Girl on a Ledge

10

I climb over the railing, ten floors up. The wind caresses my cheeks as if to say, “You don’t have to do this, Marcy.” But I do. There’s no other way.

I creep to the edge until my toes are wiggling in space.

“I’ll count down from ten. Then jump, Marcy.”

The voice I hear is my dad’s, though I’m not nineteen years old and teetering on the brink of my balcony. I’m three years old, standing at the side of Grandma’s pool.

Dad held out his arms and started counting. He looked so far away. So, so far. But I trusted him. I knew he’d catch me.

Dad shouted “One!” and I jumped, arms and legs windmilling, my squeal so loud and so high that neighborhood dogs must’ve cocked their ears toward Grandma’s house.

I splashed into Dad’s arms. I was laughing. Dad was laughing.

The whole world was laughing.

9

The windowpanes were frosty on the morning of my ninth birthday. Mr. McNutt was across the street snow-blowing his driveway, and I was cocooned under my Little Mermaid bedspread, wondering what kind of presents I would get later that day.

Dad’s car started before the sun was up, which was weird since he usually left for work after lunch. Curious and a smidgen hungry, I tiptoed downstairs. Mama was at the kitchen table. I thought she might say “Happy birthday” when she saw me, but all that came out of her mouth was the fog of her breath.

I sat beside her, shivering in my pj’s, until she uttered three words that would change the rest of my life.

“Your father’s gone.”

8

According to my eighth-grade guidance counselor, I was “perfectly normal.” Mr. Hawkins even did the air-quote thing during a parent/teacher conference. When Mom asked why a kid with a hundred and forty IQ was making B’s and C’s, Mr. Hawkins swiveled back in his chair and said, “Underperformance isn’t unusual for children from broken homes.”

He didn’t mention that I had few friends, that I ate lunch by myself, or that my fellow eighth graders affectionately referred to me as “gapper.” (Single mom+no money for braces=a gap between my front teeth wide enough to swipe a credit card.)

Did it occur to Mr. Hawkins that my antisocial behavior might be a symptom of depression? Or was it easier to call me “normal,” and let me deal with the darkness on my own?

7

           I stayed in the dark until May seventh, the night of my high school prom. I was on my way to biology, talking to my best friend, Amanda, when Brandon Michaels tapped my shoulder. “Yo, Marcy. Wanna go to the dance?”

I didn’t answer right away. I thought about it while Ms. Miller showed us drawings of the human reproductive system. (Coincidence? I think not.) After class, I found Brandon at his locker. “Guess I’ll go.” I wasn’t sure whether to hug him or shake his hand.

“Cool.” He swiped hair off his bangs and gave me a crooked smile. “Pick you up at seven.”

Brandon pulled into my driveway at 7:45. His breath smelled like hamburgers and Heinekens. I thought the night was going to be a disaster, but Brandon was a gentleman. He escorted me to his Mustang, opened the door as if I were a lady, and held my hand till my fingers were slick with sweat.

Later that night, we kissed on my front porch—a nice kiss with my face cradled between his palms. Would’ve been perfect if it hadn’t been for a pink-winged moth buzzing between us. Brandon tried to kill it, but I stopped him. Poor thing must’ve been surprised the lights were finally on.

6

Brandon told me to come to his house at six. His dad was on a business trip—to Boston, I think—and his mom was supposed to be at yoga till eight.

He’d been asking me for months, three months to be exact. I finally told him yes on a Tuesday in August. After my shift, I swapped my Cracker Barrel apron for a strapless blue sundress.

Once I got to his house, we slinked back to his room. I lifted the dress over my head and slid under his covers. I wasn’t wearing any underwear. Brandon crawled in beside me, mouth-breathing and sweating.

The whole thing was over so quickly. After Brandon rolled off me, I stared up at his ceiling, watching the fan make lazy circles overhead. I was naked, I was scared, and I was pretending not to cry.

5

I bought five pregnancy tests, peed on five plastic sticks, and got five identical results.

Congratulations.

I told Brandon the “good news” on the way home from school. He pulled his Mustang into a Whole Foods parking lot and left the engine running. Prada-toting mothers passed our car, perfect babies in tow.

Brandon gripped the steering wheel as if it might fly away. “Wanna go now?”

“Go where?”

“You know. Where they take care of it.”

Not him or her. It.

“I’m going to have the baby,” I said.

Brandon’s hands shot into the air. “You can’t have a baby, Marcy. Don’t be a bitch.”

Brandon was right about one thing. Waitressing at Cracker Barrel was barely paying my rent. No way I could add diapers and doctor visits and all the things a kid would need. But I wasn’t going to walk away like my father either. And I wasn’t gonna be anybody’s bitch.

“Don’t you ever call me that again.” I got out of his car and kicked the door shut.

Tires squealed and Brandon was gone.

4

I felt a kick at the beginning of my fourth month.

“It’s probably gas,” the ultrasound technician said, as though I didn’t know the difference between a baby and a fart.

Ms. Bedside Manners powered her monitor and waved her magic wand across my skin. At first, the image was nothing but a blob of black and white pixels. But as the picture came into focus, a head emerged. Then legs and arms, fingers and toes, a heart and a brain.

“Got yourself a baby girl,” the tech said.

As I stared at her screen, something bloomed inside of me: an understanding that I was part of a bigger story, a melody in a song that had begun before my birth and would continue long after my death. Right there, with my belly slathered in gel, I named my baby Lily Marie.

3

Lily became the Arnolds’ third child. Their oldest, Joshua, was their own, and Sarah was adopted from China when she was two. With Lily, we had what was called an open adoption, which meant I could visit from time to time.

At first, the Arnolds seemed to like having me there, especially when I babysat Josh and Sarah. But around Lily’s first birthday, I noticed more sideways glances, more “Honey, can we talk in the kitchen?” remarks. Then, just last week, Donna told me they were moving to Sydney, Australia, which seemed about as far from Schenectady, New York as they could get.

“That’s not fair,” I protested.

Donna patted my arm as if I were a lap dog. “It’s for the best, Marcy. We’ll send you pictures.”

Three times I pleaded for them to stay. Three times they said no. Out of options, I did what I had to do.

2

Two bullets. I prayed I wouldn’t need either one. Maybe a warning shot in the ceiling—something to show the Arnolds I was serious—but I never planned to hurt anyone. I only came to take what was rightfully mine.

I aimed the gun at Marc’s head while I lifted Lily out of her crib. Donna wailed in the corner, her face looking as if it might implode.

From their house in East Greenbush, I drove downtown to my apartment. Stupid, I know, but I thought I might have some alone time with Lily. Maybe an hour or two. But I’d barely closed and locked the door when a swarm of blue lights surrounded my building.

Singing softly, I swaddled Lily in my old baby blanket and set her on the carpet, face up, just the way I’d read in Your Baby’s First Year.

What next? I picked up the gun. Two bullets. Use one?

No. I didn’t want to wake up Lily.

1

I stare into the abyss. Another voice calls out to me. Not Dad this time, but bent-backed Mrs. Spenser, preaching to our first-grade Sunday school class.

“It’s a dark and sinful world out there,” she’d said, her wrinkled finger waving in the air.

At the time, her message was lost on me. A child of Disney, I’d grown up believing life would end with a “happily ever after” and a catchy pop tune. Looking back now, I know Mrs. Spenser was telling the truth. I wonder, then, about the other things she’d told us.

“The next world will be different. There are no tears in heaven.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe my real Father will catch me in his arms and carry me home forever.

I smile at the thought and shout, “One.”