The Meadow 81 around me. He often comes home after I’ve climbed into bed so I would shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep while he holds me close to him, his breathing a patterned, rhythmic one that slinks into my ears. I don’t want him to make love to me. When he places his arms around me, the image of his fists connecting with my face floats around in my head and I struggle to pull myself together, do my best to not break the façade of sleep I am putting on. One night I let him slip himself between my legs. I willed my body to accommodate him. Willed my mind to erode all visions of Tobi pummeling my face or dragging me by my hair. I failed. So, I laid there like a log of wood, limp and motionless, as my husband thrust himself in and out of me, his erection an unwanted guest between my thighs. When he collapsed on top of me, spent from “our” lovemaking, I rolled onto my side and let sleep ferry me off to another land. I will the positive sign to be a negative, but it sits there, unchanging, as I eye the pregnancy stick in front of me. A baby complicates things. A baby means I can’t leave Tobi at any time I please. A baby means we would always be connected. I had bought the contraceptives shortly after I returned home from my parents’ house. It had been part of my plan B and also a precautionary measure incase Tobi decided he didn’t want to be Mr. Niceman anymore and punched whatever child I carried out of my stomach. I want to slap myself. How could I have forgotten? Maybe I had mixed up the dates and assumed I had taken the pill for June when I let Tobi make love to me. I lay my palm against my bare stomach and spread my fingers in an outward motion. The image of a baby, a miniature version of me with Tobi’s ears and eyes dances in front of my
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