chapter one.

To have a hangover on a sunny day is like getting brain surgery on your birthday. Sarah was having a day such as this, only it was not her birthday. She staggered out of bed and into the bathroom at 8:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning. The sun was blazing brightly in the cool, blue sky, and there was not a cloud to be found. In the bathroom, the ceiling lights flickered with protest and the faint light reflected off of the chipped blue tiles. Sarah could hear Michael snoring through the thin, peeling walls of the apartment.
As the sun's rays broke the record on the UV index that July morning, Sarah dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, her head pounding furiously. The smooth feel of the cold porcelain was welcome under her fingers, and as she clutched the rim with her clammy hands, she inhaled the sharp scent of the bleached water. Sticking her face into the bowl and opening her lips, Sarah waited a few moments as her mouth salivated in preparation for the vomiting that would inevtiably occur. Her head felt thick and soupy with disorientation.
And then finally, it came in a steady, oily flow that fell in a graceful, obnoxious arc into the clear water below. Soon, the bowl was polluted with thick, murky brown liquid. A vile, bitter taste spread across Sarah's mouth and lips. Stomach acid burned painfully in her dry throat. Sarah peered through bleary eyes at the mysterious, gray blobs floating in the mess beneath her.
Lovely she thought. She reached a hand up to the flusher and pressed down on it; the toilet sputtered and spat, and then finally, sucked away the refuse in a swirling, disgusting vortex. The water became clear again; rippled danced across its surface. The only browns were those of the stubborn stains in the curve of the basin.
Sticking her hands under the sink, Sarah scrubbed them furiously with soap and then cupped a handful of tapwater to her mouth. She swished and swirled a few times, then spat, risning the foul aftertaste from her mouth. She did this several times until the taste subsided. She ran the comb through her knotted, matted hair and splashed cold water onto her face to wake up, but she still felt sluggish and narcoleptic. Her head still throbbed dully and her cranium seemed to be splitting open, white hot with pain, down the center. She rubbed her temples furiously.
I need some stimulation. And some aspirin she thought.
Stumbling into the kitchen, Sarah pawed through various drawers, searching for Tylenol. Popping the bottle open and shoving three into her mouth, Sarah contemplated the sweet reward of basking in the calming waters of a hot bath. On her way back to the bathroom, the coating on the aspirins melting on her tongue, she tripped over the empty bottles of rum and whiskey from the night before. They rolled down the halls, clinking against one another. Kicking them into the corner, Sarah reentered the bathroom and shut the door behind her, sighing. She lifted her shirt over her head and peeled her underwear off; both articles smelled of stale sweat and evaporated alcohol. Heaping the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, Sarah turned the water on in the tub, goosebumps forming on her pale, naked skin. At first, the stream came out in short, rusty bursts, but after some time, the water ran steadier and clearer. As the tub filled, Sarah swallowed the aspirins, which had melted into slimy capsules in her mouth. She gagged and forced them down with a strong swallow. One bye one, she felt them unlodge themselves and slide down her esophagus with some pain. She shook her head a few times and sniffed, blinking her eyes a few times to clear them. She gazed into the mirror as the tub filled with warm water.
What stood before her was a person who, long ago, might have been beautiful and might have had clean hair. The once full, healthy face was pulled taut and the skin was sallow and pale. The eye sockets seemed like sinkholes in her head and the bloodshot, blue eyes that peered out from underneath the shadows were ethereal and ghostly. Her thin ribs poked out from underneath her skin which had paled to a sickly gray color. In her reflection, Sarah could almost see the throbbing headache pulsing through her skull like some super sesimic bass speaker. Her breasts hung sad and deflated; perhaps, once long ago, though Sarah could not remember, they might have been robust and plump with plentiful supply of milk and female flesh.
"I need to stop doing this," she mumbled to herself. With that in mind, she slid into the pleasantly scalding embrace of the water.
Half an hour later, when Sarah emerged wrapped in a faded yellow towel and the gray water swirling away in the tub, she glanced into the mirror again. Her hair fell in wet, healthy chunks over her sanguine face and a layer of grime and sweat had been washed off to reveal the healthy, peachy glow of her skin. Feeling refreshed, Sarah hummed quietly to herself as she let the towel fall to the floor. She ran the comb through her hair again, untangling stubborn knots. The dirt and oil had dulled her blond hair to an ugly, brassy color, but now it was the color of vibrant, delicate champagne again. She shook her head and water droplet flew out of her hair and onto the counter, the mirror. The shampoo smelled clean and sophisticated. She wrapped herself in the towel again, and crept out of the bathroom and into the bedroom feeling warmer and full of circulating blood.
Michael was twisted in the sheets, sleeping peacefully. Silently, so as not to wake him, Sarah slipped into a summer dress, scribbled a note to Michael, and grabbed her purse. Michael had a slight smile on his boyish face and Sarah admired how one of his hands was curled delicately underneath his chin. In his other hand, he clutched a blue-tinted glass bottle that still had some liquid in the bottom. Sarah sniffed; the poignant odor of vodka rushed into her nose. She rubebd her eyes and backed away from the sharp smell. She closed the bedroom door quietly behind her, tacked the note to the fridge, and stepped quickly out of the apartment, shutting the door behind her. She leaned against the door and breathed heavily. Rummaging through her purse, she pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long, satisfying drag, blowing tendrils of smoke out of her mouth as she thought.
