Car Seat

Car Seat

By Chigozie Maduchukwu (copyright)

Roman released a sigh of relief when the cool bathroom water touched the back of her sweaty neck. That small cross section of her body relaxed, as if soaking in the cooler temperature and finding hope in the impossible heat. The bathroom, a gray place full of stalls with wide gaps and a floor that was sticky, trapped the heat and created a microclimate of humidity. The smell of bleach mixed with feces was enough to make a person nauseous, but Roman only focused on the physicality of the water cooling her neck.

Internally, she was warm. Nerves were wrecking her mood and it became difficult to tell if the perspiration was due to anxiety or an early sign of heat exhaustion. The dribbling water cut off and Roman was instantly aware of her surroundings. Cars could be heard every minute or so driving roughly on the dirt road. There were three or four flies zig zagging in the air and every now and then her ear would twitch as one would buzz too close. Her sweat was weighing down her sweatpants and she made a mental note to change into her shorts in the car. On the other side of the wall she could hear the cashier’s loud voice asking a customer if they wanted their hot dog warmed up.

The gas station Roman and Marc stopped at was inconveniently placed in the middle of nowhere. The cashier suspiciously eyed Roman when she had asked for the key to the outside toilets. He then glanced at the sign above an outdated advertisement for a car swap that said: TOILETS FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY. She assured him that she was going to come back to purchase a snack, but after he begrudgingly handed over the ladle-bound-key she decided that a sour attitude did not deserve her hard earned business.

This road trip was Marc’s suggestion. They had been dating for about two years and it was true love, she was sure. Marc never spoke over her, and he loved to hear her talk. He stared at her so softly that she felt embarrassed to occupy his entire vision. Even the way Marc put his hand on her back when he opened doors for her released a flock of butterflies into her intestines. Most of all, she loved the way he sang her name. She was too embarrassed to say it, but she secretly kept a couple of voice mails from him just for the “Goodmorning, Roman” or “Just calling to say I miss you Roman” or “I love all of you, Roman.” So many pronounced her name as if she was a citizen of Rome. Marc, unlike most, was mostly a traditional Ethiopian. When they first met, he immediately knew how to say her name.

“Roman,” he said, softing rolling the ‘r’ and adding the ‘ma’ in ‘man.’Until that exact moment, two years ago, dating another Ethiopian dare not cross Roman’s mind. In fact, she had sworn herself from any East African men at all, hoping to find someone with a healthy dose of westernized progression yet enough melanin to relate to her upbringing. The combination proved difficult to find, and then Marc waltzed into her life. Expertly he picked up on her idiosyncrasies and adapted to her frequency. Marc was like a glove that fit just right. He fell right into place in her busy life.

Marc never wanted to take her from her dreams. Roman pursued fashion. Marc wanted to pursue Roman. Roman was a homeowner by 27 and lived in the big city. Marc wanted to move closer to her. Roman told him it was time to meet her parents. Marc began to call them weekly and ask if any household errands needed to be cared for. Every step Roman took, Marc took one step ahead, just to clear her path. Roman always felt whole, but with Marc by her side, she felt as if her power multiplied.

Marc suggested a week in Mexico, driving from Petaluma after visiting her parents. Roman felt she owed it to the amiable man and was immediate in expressing her interest in going. Marc’s face, usually neutral and unbothered, blossomed into a ray of joy and boyish excitement. Within the hour he sent her a week-long itinerary. By the end of dinner with her parents, Marc had booked the hotel rooms and a couple of on-demand tours. Marc paid for the whole trip, firmly rejecting any support. When Roman’s dad tried to offer financial aid, Marc said,

“If we’re going to be married one day, then this will be part of my responsibilities anyways as a husband and a father.”

Roman’s mom stole a glance at her eldest daughter. Roman stared at her injera and felt the blood rush to her face. She felt so hot at that dinner table.

Roman splashed cold water on her face again, bringing herself back to the swampy present. There was no guarantee that Marc was planning to propose during this trip. But then again, why tease her parents? Why dangle the idea in front of her? A week of intimacy and indulgence, and a resort proposal, following an engagement to the love of her life? Roman could not have wished for anything more.

