I shook my head, although part of me wanted to make an announcement, for the record, for my file. I wanted to tell her that I was way smarter than other girls she had counseled in this predicament. That I wasn’t “that kind of girl.” That I’m sure everyone lied about it, but I actually had used birth control, and that I never, for a second, thought of abortion as a backstop. That I understood my options, yet I couldn’t fathom having a child, any more than I could fathom aborting a baby, any more than I could fathom giving one away.
But of course I said none of this as Megan handed me her card and a pamphlet of the medical facility they recommended should I choose to terminate the pregnancy. My mother took it from my hands, slipped it into her own purse, and said we’d be in touch.
* * *
“What should I do?” I asked my mom on the way home.
She kept her eyes on the road and said it was my decision.
“Mom, tell me,” I said.
She took a deep breath and then told me I was beautiful, talented, special. The light of her life. And that any child that came from me would be just as brilliant and special. She said she would help me raise the baby—she would do it herself if that’s what it took, if that’s what I wanted. Then she mentioned adoption. She called it noble, the ultimate in generosity and selflessness. She said she had always had such respect for girls and women who made that choice. She said it would be hard—in some ways the hardest—to go through with everything and then give the baby away, but for my whole life, I would know that I had given someone the most precious gift imaginable.
“But if I had the baby … what about college?” I asked.
“We could explain to admissions…”
I shook my head, adamant. The conversation was still so theoretical, but I was sure that I didn’t want anyone at Michigan to know. Or anywhere for that matter. I told her this.
“Marian. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” my mother said, but I could tell, for the first time in our conversation, she wasn’t being sincere. Even she could not argue away the stigma of teen pregnancy.
“No. I don’t want to tell anyone. Ever. Especially not Daddy,” I said, thinking that it was one thing to disappoint my mother, another to disappoint my dad who was, deep down, my favorite parent. I worshipped him, and wanted to be like him, and wanted to make him proud, more than just about anything in the world at that time. But most of all, I simply adored him.
I stared out my window at the familiar landmarks of my hometown, as I was bombarded with childhood memories of my father. The crisp, cold fall football Saturdays in Ann Arbor, the two of us yelling so hard for our beloved Wolverines that we were hoarse on the car ride home to Chicago. The smell of fresh lumber at Ace Hardware as I stood by his side, watching two-by-fours measured and sliced with a chain saw for his latest backyard project. All the nights doing math homework, the look of concentration on his face, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he showed me the right way to solve the problem, his figures so neat that they looked typed. Watching our favorite television shows together—from Murphy Brown to Mad About You to Wonder Years—while my mother could never sit still long enough to join us. The endless summer hours we spent on the back porch of our lake house reading books on our white rocking chairs, mine a smaller version of his.
I think of all his little sayings: “You never get a second chance to make a first impression” and “The purpose of life is a life of purpose” and “He who fails to plan, plans to fail.” I think of the careful way he does everything—from stringing Christmas tree lights, to carving jack-o’-lanterns, to shoveling the driveway, to making sandwiches. I picture him arguing cases before the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals, watching him with so much pride I thought my heart would burst, thinking I’d never be able to grow up and find a man as wise or handsome or good. Maybe all little girls think this about their dads—but the difference is: I was actually right about mine.
“Promise me you won’t tell him,” I say. “No matter what we decide.”
My mother nodded, then reached across the seat and offered me her pinky, a practice we had abandoned years ago. Our little fingers intertwined, our secrecy officially sworn.
* * *
For the following two weeks, I remained paralyzed with indecision and filled with anger, fear, and guilt. I was also intensely lonely, feeling completely alienated from Janie and my other friends, who had begun to write me off after ignoring them for so many weeks. I knew the isolation would only be the beginning if I chose to have the baby. Then there was the heartache I felt over Conrad. I missed him desperately—more than I thought possible to miss anyone. He phoned a few times, and my mother always gave me his messages, but I did not return his calls, hoping that going cold turkey would break my addiction to him faster—and his to me. Part of me felt as if this were the punishment we both deserved for carrying on like lovesick puppies—rabbits—while the life inside me was growing, the cells multiplying again and again, a heart and its chambers beginning to form. Besides, I really couldn’t call him when I wasn’t willing to include him in this decision. And no matter what he had to say or how he said it, I was sure that the discussion would only make the pain that much worse.
If all of this wasn’t bad enough, I was also struck with a severe onslaught of morning, afternoon, and evening sickness—which felt a little bit like riding a roller coaster with a hangover. I spent most of my time alone in my room, a trash can next to my bed in case I couldn’t make it to the bathroom. I listened to music, flipping through my yearbook, wishing I could go back to the beginning of the school year, or even the summer, a simpler, happier, virginal time of my life that seemed like a million years ago. My mother knocked on the door a few times a day, bringing me crackers, sitting on the edge of my bed, smoothing my hair. Occasionally we’d talk about my choice, but mostly my mind was too cloudy to think, my heart filled with the strangling panic that no matter what I chose, I would regret it forever.
