Sentimental Coffee Cups
Pregnant. Great. Now she can be on a Jerry Springer show -- "I'm having my gay boyfriend's baby!" -- and her whole family can be so proud of her. She will be the most self-aware guest to date, muttering the insults before they can be chanted by the crowd.
It'll be wonderful even if she doesn't decide to tell all her problems to a group of people with stained clothes and short fuses. Morning sickness -- she already knows that's great. Huge belly, weak bladder, raging hormones -- it's so fun to live out cliches.
Russell will want to marry her because he loves her so much. She'll remind him that he didn't love her enough to keep him from fucking a guy. He'll look hurt in that perfect Russellian way, like the world itself has fallen upon him.
She won't be moved.
She'll have to tell her family, of course. Nate will have more important things to worry about. David won't know what to say. Her mom will pretend that it's fine news.
She'll move out when she begins to show, when the house gets too claustrophobic. At school, people will glance at her with mild interest. Russell will follow her around like a puppy dog, talk about their child in intense, curse laden monologues.
"Christ, Claire, you're fucking pregnant with my baby. I can't walk away from that. I can't walk away from you."
She still won't be moved.
She'll also remind him that she's the one walking away.
For some reason, he won't accept that until the baby's born, as if the arrival of the child marks the end of their cycle.
The little boy or little girl will be so adorable, at least that's what her mother will say. Claire herself will stare at the child with appraising eyes, wondering how the hell she could have a kid.
She'll feel guilty. She'll feel worse as time goes on, as she can't bring herself to feel warm fuzzies at the sound of colicky screams, or even the sight of her baby curled up on its side.
Her mother will give her advice. She'll follow much of it -- someone with three kids has to know more about these things than she does.
She'll be utterly lost.
She'll graduate from art school wondering if she's really learned anything. Her child will be a toddler, an expert in nothing but tantrums.
Her career will be spotty at best. She'll want to blame it on the kid, on the parent-teacher meetings, on the incessant need that comes with parenthood.
She'll wonder if she ever had talent.
Those who compliment her will always try to fuck her; much of the time, she'll let them. Her child will grow more resentful of the parade as years pass.
She'll pretend to be living a cool, bohemian, free spirit life.
Neither of them will remember the names of the men who've shared her bed.
Russell will come to visit occasionally, usually finding time to tell her stories of his latest fucked up romance. Ostensibly, his disclosures will come from a need for her friendship, but she'll sense an 'I wouldn't be so fucked up if you'd stayed with me' edge to his voice.
He'll pay superficial attention to the child. He'll have a brilliant career, one he will curse.
"Everyone's just bullshitting me, telling me how great I am. It's completely pointless."
She still won't be moved.
She'll also remind him that no one's forcing him to work.
He won't stop his work or his bitching.
She'll continue on, because she has to.
She'll never feel like a mother, no matter how many times she stares at this being that she knows came from her body. The child will seem to waver between loving her and loathing her. She'll remember the shriek of "You've ruined my life," more than she'll recall the sentiments of the "World's Greatest Mom" coffee cup that was purchased in her offspring's pre-teen years without a shred of irony.
She won't ever know how to relate; she'll be as clueless as her mom generally is, except in even more spectacular ways.
At some point, they'll stop talking altogether. It won't give her more time to focus on her art, nor will it break her heart.
She'll spend a long time desperately hating herself.
The kid'll be just as fucked up as she is. Or a well-adjusted person who resents her. Or just an overall disappointment.
She'll know it's all her fault. She'll know she's a terrible parent, that she's failed someone who never asked to be born.
She can't have this baby.