The Gospel According to Luke (11 page)

Aggie felt lucky to have escaped the strange mythical education that the majority of Australian kids endured. Her father worshipped his wife, his daughter and money, in that order; her mother worshipped herself. Christmas was a picnic of Greek salad and crunchy baguettes at Bondi Beach; Easter meant too much chocolate and three days of sleeping late. When Aggie's paternal grandmother died, the extended family took turns to read poems in her honour and then cast her ashes out into the Pacific. There was no talk of heaven.

Aggie's wedding, too, had been strictly secular. A hired yacht, a celebrant from the yellow pages, a
bunch of drunk fishermen and stoned uni students, a teenaged bride who was simultaneously drowning in grief and flying high on sexual passion, and a groom who insisted that only the best would do for his wife, and so spent a great deal of her dead father's money on first class tickets for a honeymoon in Italy.

Religion was a big thing in Rome, and Aggie remembered how disgusted she felt when she finally saw Vatican City after walking half a day through streets crawling with beggars. The place was filled with more priceless art treasures than she could take in. ‘Evil pays well,' Kip said, in a rare sombre tone. He wouldn't answer any of Aggie's questions and was quiet the rest of the day, but she knew he had gone to an Anglican boarding school and so figured that had something to do with it. From then on she noticed that whenever they passed a church he would look at the ground and walk faster, like a child desperate to escape the attention of a gang of bullies.

‘I have to save him,' Aggie said.

‘He doesn't want to be saved, Ag.'

‘So I should just give up? Just forget I ever met him?'

Mal was silent, twisting her hair around his finger. After a while he bent over and kissed her forehead. ‘Get up.' He hauled her to an upright position. ‘Listen. Don't think I approve of this, because I don't.' He looked out toward the NCYC, shook his head, then looked back at Aggie. ‘But I will say this: he's crazy
about you. He blushes like a schoolgirl when you so much as smile at him through the window. If you're determined to win him over – against my best advice, mind you – then I say just be yourself. His faith is unlikely to crumble under your poorly constructed theological arguments, but if he loves you, he'll have to have those arguments with himself.'

Aggie hugged him. ‘I love you.'

‘Ag, be careful. It might work out, but it probably won't.'

‘I have to try.'

‘You sure this isn't just some kink? Getting hot over a minister?'

‘You forget I have no religion. A minister is totally not taboo. A virgin on the other hand . . .'

‘He's a . . .? That's it.' Mal held up his hands. ‘Now I know you're insane. I'm getting out of here before you infect me.'

Aggie laughed. ‘Don't go, Mal, I'm having fun.'

He was putting on his jacket, struggling to stuff his arms into the narrow sleeves. ‘I have stuff to do, be back about eleven, okay?' He paused at the door. ‘Don't call him until I get back. You need supervision with this one.'

Honey was late again, but it wasn't her fault, since Muzza had sold her clock radio for dope money and her mother had forgotten to bang on her door before leaving for work like she'd promised. When she did finally wake up at 8:40, she found that there was not only no coffee or milk but there was not even hot water. She wondered how long it would be before they paid the bill this time. She was not strong enough to go three months without hot showers like she had last winter. She'd had just about as much as she could stand.

Honey made it to the bus stop in time for the nine-thirteen, which would have at least got her to school in
time for second period, but then the nausea kicked in and the bus came and went as she was spewing behind the fence of the retirement home. She reminded herself that after today the sickness would be gone. After today
it
would be gone and she could get on with her life. No, not get on with her life – start a new life. The old one sucked. The old life got her into this disgusting mess. She would make a clean start. Stop hanging around with Steve and his lot. Stop smoking dope and stealing from Woolworths. Stop turning into her mother. Clean start, new life, fresh chances. As soon as she got rid of the
thing
inside her.

It was an hour until the next bus, and by the time she got to school it would nearly be time to leave again because she had to be at the clinic by twelve. She decided to walk straight there. Even with stopping twice to throw up and once to dry-retch, the trip only took twenty minutes. She'd missed morning classes and knew education was the key to getting out of there, but really, the importance of three hours of English and History was nil when compared to the importance of not being another damn teenage mother.

When she got to the car park she lit a cigarette and pulled out of her backpack the tampon box containing the cash Steve had nicked for her. She counted the notes and smoothed out the creases, thankful that Muzza refused to touch ‘disgusting women's things'. She slipped the money into her shirt pocket and tossed the tampon box on the ground. According to the girls'
dunny experts you had to wear giant mattress pads for a week after an abortion. Honey didn't care if she had to wear them for a year; at least it would mean there was nothing in her except blood.