“Family is never guaranteed,” Roman firmly reminded herself while looking into the defaced mirror. She moved some wet strands of her thick shadowy hair behind her ears, winked, then opened her door to the record-breaking California heat.

Marc sat in the running car fanning himself with some of the brown napkins that he had asked for from the drive-thru. His thin nose dripped with sweat and his low cut beard glistened with the heat rays. Roman dashed inside the gas station store to return the ladle key, and then opened the car door to hop into the passenger seat of the mini-SUV.

“Ready, my love?” Marc said with clarity, trying to hide the fact that he was growing weary from the heat and the travel.

Roman simply nodded, turned the AC to full blast, and leaned her chair back. She thought that if she faked it, then she could remind herself to keep her expectations low. Only about fifteen minutes had passed however, then Marc felt the need to speak up.

“Everything’s alright I hope? Should we stop again?”

“No need, I’m okay. Just a bit tired,” Roman said. She tried to sound sweet, but her heart was beating too loudly. Her mind was racing. Would she be a wife by the year’s end? What would it be like living with Marc? What did the ring look like? When would he ask? How would he ask? All these questions and more made it difficult for Roman to maintain her composure, let alone fake contentment. So her words came out twinged with accidental irritation.

Marc, sensing the offness in her reply, began to dig his mind for a mistake he felt he had made.

“Roman, I’m really sorry. I had no idea it could even reach 120 degrees here. We can stay in the resort the entire trip if you’d like.”

Roman felt guilty. She knew that her tone betrayed her thoughts, but she also wished Marc was not so sensitive. She had said she was okay, and she would like for those words to be accepted at face value.

“No Marc, I’m fine. I think I’m just a bit tired from the weekend with my parents,” she tried to play it off as a maternal issue. It was not a complete lie. Roman, who looked nothing like her parents, had unfortunately adopted their worse traits. She had the ambition of her father and the judgment of her mother. Combined, it made her lofty and elitist at times. This personality, regal and wicked, made it hard for her to maintain relationships with men that had inflated and unfounded egos. One prick from Roman’s minds was enough for them to resort to berating and sexism. Roman would shrug after each failed interaction, sure that one day she would find her equal and nothing less.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you’re concerned about?” Marc insisted. The sugar in his voice was laced with desperation. Guilt plagued him, but unlike Roman, he did not even know the source.

“Is it about what I said at dinner?” he inquired.

“What?” Roman asked, racking her head to try to remind herself about dinner conversations. Marc ran over a pothole with little grace, and Roman was shaken up from the seat. She leaned for the side lever and sat the chair upright again. She reached up, slid out the sunglasses she stole from her sister, and placed them on her face to protect her eyes from the sun reflecting on the newly done asphalt.

“About wanting two or three kids.” Marc sounded like he did not believe her memory loss. As soon as he mentioned it, she remembered it. His mother had asked him what he thought about families, and he had expressed that he wanted children of his own. Ones he hoped inherited only his best traits, and none of the worst. Her parents laughed, they loved that. Deep down inside, Roman knew they wanted to speak their mind about having one’s own children, but they bit their tongue and talked about what a joy children were instead.

“What was Roman like when she was a baby?” Marc had asked her parents.

Roman’s mother, at a loss for words, allowed her husband to speak while she cleared the dinner table.

“Roman and Blane were both handfuls when they were little girls. Especially Roman, she wanted the world, but all we could give her was one city at a time.”

Marc laughed, then looked at Roman, and once seeing that she was not laughing, promptly stopped laughing and smoothly changed the conversation.

Roman reflected back on that dinner. Was she mad? No. Her childhood was full of confusing emotions, but it was mostly in the past. In the end, her dedication to herself brought her everything that was meant to be hers. Her dedication brought her a job she loved, a city she adored, a few high quality friends, and Marc. How could she be angry at Marc? He did not know the full story, plus, his answer was honest and pure.

“No,” Roman looked at him through her cafe-colored sunglasses, “I’m not mad about that at all Marc. Seriously.”

