28 Jun Golden State

This is the only time he chose me, when we weren’t together. On the bridge to Northern California, his hands brace around the wheel. As if he were thinking about running us off of it. We stopped at a motel somewhere along the road and stayed for a few nights. I woke up during the middle of one and he had gone. Left me. He left behind his money, his possessions, and a note.

The note said simply– “I love you and I’ve tried.”

So I cried my eyes out for what felt like a century. It was raining. Golf-sized hail fractured the windshield of the car which I sat in, too afraid to just drive away. Leaving myself with the inkling of hope that he would be back. That he couldn’t last a minute in this weather.

Across the street was a highlight through the storm– a small shack and a bench. A sign that read ‘BUS’ could be seen. He left to somewhere. Left the car. Left the keys. Left his wife and their child. I hadn’t told him I was pregnant with his baby yet. We were driving to the place that we would settle down in, he was far from settling or so it seemed.

So I thought to myself–what a place to bring up a child in–no family for miles, no home, no friends, not even a pot to piss in. Stranded. In a motel, with a speck. A mole of a child. The tiniest, littlest, most beloved piece of him that I could have been left with. At least I had cash.

And so I waited. For a week. I used a portion of what he left me with a booked the room for an extended amount of time just in case he changed his mind. I ate sloppy continental breakfasts, and watched myself gain weight from the depression. Found myself in the bathroom, sinking in a tub full of water with my clothes still on. When I finally got up I went to bed and soaked the mattress that felt chock-full of strangers and ghosts.

Who could have done this? We had gone together for seven years. Broke the records of our family for love that wouldn’t last between a harlot and a tramp. But, he wasn’t happy and neither was I, yet we persisted.

At the end of my stay, I had finally realized that he wasn’t coming back. I wouldn’t see him again and he wouldn’t see his child. I felt a pang in the back of my head and cringed, my nose bled for a while. He had gone. He had gone to somewhere far away and not taken me with him. I contemplated purging the baby, but opted against it because of how warm it made me feel. But what could a mother do? With no home, stranded, and with $300 of gambled cash. Not quiet enough to get back home to New York. Not enough to live on, not for two people at least, I don’t even know where I was. On some back road, in a rundown motel with a car who’s gas tank was half full. I wouldn’t hitchhike if I didn’t need to. It wasn’t worth being run over, or raped, and martyred by a serial killer in mask made from human skin or an acupuncturist who ate toes and livers.

I had convinced myself for the longest time, that I, it was me who made him a stronger person. A better person. Just strong enough for him to let me be aware of his strengths and weaknesses. Only for a moment he found a place he could call home. But it was him–never settling for the responsibilities of reality.

I left a note at the front desk for the motel manager who had been “Out to LUNCH” too many times a day and told her that if she saw my husband to give him the lighter I had bound to it. A small one that I had engraved on the day we eloped in Atlantic City. I wrote for him the next place he could find me and a brief strategy of how I would make it through without him. I informed him of the fetus and left it at that.

The Fetus and I made our way to San Francisco. I drove.