Underneath

((Sensitive content: abortion, church trauma, PTSD, intrusive suicidal thoughts))

I gingerly transferred another hot-pink-frosted cupcake from the box I was holding onto the tiered glass stand in front of me, holding my breath as my shaking hands threatened to smush the fragile frosting against the neighboring cupcakes.

“And when you’re done with the desserts, you can do the confetti—it’s in my blue bag underneath the gift table.” Mom’s black heels clicked out a staccato rhythm on the polished hardwood as she bustled about the large church meeting room, disciplining the chairs into military-precise lines, making minute adjustments to the elaborate pink balloon-and-flower backdrop, tugging the pink lacy tablecloths with her red-manicured fingernails to be perfectly even on the round tables.

I turned the glass stand and painstakingly eased my fingers underneath another cupcake’s sticky top hat.

Mom stood back for a second, hands on her hips. “I’m going to go check on the signs and decorations outside,” she said.

“Ok.” I tried not to sound too relieved.

I carefully placed the cupcake, adjusted it slightly, rotated the stand, and picked up the last cupcake in the box.

“Cass! I didn’t think you’d be coming!” A voice startled me, causing me to drop the cupcake, hot pink frosting smearing on the box, my skirt, my leg, the floor.

I swore, swallowing the lump in my throat, then turned and gave my sister-in-law a smile that felt as fake as the pink dye in the cupcake frosting.

“Yep, I’m here.” I tried not to eye her basketball belly, which her hands were rubbing absentmindedly. “Wouldn’t miss it.” My voice threatened to belie that yes, I would actually rather be anywhere else but here.

“I just thought—what with…” Hannah trailed off, her eyes full of pity. “I would have understood if you hadn’t come.”

I swiped a pink napkin off the dessert table and bent to wipe at the frosting on the floor. “Thanks,” I mumbled. I scooped up the ruined cupcake, wrapped it in the napkin, and tossed it into the trash along with the smeared box. Unable to meet her eyes, I looked down at myself and gestured at the mess. “I guess I should head to the restroom and clean up before the guests come.”

I wet several paper towels and turned the lock on the stall door before scrubbing at the hot pink frosting. It came off my leg easily enough, but simply smeared more into the crinkly blue fabric of my skirt the more I scrubbed.

Red in water fades to pink…pink smears that stain, no matter how much I scrub.

I threw the wet paper towels onto the floor, hard. Splat.

Rain of a shower, smearing red. Clumps of red. Splat.

I stood up, shaking, wanting to scream, run out of this room, this building, this life.

The door to the bathroom opened, and I heard a couple voices I recognized, ladies from church I was acquainted with but didn’t know well. I withdrew my hand from the latch and made myself as small as possible.

“—for the longest time,” the elder’s wife, Darla, was saying. “I don’t know what made her change her mind. Probably was one of those accident babies. Anyhow, they’re having the baby and so we’re here! Third baby shower this month. Boy, all these showers are getting just a tad bit expensive!”

The ladies headed into their respective stalls, and I debated making a break for it. I debated a little too long. A stall door opened and I swallowed, easing back onto the edge of the toilet seat as silently as possible. The other door opened and faucets turned on, the conversation picking back up.

“It’s such a shame with his sister,” said the other woman. I couldn’t remember her name, but her face popped into my mind—round cheeks, full lips, wide eyes—the picture of innocent openness, I had always thought. I stuffed my knuckles into my mouth as I became the topic for slaughter.

“Yes,” said Darla, with a sigh. “That girl was raised to know better! She was raised in this church. I shudder to think that she was in Sunday school with my boys all these years!”

I bit down, the pain shooting from my fingers the only thing keeping me sitting perfectly still—like a grainy black and white photograph, I thought. Silent. Unmoving.

“I heard she almost died! Can’t be too careful these days,” said Ms. Innocent, clicking her tongue. “Good parenting just can’t guarantee—”

Blessedly, the restroom door opened and someone else entered, the conversation ending as the two gossips exited the room.

I remained there for I don’t know how long, staring blindly at the soggy paper towels on the floor, my emotions mixing together like flushing water in a toilet, swirling with red.

Red. So much red. Silence settled and I barely noticed, yet embraced it.

The restroom door opened again and Mom’s heels tapped into the room.