Marc turned his head to look at her. Once he had confirmed her small smile was genuine, he allowed his energy to brighten and turned the music up a little. The playlist was strictly Spanish music- Marc said he had to practice.

A couple of hours, a couple of stops, and a couple of light-hearted and mushy-gushy conversations later led Marc back to his thoughts from before.

“Roman, are you awake?”

Roman stirred from the seat and lifted herself up. She started to massage her left arm, which had fallen asleep after losing connection to the rest of her circulation. The sun was now halfway down and strictly hit the right side of Roman’s face. She reached into the glove department and sprayed sunscreen on her face, neck, and arms and then gently massaged them into her golden glwoing skin.

“I’m awake now,” she said with a sleepy smile.

“I have a question I want to ask you.”

Roman felt her breathing slow down into a slow-motioned shallow rhythm. Would he ask it here, on the road? It was certainly unexpected, but maybe that was the point? He would propose now, and then they would spend the weekend enjoying themselves. It was a unique plan, but still rather cute.

“Y-yes?” Roman rubbed the last of the sunscreen in between her fingers to remove any remaining dryness.

“What do you think about having kids? In the future?”

Roman sighed, partially relieved. Of course he was not going to propose while driving. She hated thinking so irrationally and internally kicked herself for being so stereotypically obsessed with being asked for her hand in marriage.

“Kids? Yeah, I want kids. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just feel like we’ve talked a lot about our future, but you never mention having children.”

“There is more to my future than just bearing children, you know.”

Marc’s nose tightened and he reached for a sip of his black coffee. It was disgusting and inauthentic so his face scrunched at the bland sourness of it. The caffeine was doing its job, however, so the man kept suffering with it as long as it functioned properly within him.

“I know, and you know I want to support your career as well. But have you ever thought about doing something a bit less stressful when you are ready to have kids?”

“Why would I need to do something less stressful?” Roman knew exactly where Marc was going with this, but she was too curious. She wanted to push her boyfriend (and hopefully fiance and future husband) to speak what was on his mind. He was so complacent with following her every move, so she relished the opportunity to pick his brain.

“Isn’t it bad for the baby for the mother to be in a high stress environment?”

There it was. The inevitable assumption. Roman’s mother had never been pregnant. And she too, never planned to be.

“I’m not going to give birth, Marc.”

“What?”

“I want kids, but I don’t want to give birth.”

Marc started to laugh a bit, and then upgraded to a full blown chuckle because he found her reply most amusing. The sun was beating down on their faces without remorse, so Roman stiffly rubbed more sunscreen on her face. She thought about offering Marc some, but decided against it.

“What do you mean? Like c-section? Can you even plan something like that ahead of time?” Marc asked. He glanced at her, showing her his wrinkles from his wide smiles. His questions were sincere, and he had no malice or argumentation in his mannerisms.

Roman, already growing anxious from the conversation, felt it better for her to push forward.

“Marc, I’ve never planned to birth children. I plan to adopt,” Roman confessed. She agreed that this was a conversation that could have been had earlier, but it was still plenty early enough in her opinion. They were not married or even engaged, so premarital conversation was still very much capable at any time. Two years flew by so quickly, Roman had not even realized that Marc had begun to see her as his future wife and also the mother of his future kids.

This confession left Marc silent. For about a minute they drove to only the sound of hispanic music, tires, and road. It was a meaningful sixty seconds, the type that makes you realize that something important has been forgotten. The pregnant pause hung in the air of the car and complimented the weakening AC.

“You don’t want,” Marc chose his next words carefully, “kids of your own?”

“Any child I adopt will be my own.”

Marc, who Roman called a feminist, had passed all of her cognitive tests. When she asked him about gender roles and stereotypes, he said all that mattered was a functioning relationship. She grilled him about inequality, and he spoke about his active role in countering it in his own office. Even though he was raised by iconically African parents, he managed to take the best parts of tradition and leave the rest. His cultural perspective was refreshing. It took the bitter taste of common disrespect to a halt, and Roman loved him. But now, life was bringing the familiar smell of salt right back up to her nose.

