"... Who is this?"

"Shut up, bitch." I'm down to a whisper: "You ruined my life."

"Uhm. I think you have the wrong number..."

"This is Margaret, isn't it?"

A long pause. An unnatural painful pause.

"Margo?" She says my name like I'm a dirty slut American like her.

"Is he there?"

"Who?"

"Who the fuck else?"

She chooses her words carefully. She's scared, I can tell.

Well, that's what she gets for playing big girl games.

High school whore.

"We don't talk anymore." She says it too quickly.

"I don't believe you."

"I.. don't..."

I DON'T believe her.

I hang up, and I walk down the hallway.

It's past curfew, all the little school children are tucked into bed.

I knock.

"Hi. It's me. Margaux. I'm just..."

Charlie sat at the edge of the bed, flipping through the television channels. The A/C was on blast, causing his skin to crackle. The apartment had always seemed so empty since her departure. He hardly invited anyone over and when he did, their tour never went beyond the kitchen. The phone rattled on the dresser and he thought nothing of it, as usually, until her voice played. "I'm just.." Charlie pushed himself from the bed, darting for the cordless.

"Hi," he answered quickly, feeling his heart race.

A waitress shoved her way past her, and Margaux gripped the phone tighter. "Hi Charlie." As a hormonal woman, she had a hard time suppressing any sense of emotion in her greeting. She tried to get a hold of herself, but she was shivering. "I'm..." She took a deep breath. "I'm returning your call." A pause. "You said it was important," she reminded him, as if that meant anything in this moment, anything at all. She drew herself close to the wall, trying to not get distracted by the fleeting kitchen staff.

"Yeah..." He slowly returned to the mattress, sitting far and deep against the headboard. "Yeah," his tone changed, more upbeat. "I uh, it wasn't that important. I just wanted to see how you'd been holding up and stuff. I mean, we haven't talked in like ages." Nerves were hardly hidden in his chopped laughter. He hadn't exchanged words with her in months, of course he felt awkward. "I hear, I hear you're doing well. The art show and stuff. And uh, with your new beau. Lance, is it?"

She didn't bother correcting his name. "He's a client. He bought several of my pieces." He's no one compared to you, she wanted to say, but she didn't. She was embarrassed that she was spending as much time as she was with Luther. "I've been..." She was fighting between telling the truth or lying. "I've been miserable. Pregnant and miserable." An inaudible sigh.

"Pregnant and miserable? I'm sorry to hear that. Why are you miserable, Margaux?"

"I'm miserable because I'm more than six months pregnant and still want to wear high heels. I've been eating ridiculous amounts of sweet and sour pork and the people at the restaurant down the block from me give me three fortune cookies, one for the baby, me and..."

She could see Luther's concerned smile from twenty feet away. "I miss you. I miss you like crazy." She rushed it, seeing Luther's dark eyes narrow in on her.

She missed him? "You don't miss me," he assured her. "You're better off without me, believe it or not. I'm not worth it. I'm not at all. I'm a lousy boyfriend and I'll make a horrible father. You should be with that one kid, James. He was a fine young man. You miss him, okay? But not me. I'm nothing. I'm trouble. I'm worthless. No."

He said it all with a smile, cleaning his nails because he was thinking -- he was certain she'd tell him the opposite. She really was a sick puppy, and he enjoyed teasing her.

"Maybe that's why I miss you and not anyone else. But--"

"Where are you?" he asked, listening to the dishes clank and music blare from the background.

"Atelier." She could feel her ear turning red from all the pressure she put on the receiver. She didn't want to miss a single word. "Enough about me. How are you? How was Europe?"

"Europe? Oh, it was fun, I guess. Lucas lives there. He lives in Spain but he doesn't know how to order food. He's been living there for--" Since he moved in with her. "I don't know, a grip." Charlie could feel his muscles twitch. He wondered what she was wearing, where she really was, if Luther was around, and how many times she kissed him.

"Lucas." That brought a soft smile to her lips. "That kid should learn the language. The Spanish get angry when you don't know how to say por favor and gracias." She wondered if Luther was starting to fidget in his seat.

She put her hand on the receiver as Luther asked who she was speaking to. "It's Mischa. I thought that I left some important paperwork at the gallery. Will you go order me some tea? I'll be there in a few moments." By the look on his face, it didn't look like he believed her, but he went back to their table.

She was back on the line. "But anyway, Charlie, I think you should know that I'm giving the baby up."

Charlie didn't care much about anything. He didn't care about love or family. Just himself and money. And giving the baby up, at least to him, seemed like a great idea. He was awful. "You're not giving it up. You're testing me to see what I'll say. And well, I think since you're having it, you should make up your own mind. Right?" He cleared his throat. "Who was that back there, Lance? He's a really nice guy and all but he's really...I don't know, weird? You must be having horrible time."

She pursed her lips to keep herself from boiling over into fury. A change of subject.

"I paid Margaret a visit the other day. Her dorm was really lovely and so was her boyfriend. I mean, really, the boy just makes her glow, and he is just hilarious! ... To think I came there to bitch her out, and after five minutes, I couldn't even manage to be mad at her. We had some British cookies, I forgot what they were called -- and we exchanged horror stories about you. We're supposed to have brunch next weekend. I didn't even realize how close New Jersey was..."

