Echo

He stands in the elevator with his head tilted to the numbers above the door and I lean back against the wall watching him. We descend the floors in silence. His hands are hidden in the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders are rolled forward. He moves his tongue slowly back and forth between his teeth. He usually does that when he’s nervous or thinking, but also when he’s high. For two days now we’ve both been high, and thinking, and nervous. It’s my birthday and we’re here to celebrate but everything has gone wrong. The gambling, the drugs, Vegas; it’s all horribly wrong. Our money is gone and Biff is angry because this trip was my idea. I’m angry because I don’t think my 30th birthday means anything to him, and I think he is behaving selfishly. I want to tell him to stop. I want him to stop, and to turn around and look at me, but we hit the ground floor and the elevator door opens. The noise of the lobby rushes inside and the space among us is filled with a rumbling of laughter and strange voices. I hear coins jangling endlessly in a slot machine and Biff steps out ahead of me onto the marble. The casino is already crammed at six o’clock on Saturday evening. We push our way through a group of people gathered in front of a makeshift stage as a Reba McIntyre impersonator taps a stiletto boot on the plywood. The speakers have static and her voice is cracked and incoherent. Biff walks quickly past the bar and the black jack tables and I step in behind him as we go through the revolving glass door. Outside of the hotel, he takes long strides over the pavement and I can’t keep up with him. He looks over his shoulder and smirks at me, and then he makes a sharp turn toward the parking lot. I watch him walking away from me, his arms swinging arrogantly at his sides. I’m sure that he wants me to follow him, but I’m not going to follow him. I want to be alone. I need to breathe.

I turn in the opposite direction and go down the long, circular driveway that leads to Las Vegas Blvd. The sidewalk is heaving with people. The desert air is cold and I pull my jean jacket tight around the collar. Music blasts from a patio bar and several people are resting their forearms on the railing and leaning out over the sidewalk. Their faces are so close to mine as I go past. All the girls are wearing mascara and lipstick and low cut tops. I look down at my sneakers and wide leg sweat pants that are dragging under my heels. I put my hand on my stomach. When I look up again I meet eyes with a man who is smoking a cigarette. He smiles at me. I turn away from him but I smile back. He doesn’t know that I am pregnant. I’ve known for a week. Last Saturday I woke up early and used a home pregnancy test. Biff was sure I was carrying our baby and he was excited. I was sick about it and praying for a negative result. I waited in the bathroom until two solid lines appeared on the stick. Positive.

“This one is defective,” I told him. “We’ll have to get another one.” He just smiled and kissed me.

“You’re going to be such a  good mom,” he said to me in the shower. I yanked the curtain back and leaned against the sink, naked and dripping water onto the floor. I focused on my breath. In and out. He went back to sleep for the rest of the afternoon and I sat at the kitchen table and stared out at the rain. I had a craving for Chinese food that night. He drank straight whiskey at the restaurant.

Now I am in Las Vegas and the sun is falling quickly. The street lamps have just come on. I feel nauseated. I find a bench on the sidewalk and sit down. My stomach is churning and I am lightheaded. I wrap my arms around my waist and drop my forehead to my knees. I feel bloated and I burp several times in a row. I press my palms into my eye sockets. I knew this weekend was wrong. I knew the drinking and the drugs would create arguments between us. But I didn’t know that I would be pregnant. And now I am pregnant, but we didn’t stop. We got high this morning. We did lines in the hotel room, and now we hate each other for it. I lift my face and cover my mouth with the back of my hand.

Three days ago we held each other in the dark of our bedroom. “We can’t have a baby,” he said. “I know,” I said. He got up from the bed and walked away. We agreed that I would see the doctor next week about ending the pregnancy, and that everything would continue as planned for my birthday. The drugs wouldn’t matter. The baby isn’t real. The baby is going away anyway. But we were wrong. It matters. And now we’re both angry, and ashamed, and torn apart.

I wipe the tears off my cheeks and continue on the street. I grab some saltines and a bottle of pink lemonade from a gift shop, and I walk for several blocks among the tourists. I wonder about these people as they pass. I’m interested in their lives, and their thoughts, and their addictions. I see a girl about my age coming toward me, and she is alone. I’m alone. I’m curious what she’s doing here. I look through the crowd, and I’m curious what they’re all doing here. I stop walking and I stand on the sidewalk. The people rush past me. They step around me but I stay, standing, watching, wondering, and it hits me. I came here. I got drunk. I gambled. I lost. I was greedy. I was selfish. I was stupid. And now I just want to go home with the things that I brought here with me. I want Biff, holding my hand, telling me we’re gonna be okay. I want to go back and take away the drugs. I want my baby. I clutch at the waistband of my pants. It’s snug around my hips and I dig my nails in as I try to squeeze some flesh there, but my stomach is flat and I have nothing to grasp. A cold sweat breaks at the nape of my neck but my cheeks are flushed with heat. The noise around me fades and the faces blend into one another. Everything is a blur.

Oh God.

A baby.

I’m dizzy.

There is a guardrail on the curb of the road and I lean against it. I stick a straw in the lemonade and sip, and then loosen my jacket. I stare at the laces on my shoes. They are tied in double knots. I sit on the guardrail for a long time. I don’t think anymore. I just take in the lights on the strip. I walk back to the hotel. The elevator button in the lobby turns bright red when I stab it with my finger. A bell chimes above the door and it slides open. I walk down the empty corridor to our room and turn on the lamp beside the bed. I close my eyes and listen to my heart thumping. It echoes across the desert.