* * *
Then one morning, after puking three times, I made my decision. I found my parents in the kitchen, my father about to leave for his morning run, my mother drinking coffee in the pink cashmere robe I had given her for Mother’s Day.
“Morning, kiddo,” my dad said, stretching his long legs, fleetingly resembling the college tennis star he once was. His hair was still dark then, gray only at the temples, and I remember thinking it would all turn white if he knew.
“Morning,” I mumbled, realizing that I hadn’t made eye contact with him in days.
“I just got a letter from a history professor I had at Michigan. Name is Barfield. Thomas Barfield. Brilliant guy. And he’s still at it.”
“He must be ancient,” I said, forcing a smile.
My dad laughed. “Yeah. Like your old man.” He took a bite of an energy bar on the counter, the sight of which made me sick to my stomach. “I called and told him you were coming—to look out for you. He would be a great mentor for you. You might even be able to get a job as his research assistant. Would be a great experience. Be sure to swing by and introduce yourself.”
“Okay. I will,” I said, trying not to puke again.
Seconds later, as my dad headed out the door for his run, I looked at my mother and said, “I want it gone.”
“Okay, honey,” she said, looking relieved.
“Out of me. As soon as possible.”
“I’ll call today,” my mother said. “We’ll get an appointment right away.”
“Am I doing the right thing?” I said.
“I think you are,” she said, standing and giving me a tight hug. “I really think you are.”
* * *
I had to wait three more excruciating days for that Tuesday to come, two weeks to the day before I was leaving for school. Unfortunately, it was also the rare day my father took off from work, and I was dismayed to find him puttering around downstairs in jeans and a polo shirt, working on a home improvement to-do list. Meanwhile, my mother and I had to c
arry on a charade about going shopping in the city for clothes to take to college, my dad cracking jokes about how he’d better get to work to cover the cost of the damage we were sure to do at Saks, somehow oblivious to my telltale loose sweats, no makeup, and ponytail pulled back in a scrunchie. I kept my eyes lowered until it was time to leave, feeling mostly numb with occasional bursts of terror.
It was a relief to finally get in the car and be on our way to the medical facility on North Elton. I kept envisioning the photos on the pamphlet, featuring the wholesome, doe-eyed young girl with a crisp, shiny bob and a staff of doctors and nurses with concerned, competent smiles.
My mother and I drove in silence, until at one point, she asked if I wanted to listen to music, holding up her ABBA CD. It was our nostalgic favorite, and I nodded, thinking that a little “Dancing Queen” and “Voulez-vous” might take my mind off things. For a few songs, it did the trick, the familiar lyrics and clean, clear soprano vocals almost hypnotizing me, but when the bittersweet notes of “Chiquitita” filled the car, I had to fight back tears, remembering how I used to think the song was about bananas, how my mother had laughed when I told her this, explaining that it meant “little girl” in Spanish, that I was her chiquitita and always would be. The music washed over me, both soothing me and filling me with grief.
I looked at my mother gripping the steering wheel, and even though her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes and half of her face, I could tell the song was affecting her, too. I looked out my window as the sights of the city appeared, and told myself that this would all be over soon. I’d go to college in a few weeks where I’d learn from books and life and people, and turn into a real adult with a real career. Someday I’d fall in love again and marry. My husband and I would enjoy a few years alone, just the two of us, then plan for our first child. We would do everything the right way. The perfect way. I would call my parents with the news—or maybe tell them face-to-face if I still lived in Chicago. They would tell me it was the happiest news of their lives. By then, Conrad and that night at Janie’s, this whole summer, and especially this morning, would have long since faded, maybe even disappeared altogether. After today, I would get a do-over. A clean slate. A fresh start.
I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the cool window, and moved my lips to the words I’d heard a thousand times before … You’ll be dancing once again and the pain will end, You will have no time for grievin’.
* * *
But in the end, no matter how much I believed in my choice—and my right to make that choice—I just couldn’t go through with it. Couldn’t think of it as anything other than taking a life. And believe me, I tried. I really, really tried. I tried as I filled out my forms and got my blood drawn. I tried as I changed into a gown and had my vital signs taken. I tried during my physical exam and the administering of local anesthesia. I tried when I was lying on that cold, steel table in the surgical suite with my mother holding my hand in much the same way I imagined she would in a few months if I had made another decision. I tried when I put my feet in those stirrups and the doctor turned on the little vacuum apparatus and said he was going to be “gently removing the contents of my uterus” and everyone in the room nodded encouragingly and braced themselves for what was billed and promised to be a very quick, painless procedure.
But it didn’t feel like a procedure. And it didn’t feel like the “contents of my uterus.” It felt like a baby, and as I closed my eyes, I was filled with an intense need to know whether it was a boy or girl. In those few seconds, I knew I was done—and what I wanted or believed I wanted was immaterial. It was almost as if my head and heart were in a war, and my heart won. I jerked my feet out of the stirrups and sat upright on that table, the stiff white paper under me making a loud, crinkling sound as all those people, including my mother, watched with surprise and concern, and even, I think, disappointment.
“I can’t,” I said aloud to them, but mostly to myself. “I can’t do this.”