“That is true. And I agree,” Marc said slowly.

“But?” Roman encouraged.

“But, I meant more- biologically. Don’t you want a child that looks like you? Acts like you? One that comes from you?”

“I don’t look like my mom, and I don’t really care about it.”

Marc shrugged and silently agreed.

“Why adoption? Is it because you don’t want to have a bad pregnancy? Did your mom have a hard pregnancy?”

“Well of course, being Black is enough to make my pregnancy a risk for death in this country. But no, I’ve just planned to adopt,” Roman was speaking individually. Family is not guaranteed, she reminded herself once more. That was a rule she lived by and found comfort in. Man or no man, she would have a family and find her success. Roman closed her eyes and tried to keep the rising disappointment in check.

“But, why?”

“Why does it bother you so much? It is my body you know, and I’ve decided it will not be home to a baby.”

“So why not just say no to kids in general?”

Roman felt herself grinding her jaw and her teeth felt sore from the bad habit.

“If you have something to say, Marc, say it,” Roman commanded. She was now turned towards him and looked with intention. Her eyes applied pressure. Roman wanted him to say it was his full being: the honest truth.

“I want children that are biologically related to me. Not adopted.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Why?”

Roman’s anger triggered shorter sentences. Communication was all about efficiency. In the fashion industry, if you wanted something expressed, you expressed it. It was not hidden behind vague generalities or opinions. It was pushed out, tested, experimented on, and then brought to the homes of the target audience. If what Marc wanted was not what Roman wanted, then she was not his target audience.

“I don’t know. Isn’t it normal to want to bear your own children? Isn’t it hard to love children that don’t come from you? I don’t know if I’m making sense, and I see I’ve made you upset, so maybe we should just-”

“No, I’m not angry,” Roman took a swig of water to ensure that her brain was hydrated enough for this important conversation. The AC made a sputtering sound and then gave out entirely, blowing only dusty warm air. The couple felt the temperature of the car increase degree by degree. It began uncomfortable for Roman’s elbow to rest no the arm rest.

“Is it pride? Do you feel like it isn’t really your child if you did not have a part in making it?”

Marc looked shocked. It was not often that Roman insulted him. On top of that, he had never considered himself a prideful man. He was always willing to do things for others, even at the expense of himself. It was this form of self-sacrifice that made him feel as if he had a duty to have children so that he could give of himself to them as well.

“Pride? No, but look at foster children. They have horribly health outcomes, no secure future, and a plethora of bad experiences. Adoption comes with baggage, Roman, and not everyone wants that.”

Marc was a medical scribe manager at a state run hospital. It was more than just a job for him, however. He took his meticulous nature into all facets of his life. He remembered all important pieces of information about Roman because he wrote it down. Nothing in his home was missing because he kept it organized and alphabetized. Even in his car he had compartments in the deep trunk full of labeled resources. He took joy in his work and efficiency. It was not a trait he wanted to be lost on just anyone.

“All adoption comes with baggage? Hm, interesting.”

Marc sighed. He realized that he had dug himself into a hole. Something inside of the young man, however, was awakened. A desire that was near and dear to him.

“Adopted children and their legal guardians don’t have much in common. It can take years to feel the connection. Even then, there will always be the lingering thought that their biological parents could not take care of them,”

Marc followed the wide curve of the road, increasing his speed to finish it quickly. When the car straightened out again the sun was directly in front of them. Marc pulled his visor down to protect his eyes and kept talking.

“People who want to adopt are angels, seriously, don’t get me wrong. But there is nothing wrong with just having your own kid.”

“An adopted kid is your kid. There is no difference.”

“But there is.”

“No, you think there is, but parental love is parental love. Biology can make love easier, but it is not a prerequisite to love. Fathers love children that aren’t theirs all the time. Just ask the ones who found out their wife was cheating years later. They loved those children because those were their children. It’s psychological, Marc. And psychology is strong enough on its own without biology.”