I cannot believe I am doing this.
With purpose, Sarah descended the three flights of stairs to the lobby. A single bulb hung overhead and created depressing, dim shadows on the crusting walls. The air reeked of rancid mud and dirty skin, and there were mysterious brown flecks in the white linoleum. Nodding to old Mr. Perkins as he sifted through his mail, Sarah stepped out the lobby door and into the fresh air, inhaling deeply and taking another drag on her cigarette. Once out on the street, Sarah waited patiently for the 9:30 bus on the corner. She folded her arms and sat on the dingy stop bench, observing people as they walked by. She adjusted her dress a little, and a few minutes later, the bus rolled in. Stopping in a whirl of industrial exhaust and rubber, the bus doors squeaked open to welcome her aboard. She took a hesitant step towards the bus and climbed the stairs quickly. As the doors shut behind her, Sarah knew there would be no turning back; she could not ask the driver to please stop and let her off here, this would be fine, thank you. Only a few people were riding that morning. Sarah chose a seat next to a bent, withered old man with a newspaper. She smiled at him as she sat and he smiled faintly back at her, folding the paper up.
"Where are you headed this morning?" asked Sarah in an attempt to make light conversation with the gentleman.
"Golf course," he replied, his tone surprisingly strong and robust for an elderly man. "How about you?"
Sarah shifted uncomfortably. "Drug store," she said, keeping her tone bland and neutral.
For a while they discussed the weather and the newly developed section of town. Conversation was airy and friendly, and the topics of discussion ranged from diet crazes to drugs to politics to life stories. Within five minutes, Sarah had learned that this man was half Cherokee and half African, that his brothers and sisters all lived in California, that he was allergic to bee stings and mildew, and that he did not care for seafood, and that he loved to tell jokes. Minutes flew past, and before Sarah could comprehend the time, the bus arrived in front of Gleason's Drug Store and Sarah was saying goodbye to the gentleman.
"Goodbye- Oh forgive me, I don't even know your name," said Sarah as she rose from her seat.
"Abraham," said the man, tipping his tweed cabbie hat at her.
"Abraham. Well, bon voyage Abraham, and good luck on your game," said Sarah, shaking his hand and smiling at him one last time.
Sarah grew more and more nervous as she stepped off of the bus. She stopped on the sidewalk, basked in blue shade in front of the large, unwelcoming sliding glass doors of Gleason's. She took another deep breath and entered the drug store. The cool feel of air conditioning was a welcoming sensation and it smelled acrid, oxygenated. Sarah weaved in an out of aisles, checking prices and ingredients on products she hadn't come to fetch, avoiding the one thing she had come to purchase. She looked at tubes of mascara, bottles of volumizing hairspary, toothpaste for people with sensitive teeth, and a row of pantyhose ranging from 99 cents to $3.50. Sarah wondered who in their right mind would buy pantyhose for $3.50.
As Sarah admired the collection of pastel colored hair brushes, an elderly woman approached her and asked, "Do you need help honey?" She had a hearty Georgia accent and her nametag read Janine. She smiled with a full red mouth to reveal rows of uneven teeth, but it was a kind grin nonetheless.
Sarah scratched the back of her neck nervously and laughed hesitantly. "Actually, I do need help, now that you mention it. You see, my mom, uh, sent me here to get pregnancy tests. She has, you know, morning after sickness, so she sent me instead," lied Sarah, hoping Janine wouldn't see through her facade.
"Right this way darlin'," stated Janine, leading Sarah a few aisles down. Before them stretched a vast array of pastel colored cardboard boxes in various sizes on either side of them. The end of the aisle felt far away, and the shelves seemed to tower above Sarah in mockery, like a judge in a courtroom. There were so many brands to choose from, and Sarah, being unexperienced in this particular field, stood dumbstruck as she pondered over which one to purchase.
"Would you like some help picking up a test for your momma?" asked Janine kindly, placing a hand on Sarah's shoulder; Sarah jumped a little.
"Oh, would you help me? I'm afraid that I would, you know, get the wrong kind. She would flip out," muttered Sarah, unable to draw her gaze from the pale blue box that featured an excited couple huddled over a device resembling a thermometer. Their acute grinning made Sarah wince.
"Well, I would suggest the Right Now, Right Time brand; It's fast, effective, and 99% accurate in most cases. Three test strips are included. Your momma would have results within five minutes," said Janine after a while. She handed Sarah a pink, rectangular box. The slogan read, "The right time is right now," and it featured another excited, huddling couple, this one African. Sarah stared at it and nodded, handing the box back to Janine so she could ring it up.
Sarah reached into her wallet to pay the $8.37 she owed, but Janine turned the money down, placing her shovel-like hands over Sarah's delicate fingers. "Listen darlin', I know things...and I know those ain't for your momma. You just take these without charge, y'hear? Don't go tellin' anybody now." She patted Sarah's hand.