And that was that. I got dressed, and my mother and I reentered the bright, August morning and drove back home.
11
kirby
The following morning, Marian knocks on my door just as the sun is coming up. I’m already awake. In fact, I probably only slept two hours the whole night, the rest of the time spent thinking about what she told me, trying to process it all, and even doing a few searches on my phone for Conrad Knights.
“Sorry to get you up so early. But I have to get to work,” she says through the door, sounding all bright-eyed and cheerful—probably because she knows I’ll soon be out of her hair. “I made you an oatmeal-whey-protein smoothie!”
“Okay. Be out in a second,” I shout back at her.
Minutes later, after I’ve brushed my teeth and hair, I find her in the kitchen. She is fully dressed in a plain navy dress, high heels, and lots of gold jewelry.
“Good morning,” she says, handing me a glass.
“Good morning,” I say, taking the smoothie from her. It is an unappetizing gray color, but I take a sip, and it’s not too bad.
We sit at the island, in our hundredth spell of awkward silence, before she acts as if she suddenly thought of something.
“Oh. Here. I got you this,” she says, sliding a boarding pass across the counter. “An upgrade from the bus.”
“I was going to take Amtrak,” I say, thinking of the last e-mail exchange I had with my parents—and my promise that I would take the train.
“Oh. That will take you forever … Travel by train is only nice in theory. Unless you’re on the Orient Express.”
“Right,” I say. ’Cause that happens all the time in my family.
“So I got you a direct flight back to St. Louis. It leaves at ten.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“Oh. It’s okay. I have so many frequent-flyer miles…”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” she says, then glances at her watch. “So we have about an hour before you need to leave for the airport. Is that enough time for you to get ready?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Plenty.” I look down at the ticket and thank her again.
“It’s nothing,” she says.
I stare into her eyes, resisting the strong urge to agree with that sentiment.
* * *
An hour later, Marian and I are standing on the corner of Madison and Eighty-seventh. She has just handed me fifty bucks for cab fare which I reluctantly take, feeling guilty on the heels of the clothes and shoes and flight, but worried that I don’t have enough to cover it. I watch her, staring intently down the block for a taxi, then pointing to a woman across the street and telling me she is our competition, we have to beat her to the punch. “You snooze, you lose in this town,” she jokes. Seconds later, she steps out in the street, boldly flagging one, and in another deft, fluid motion, she is behind the car, stowing my bag in the trunk, then opening the side door and instructing my driver to deliver me to the Delta terminal at LaGuardia. The whole thing happens as fast as one of Charlotte’s underwater flip turns.
When the logistics are handled, we stare at each other for a few painful seconds before she crosses her arms and says, “As you probably gathered from my story last night, I’m not the best with good-byes.”
“Yeah. I kinda got that,” I say.
She gives me a hug, slightly longer than the one last night. Her hair is silky on my cheek and smells like vanilla.
“Will you let me know when you’re home safe and sound?” she asks, as I wonder if she feels that she has to say this—if it’s just standard fare when a guest leaves your home. Or at least something you need to say to the child you gave up for adoption.
I nod, a knot in my stomach.
“You have my number,” she says. “Call or text me if you need me.”
And what if I don’t need you? What if I just want to talk?
I thank her and she says, “No. Thank you for coming. For finding me.”
> I try to respond, but can’t find the right words, and decide that saying nothing is better than saying the wrong thing. So I just nod and slip into the backseat, watching as she closes the door and waves. I wave back until she is gone from view. Then I sit back in my seat, wondering when or if I’ll ever see her again. Something tells me I won’t—that this is the way she wants it. That she met her birth daughter, gave her some nice shoes and a plane ticket, and now she can cross that off her list and get on with her life.
A few short minutes later, we are crossing a large bridge. Signs tell me it is the RFK. I look out my window at the sun rising in a pink sky, a backdrop to smokestacks and buildings and billboards, feeling unsatisfied and sad, like I’ve just been given away, again.
* * *
Five and a half hours later, I walk in the front door of my house. I’ve only been gone for three days, but everything looks and smells different, sort of the way I feel on the inside. I hear laughter coming from the kitchen and turn the corner to find my sister with Noah Smith, one of the cutest boys in school, also a star swimmer, her male counterpart. They are drinking root beer floats and making eyes at each other, like it’s nineteen-freaking-fifty-five and they’re about to head out to a sock hop.
Charlotte leaps up from the table when she sees me and throws her arms around me so sincerely and pure-heartedly that I hug her back, something I haven’t done in ages. In fact, this makes three hugs in twenty-four hours, which has to be a record for me since I was about eight.
“Dad told me where you were,” she breathlessly whispers. Her eyes are shining the same way they do after she wins a first-place ribbon in a swim meet and I feel fleetingly guilty for not being happier for her at such moments. For not sharing in them at all.
I glance at Noah, noticing the stubble on his jawline, impressive for a teenager, as Charlotte says, “Do you know each other?”
We both shake our heads, even though I know exactly who he is, as she introduces us. He does a chivalrous half stand that makes Charlotte beam with pride while I mumble hello.