Page 3 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

“No, no, no. This isn’t . . .”I glance down at the test, at the two glaring pink lines. The results haven't changed—it's still positive. I slump back against the bathroom wall and slide to the floor. How did this happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen—at least, not for a few more years.

We were careful. Except New Year’s Eve, my brain practically shouts at me as I sob, clutching the little stick that just changed my entire life.

I've never missed my Grams more than I do right now. She'd know what to do, what to say.

Everything I have, everything I am can be attributed to her—Marjorie Rose McGraw was the strongest damn woman I’ve ever been graced with the pleasure of knowing. She gave birth to my mama right in the middle of Hurricane Karin and swore it cast a mark on the child, said someone brought about amid all that destruction was bound to be a bad egg. Even though Grams tried her damnedest to keep my mama on the straight and narrow, she always strayed. Some people just have hearts wired for trouble, Myla Rose—I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard my Grams say that phrase throughout my life.

Mama was young when she had me, only nineteen. I never knew my daddy, and I doubt she really knew him either. Mama was all about fun, always flying by the seat of her pants. While she was never abusive, she wasn’t nurturing either. Someone or something always came before me. I was seven when my mama decided she didn’t want me anymore. I remember it like it was yesterday.

“Come on, Myla Rose, grab your shit and get in the car. Mama has to go,” she urged, directing me toward the car with a little push to my back. I stumbled a little, my untied shoelace sealing my fate—I still hadn’t learned how to tie them. Down I went, right to my knees, scraping them on the driveway. It stung, but her words stung worse. “Myla Rose! Get up off the ground, girl, and get in the damn car. How many damn times do I need to repeat myself?” She teetered in her high heels, drunk. She was always drunk. I pulled myself up off the ground, dusted off my knees, and climbed into the back seat. She dropped me off at Grams’ and never looked back.

Thankfully, Grams welcomed me with open arms and a smile on her face. Until the day she left this earth, she was my rock. My foundation.

Now, here I am, just a year older than Mama was when she had me, and pregnant. Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all.

“Five minutes, Myla Rose. You can cry for five minutes,” I tell myself, “then you gotta get up, girl. Cryin’ isn’t gonna change nothin’.” I hear Grams' voice in my mind, echoing the words I spoke aloud to myself. That’s exactly what she’d have said if she were here, and it’s damn sure what I need to hear.

With a newfound resolve, I force myself from the bathroom floor and head into my bedroom. I crawl into my bed, blindly fumbling around for my phone so that I can call AzzyJo. If I can’t have my Grams, she’s the next best thing. Azalea Josephine Barnes—AzzyJo for short—is my best friend and my biggest supporter. We’ve been inseparable since the third grade when we decided to sit together at lunch because we both had flower names. It was fate, y’all. That girl . . . she just gets me.

She answers on the first ring, all but singing into the phone.

“Good mornin’, Myla Rose.”

“A–Azalea.” My voice trembles with fear and uncertainty.

“Are you okay? No, don’t answer that. I’m on my way, sweet girl.” She hangs up before I can even respond.

* * *

I’m notsure how long I’ve been lying here. Could’ve been just minutes—or maybe hours—when I hear my front door unlatching.

“Myla, I’m here,” Azalea calls out.

“In my room,” I call back, my voice hoarse from crying. I hear her shuffle into the room, and I can only imagine how pathetic I look with my tear-stained cheeks and matted auburn hair curled up in a ball on my bed. Azalea, though, doesn’t even blink at the sight before her. She just kicks off her shoes and snuggles in behind me, offering silent comfort.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “Myla Rose, you wanna tell me what’s got you in such a tizzy?” I don’t even bother to respond. I just point to the damning little stick. “Oh, sweet girl, it’ll be okay. Have you talked to Taylor?”

I shake my head. “No. Not yet. You’re the first person I thought to call.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Just call him. Tell him you want to meet and talk. He’s—”

“AzzyJo, I don’t even know if he wants kids. We’ve never talked about the future! Hell, I can hardly get him to commit to a date these days.” I can feel myself starting to panic.

“I know y’all’s relationship is still new, but you've known him forever. Plus, what’s done is done. He’ll either man up and help you raise this baby or he won’t, simple as that. One thing I know for sure—you’ll be right as rain either way.”

Her words are like a balm, and she’s right—I can’t change the past. It is what it is. Maybe he’ll be a good dad. Maybe he’ll love this baby. Only one way to find out.

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