His eyes widen in shock. His mouth began to tremble and he could feel his hands grasping tightly around the phone. 'What did you say about me?" he asked, trying to laugh it off. "Well actually, why did you visit her, and who told you where she lived? Hm? That wasn't a nice thing to do, Margaux. You can't go around scaring innocent girls like that. She wouldn't deserve your shit. But I'm glad the three of you hit it off. Her boyfriend is funny. 'Ha-ha funny' and well, faggot, funny. Mhm."

"Why, it doesn't really matter anymore, Charlie. It's silly really. She told me a few interesting things about you... and her uncle. It gave us a good laugh." She worried that if she prolonged this too much, Luther would be back. "Anyway, I really should go, since you really didn't have anything important to say. You're just the same disappointment from a few months ago, right? Take care, Charlie."

"Go away." She's begging, clutching the bottom of her hard belly, pain dripping through her bloodstream, she stifles a scream, magazine slapped onto the conveyor belt. She nearly topples over, she nearly crushes an old lady, thighs drenched with the splash of birth induced fluids. She wishes that this was happening to someone else, someone else who went to the grocery store for bananas, honey, and peanut butter. Someone else.

"Oh my God." That's not her, it's the man's saucer eyes watching sick liquid Margaux seeping past his shoes. He's a stranger, saucer eyes gone wild, gone pale. "Excuse me, I think she's..." Popped. The cashier almost look panicked, and they want to guide her to a less public place. But where? They look like they want to touch her, but they're frightened. Disgusted, maybe.

"Oh my God." She's the echo, she's the phoenix's cry, she leans she bends she gasps. She doesn't want to move, she's frozen. They call an ambulance like she's had a god damn heart attack in the narrow aisle of cashier number four. No. It's just a baby. "I'm fine, I'm fine..." She's wasted, completely muddled in her own mess, down on the linoleum squares until the paramedics take her away.

12:04 p.m.

The nurses were swarming, legs fixed up like some kind of specimen under surveillance, she's oddly calm as they speak of fetal distress, rushing her through bright blue hallways for an emergency cesarean. She wonders if she's willed it to die, and she closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the sense that this baby doesn't want her either.

12:48 p.m.

"Mister Doherty? I'm calling from The New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Margaux was admitted within the last half hour. She went into labor, and in for an emergency Cesarean. We tried calling her father who was first on her emergency contact list, but we were unable to reach him. So, we need you to come down and sign some paperwork for her. Oh, and Mister Doherty, there is a twenty-four hour window before she'll sign the final documents for the adoption. As I understand by the papers she's filled out, you're the father of the child, so if she is unable to sign for those due to further complications, she's given you the responsibility to do so. Thank you. Goodbye."

3:29 p.m.

They call it postpartum hemorrage. The doctors said she would recover, although there was a significant loss of blood. She had been falling in and out of consciousness in the first couple hours of recovery. The baby is wrapped tightly in a blue blanket, one of many September babies in a row, silent and calm. Unnamed. Six pounds and three ounces. Twenty inches. From outside the glass, the nurse points to him, row two, third one from the right.

"That one right there is your son, Mister Doherty. He's healthy and beautiful. The couple who are eager to adopt the child are in the waiting room, if you would like to visit with them."

Mister and Misses Goldbloom. He was in wool, she was in an old mink. Practicing Jews and quietly frugal, no doubt. They were waiting somewhat patiently, somewhat nervously, a basket of forget-me-knots for the mother. Obviously early to mid-forties, kind yet shallow eyes and hearts. It wasn't particularly clear why Margaux had picked them, although by face value, it seemed to be because they were financially stable.

"It's bad luck to adopt a baby that was born today," Misses Goldbloom said miserably into her compact mirror, dusting her nose.

"Don't be absurd, Jestinna."

"But it's the anniversary of a national--"

"Jestinna, please."

"Listen to me. For all we know she could be a drug--"

"I thought you liked her."

"Liked? She was the only decent looking woman with all her teeth who wasn't selling her child for more--"

"Are you having second thoughts about this?"

"We should've found a Jewish girl."

"Good Jewish girls don't give up their children."

"You're right. Only those artist types with loose inhibitions do."

"Be kind. The girl has probably been through a lot."

"What do you think she's going to do with all that money? She's probably a Central Park crackhead, for all we know. Shooting up behind a tree."

Beep.

"Hey darling, it's me, Luther. How's the baby. Ha, and when I say 'baby' I do mean Charl-"

"Charlie," I answer, so drained there's not even a hint of anger in my voice.

"Charlie!" Luther says. The bastard's so embarrassed now. Probably.

"She's not here. She's in the hospital."

"Still?"

"Uh, yeah." Idiot.

"Oh. Well, hey, how are you pal?"

"Fine and dandy. You?" I ask, though I really don't care.

"I'm doing all right, actually. I...do...congratulations Charlie."

"Thanks Logan. But I have to get going. I.. have something in the oven."

"Oh yeah, that's always important. Hey, could you do me a favor? Tell-"