Roman had not meant for her voice to sound so curt or for her volume to raise like this. She cursed herself for being so ready for confrontation while still being unable to keep her hand from shaking like a child’s.

Marc’s left palm gripped the wheel. His forearm was flexed and moist from the sweat of hours prior. His right hand grabbed the cup and downed the rest of the cold coffee. His face looked as if he had just taken vodka without a chaser. He took a couple of controlled breaths.

“But a couple, especially a couple that has decided that they both want to have children, should probably discuss what would make the most sense.”

Roman grew tired of this dodgy expressionism.

“And if they don’t agree? What happens to the couple then?”

The quiet sat in between them as sunset began. The sky, once blue with white clouds speckled across it, was now orange with streams of purple and red. The clouds, thin and sparse, created an ombre effect. A distant mountain range faced the last warmth of the sun on one side, and the coolness of the coming night on the other. With a crackle and a pop the AC spontaneously turned back on, blasting cool air again. Roman’s eyes, still hidden behind her sister’s oversized glasses, pricked with tears. She could not tell if it was because of how dry they were or if it was heartbreak.

“Are you going to break up with me because we don’t agree on something right now? Is it that serious to you?” Marc asked. His voice, which had usually reminded Roman of a river, now sounded sharper and threatening. Roman felt the tears disappear after a few blinks.

“I want to have children Marc. I want to adopt them. There are so many children in this world. No one needs to really birth children anymore.”

Marc sat up straight and listened.

“Trends come and go,” Roman continued, “People buy clothes and throw them out. Others keep it locked in the closet, never to be worn again. It’s damaging and threatens our planet.

“That is the beauty of second hand stores. I can love a sweater, but then realize that isn’t right for my body. So I send it so that someone else can love it even better than I can.”

“I hardly think orphans are comparable to sweaters.”

“I don’t care what you think. And I don’t care what you want. If you are so determined to spread your genes then feel free to. With or without you, I’m adopting children.”

Marc pressed his foot to the gas a little more, pushing the car to 80 miles per hour.

“That’s the problem isn’t it?”

Roman, finally ready for a challenge, replied, “What’s the problem?”

“It’s always what you want, Roman. You never once think about compromising. You’re a brat and I’ve done nearly everything to show you that I am on your side. But when resistance comes, you can’t even think about what I want.”

“Don’t pretend to speak so knowingly of me. And don’t call me a brat.”

“What should I call you then?” Marc raised one hand off of the wheel in anger, “Without us even having a peaceful discussion about the future of our family, you’ve already begun to question my intelligence!”

“Is it hard, having someone present themselves without reservation to you?”

Marc yelled. It was short, quick, and pitiful. Roman winced, feeling a bit afraid.

“You want to be alone, fine. Be alone. You’ll be a terrible mother like that. And your

adopted child doesn’t need you to save them. They’ll be fine growing up and failing on their own.”

Roman slammed one hand on the dashboard and Marc jumped in his seat.

“I’m adopted, you absolute dirtbag.”

The silence was deafening. Marc slowed the car to a stop and placed it in park. He looked at Roman, who was now allowing streams of tears to run down her face. The face that did not look like her mother’s and the eyes that were not like her father’s. She had another mother once. One she loved dearly. One who gave her life to save her. One who had begged her to put herself first, unapologetically. Family is not guaranteed, she explained while dying, that is why Roman became her own family.

“Roman, I am so sorry,” Marc was crying now too. Roman wondered if it mattered. Was his bigoted opinion only altered because of her short anecdote? This, in her eyes, did not translate into a change of heart, merely a change of circumstance. Nonetheless, he pulled her into a hug and Roman cried onto his t-shirt that said “Mexico Sun, California Buns,” that she had insisted he wear on their trip.

Roman simply cried. Her words had exhausted themselves. It was the first time she had told anyone else that she was adopted. She never saw the need. Her parents were her parents. They loved her like a daughter, because she is their daughter. She loved them as if they were her parents, because they are her parents. It was supposed to be simple. So why had Marc made it so distasteful? To Roman, he smelled like bitter salt, just like all the rest.

“Take me home, please.”

END