but how it must have changed so many people’s lives. I wanted to explore how one pregnancy can affect many people in vastly different and profound ways.” Jo Knowles lives in Vermont.