“Cassandra?”

I blew my breath out and stood slowly, my knees hurting from being tensed so long. “Yeah.”

“Are you—do you need to go back to the hosp—”

I unlocked the stall door and stepped out over the paper towel mess. “No.”

The tension in her face eased for a half-second, then was replaced by frustration. “What are you doing hiding in here? This is your own sister-in-law’s shower. Your own niece!” She pressed her lips together, her perfect red lipstick at risk.

I looked away and turned the faucet on, holding my hands under the water. I felt the water warm, then ease to hot, but I still held my fingers under the water, not looking up at my mother, not saying anything. What was there to say?

Mom grabbed my elbow. “I will not have you ruin this event,” she hissed. “This is not all about you. You might have thrown away everything I ever gave you, and made your own stupid decisions, but this afternoon is not about you.”

Steam began to rise above the faucet. I hadn’t realized the water in the church bathroom could get this hot. It burned my hands, but still I held them under the water, mesmerized by the tumbling flow. If only it could burn away the rest of me.

Mom jerked her hand from my elbow and slammed the faucet off. She stalked toward the exit but stopped and spun back to me. “Oh,” she said, as if she had just remembered something. “You probably know better than this already. But when your grandmother arrives, if you breathe a word to her about all of thi—”

The door opened behind her, almost hitting her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Carrie.” The voice I loved more than anything else in the world wafted in, the woman who owned it following.

My mother shifted uncomfortably, then faced her own mother, smile frozen into fake politeness. “It’s Caroline, Mother. Remember? You are the one who gave me the name when I was born, after all. And nothing to be sorry for. Cassandra and I were just about to start the party. Right, Cassandra? We are running late already.” Mom held open the door meaningfully for me. Gulping, I hastily grabbed a paper towel, dried my hands—wincing at the tenderness of my skin—and tossed the towel into the trash before preceding her out of the room, grimacing apologetically at Grandma.

“Something’s missing,” Mom muttered, surveying the decorated room filling with guests. “Ah! The confetti! Cassandra, I asked you to take care of that!”

As she greeted guests, I drew a deep breath, then plunged underneath the gift table, rooting through Mom’s bag for the mentioned confetti. Finding a plastic package with neon-bright cutouts, I stood back up—then quickly reached a hand to the wall, waiting for the spots in my vision to clear. I glanced around guiltily, but no one seemed to have noticed, chattering busily to their neighbors and oohing and ahhing over the decor, Hannah’s adorable tummy, each other’s outfits.

I opened the package and snorted. My mother’s budget must have run out right at the “confetti” item on the list, because the shiny punched pieces were horrendous. Iridescent bright pink chubby cupids interspersed with hearts and more hearts, the confetti looked like it had been bought off the Valentine’s clearance shelf. Maybe it had. I shrugged and began scattering the stuff on the tables.

I had finished the fifth table when I glanced at the confetti in my hand and paused. Between the fat naked angels and laughable hearts, I spotted a half-cupid that had lost its other half somewhere. Looking back at the table I had just sprinkled, I realized that, scattered in with the correctly punched confetti, were pieces that had not been cut correctly. A slice here, a piece there.

A foot.

A belly.

A head.

I hurriedly sprinkled the rest of the tables, then began picking the broken baby pieces up. A torso. Legs. Another head. A teeny tiny hand.

I slipped into the kitchen and reached my hand full of miscut confetti over the trash can, but I couldn’t make my fingers release. Instead, I found myself tucking the baby pieces into the pocket of my skirt.

“For our first game…” I heard my mother say. I shuddered.

Screams of laughter poured through the kitchen door. I thought about turning on the hot water in the faucet again. I thought about crawling under the sink. I thought about turning the handle of the exterior door and walking outside into the concrete and grass and air. Into the road, and traffic.

The party room was suddenly silent. “And the winner is…” My mom could be a crowd-pleaser when she chose to turn the charm on. I shook myself.

I brushed my hands on my skirt and re-entered the room. Mom had saved me a seat on the other side of Hannah, near the front of the room, and I was conspicuously not in it. Ignoring the heads turning toward me, I crossed the room, head held high. I lowered myself into my seat, Mom talking on as if I hadn’t just made an awkward entrance.