Sarah started to protest, but Janine hushed her and told her to scoot on home. Thanking Janine for her help and service, Sarah exited Gleason's Drug Store, embarrased that she was clutching a plastic bag with a pregnancy test inside meant for her, not her mother. Dead women don't need to test for babies thought Sarah.
Deciding not to wait for the bus, Sarah turned left onto Oakwood Boulevard and took the roundabout way home, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin. An ominous knot of nervousness was beginning to germinate in her stomach, but Sarah ignored it. She walked with her head held high and within the half hour, she made it home, unscathed by curious, disapproving eyes. She opened the lobby door tentatively. Once she saw the coast was clear, she made a mad dash for the staircase and didn't stop running until she had reached the safety of the bathroom in her apartment.
Once inside the bathroom, Sarah locked the door, set the bag on the counter and reached into the bag, pulling out the box, staring at it, unsure of how to react. The baby pink hue began to look sickening after a while and the smiles on the couples' faces began to look strained and fallacious. Tearing through the cardboard, a set of instructions, the test apparatus, and hormone-detecting strips fell into the sink. Reading the instructions carefully three times, Sarah fumbled with the test apparatus. Once her hand had stopped shaking, she urinated on the strip, threw away the plastic, washed her hands, and sat on the toilet. The white tube sat on the counter, almost taunting her, and Sarah buried her head in her hands. She pressed her palms into her eyes and felt the hard, smooth curve of her eyeballs against her skin. The pressure in her head was lessening blissfully.
"At least my headache is gone," she said to herself. Her breath came in slow, determined intervals.
Five agonizing minutes later, Sarah dared to open her eyes. Her jaw dropped when she saw the positive mark in the little window, a blazing blue sign that warned Sarah that from that moment on, her life would be forever changed. She cradled the strip in her hands and stared into the wall, thoughts speeding dangerously fast inside her mind. The chipped paint on the walls and dingy tile floor seemed to be melting into one swirling vortex of matted colors. Clutching the strip more tightly, Sarah arose from her porcelain throne, and stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, thinking about all the possible ways she was going to break the news to Michael. She wasn't quite sure of how he would react.
Michael was nowhere to be seen; Sarah assumed the breathing mass of blankets was Michael. Dust particles floated in the air of the bedroom, which still reeked of cigarettes and Michael's spicy cologne. Their clothes lay in faded, thin heaps on the floor and the faint lavender curtains were flung back, allowing sunlight to pour into their dingy room. Across from the bed, their unfinished mural peered at Sarah from the wall; the naked man and woman seemed to wonder when they would be painted again and the daisies in the background were white like the drywall, stained with finger grease and dirt. The paints lay in disorder on the Mexican rug. Sitting next to Michael on the bed, Sarah gently shook him awake. Michael grunted softly and opened his eyes, blinking them a few times. He smiled at her.
"Good morning," he said groggily, dropping the bottle; he didn't notice.
"Good morning yourself. How are you feeling?" asked Sarah.
All Michael could do was groan.
"Did you enjoy your bottle of rum last night?" teased Sarah, smoothing down his wild, golden hair.
"Shut up," he mumbled, sticking his head under the pillow.
Sarah smiled thinly and took a breath. "Michael, I have something I need to tell you."
From somewhere underneath the pillow, Michael mumbled, "I'm listening."
Taking his hand and hers and admiring his thin fingers, Sarah told him the excitingly terrifying news. She spoke slowly and stroked his delicate skin, feeling his knuckles and tracing along the lines of his palm. Her own hand shook furiously.
Michael sat upright and stared at Sarah, gripping her hand in his. Then he grinned and began to laugh wildly. "See? I told you alcohol leads to sex! I told you!" His laughter grew louder and more unruly and his body shook with the convulsions.
"Michael-"
He shoved his tongue into her mouth and tasted the sweetness in her gums and the softness of her lips. He bit her gently and then pulled away. "Shut up. You're going to be the best fucking mother ever."
"But Michael-"
He kissed her again, his hands in her hair. He drank her saliva down passionately and pulled away. "The best ever. You and me and the kid, we'll be the best fucking family in this goddamn town."
Sarah smiled, relief flooding her body like a warm ocean tide. "What do you want? A boy or a girl?"
He pressed both hands against her belly. "I want whatever is growing inside of you right now. Even if it's a chicken."
Sarah raised her eyebrows and snorted. "A chicken? What the fuck would a chicken be doing in my uterus?"
"I don't know," retorted Michael, "but whatever it is, I'll love it like I love you." He kissed her forehead tenderly, stroking her face, feeling her skin beneath his fingertips. "What would you want to name the baby if it turned out to be a boy?" he asked.
"Abraham," responded Sarah, smiling. "I like the name Abraham. It's sure and strong."
"And if it's a girl?" asked Michael.
Sarah glanced at the skeletal, naked flower outlines on the wall. "Daisy. I want a Daisy for a daughter."

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