“…and I’m just so happy about my first grandbaby!”

She had been livid about the second. My hand slipped into my skirt pocket, fingering the pieces of babies.

I couldn’t look at anyone. I felt the whole room’s attention on me, even Hannah’s and Mom’s, despite their studious not-looking at me.

The shower dulled into a miserable blur, until we broke for dessert and socializing. Grandma sidled up to me. “I never got a chance for a proper hello,” she said. “Hello, Cassie dear.” She wrapped her warm arms around me and I melted into her. I pressed my face into her shoulder, breathing in her peppermint fragrance, and sobs threatened to take over.

But I couldn’t break down here, now. I pushed myself up and out of her hug, swallowing the sobs furiously.

“Why, Cassie, are you all right?” Grandma’s eyes held worry—real concern—real care. Her love threatened to capsize my floundering boat. I turned away so I wouldn’t lose control completely. I could feel eyes on me, and whispers starting around the edges of my periphery. I wiped at my nose. “I’m okay,” I lied. I would never be okay again.

Grandma squeezed my hand, concern still in her eyes. “Let’s get some dessert,” I managed.

While in the dessert line, I heard Mom laugh behind me, obviously talking to someone else. “Oh yes, it’s perfect timing! Josh will be just finishing up his master’s degree.”

My shoulders stiffened. Timing had been her stickler word in our…discussions.

Linda, the pastor’s wife, laughed in a dreamy way. “Why, maybe if little Sabrina comes just a tad early, she’ll be here just in time for Mother’s Day! May is such a good month to have a baby.”

According to Mom, October most definitely wasn’t.

I finagled a seat for Grandma next to me for the rest of the shower. Let Mom hate it. This was Grandma’s own first great-grandbaby after all! She belonged up there with Hannah just as much as anyone. I soaked up the comfort of her presence, her pats on my hand, her quiet confidence, her sweet kindness. She shared a bubble of safety around her that helped me not mind the not-stares quite so much.

I tried to remember how things had fallen apart with my mom and my grandmother. The relationship had always been tense as far back as I could remember, but the iron and ice had only entered in the last few years.

I recalled a fight they had had. I hadn’t heard all of it, just bits and pieces from Grandma’s basement stairs where I had escaped as soon as the tensions had boiled over, yet paused to eavesdrop. It hadn’t been the first fight, but it was the biggest fight I could remember—and had it really been the last? Was an argument over what kind of church they each went to really enough to effectively end the relationship?

“They’re fakes!” Grandma had said, emphatically.

“And the people you sit in the same pew with every Sunday are what? Jailbirds? Illegal immigrants? Drug addicts? Prostitutes?” Mom’s voice had gotten shriller with each word. “It’s a wonder you haven’t had your purse stolen! Or been mugged in the parking lot!”

Then Grandma had said something in a lowered voice, and Mom had stormed out of the room, calling for me, telling me it was time to leave.

I eyed Grandma next to me, ignoring the room’s squealing over the latest adorable gift set of onesies being opened. She caught my eye and smiled back, squeezing my hand.

I followed her out to her car after the shower, both of us blinking in the bright spring sunshine. Grandma’s faded red car stood out in the parking lot of shiny waxed vehicles—older, rusting, missing a hubcap.

“It was so good to see you, Cassie.” Grandma folded me into a goodbye hug. “Let’s not wait so long until next time.”

I stepped back when she let go, and brushed frantically at the tears gathering in my eyes again.

Grandma put a hand on my shoulder. “Cassie, you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. But I can tell something’s bothering you—and I just want you to know that, no matter what, you’re my girl.”

I covered my face and sobs leaked through. I felt Grandma’s arms encircle me again. When I had regained some control, I raised my head.

“Grandma, I—”

I killed my baby. I’m sixteen, and I didn’t want to, but I killed my baby.

The glass double doors to the church opened and Linda and Darla exited, talking and laughing happily.

“Oh, don’t you just love babies!” Linda gushed. As they began to step away from each other, Darla waved and called back, “Every baby is so precious! Such a gift!”

I straightened, pushing away from Grandma again. My hand drifted into my pocket and squeezed the plastic confetti pieces hard, the sharp edges digging into my skin.

“I…I’m glad you came,” I said. “Maybe I’ll visit church with you sometime.”