She wished that Steve were here, that he was the kind of boyfriend who would hold her hand during the interview and then stroke her face and tell her it was all going to be alright, and they were making the right decision and he loved her no matter what. But then, if he were that kind of boyfriend she wouldn't be here craving comfort, because if he were that kind of boyfriend he would've used condoms in the first place. And if she wasn't such a comfort-needing, spineless, sentimental little moron she would have made him. That was the truth when you got right down to it: she had only herself to blame, and she had only herself to hold onto if she was feeling scared. Which she wasn't. Much.

Honey finished her cigarette, dropped it on the asphalt and put it out with the thick glob of bile that had been lining her throat all morning. Head held high, chest out, shoulders back, she made her way across the car park towards the glass fronted office with
Sexual Health Advisory Service
in bold black type on the door. As she pushed the door open, someone whistled and she turned, heart hammering in her chest, expecting to see Muzza or her mum or one of the teachers.

There was no one behind her or anywhere close by. A lady with a pram passed on the other side of the street, and a kid on a bike cut through the carpark
to get to the council reserve. No one was paying any attention to Honey at all. It was nerves. Plain old dumb nerves. Something flashed in the corner of her eye, and she turned toward it as another flash blinded her. A yell rose in her throat, but then her vision cleared and she saw that sunlight bouncing off the side mirror of a white van was causing flashes of light as it drove slowly by. She took a deep breath and entered the clinic.

A woman behind a desk covered in three thousand pieces of paper stood up and smiled. ‘Can I help you?'

‘I'm Honey. I'm, um, I'm early for my . . .'

The woman squinted at her desk, pushing aside folders and papers until she unearthed what appeared to be an appointment book. ‘Right . . . ah, Honey Allende?'

Honey nodded, smiling a little, because the woman had pronounced her name properly:
Ayenday
instead of
Alendee
.

‘You're the first appointment today. We can start now if you like?'

Honey nodded and followed the woman through a doorway behind the desk. ‘Wait one sec. I've got to lock the door. I'm alone here till eleven.'

Honey sank into the nearest chair and looked around. There was nothing else in the room except three more straight-backed wooden chairs and a small table that looked like it had been pinched from an old lady's lounge room. Honey was relieved that there
weren't any posters on the wall. Once she had gone to a family planning clinic to find out about getting the pill, and the posters about genital warts and herpes freaked her out so much that she left without ever seeing a doctor.

‘Right.' The woman sat beside Honey and placed a box of tissues and a manila folder on the table. ‘My name's Aggie. I'm a qualified counsellor, which means I'm trained to look at people's problems in an objective way and help them find a solution they are comfortable with. I will not judge you or lecture you, nor will I tell you what to do. This meeting is completely confidential and so is any action that you decide to take as a result of this session. Any questions so far?'

‘Do I have to do this? This counselling stuff I mean? Can't I just, you know, get it done?'

Aggie leant forward, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘You can do whatever you like, Honey, but you requested this appointment. That indicates that you have something you want to talk about.'

‘I thought I
had
to talk about it first. Steve – that's my boyfriend – he said that they make you talk first, to be certain that it's what you want. Even if you know what you want – which I really do, believe me – they make you have this bit first.' Honey pressed her palms against her belly and took a long, slow breath. ‘Anyway, I want to get rid of it. So if it's not an absolute requirement, if it's not law or anything, can
we just get straight to the . . . the operation or whatever you call it.'

Aggie frowned, tapping her nails against her chin. Stumpy nails, shiny chin. Honey wondered if she was a lesbian. Steve reckoned that women who worked in abortion clinics were lesbians, spending their lives ripping the offspring from other women's wombs because they were so bitter about not being able to get knocked up themselves. Honey told him he was full of shit, because he pretty much thought every woman with a job or a mind or a decent pair of walking shoes was a lesbian.

‘Honey, you know we don't actually perform terminations here, don't you?'

‘Oh. Um, Steve said –'

‘Your boyfriend?'

‘Yeah. He said that, um, he said he's – well, not him, but a girl he used to . . . he knows a girl who got one done here once. He said if I just made an appointment –'

‘There was a surgery next door, but it moved because of the protesters. It wasn't safe for the staff having everyone know it was there. We can still refer you, but not until we know you're genuine.'

‘I'm genuine, I swear. I have to get rid of it and I want it done today. I have money. Cash.' She tapped her top pocket.

‘I'll give them a call and see how soon we can arrange it. But I do need to go through a few things with you first.'

To Honey's relief, the questions were easy. Date of birth, had she seen a doctor, had she been pregnant before, was she making the decision of her own free will, did she have any allergies, had she ever been tested for HIV, who was her contact in case of emergency. When they were done, Aggie was true to her word, leaving the room and coming back five minutes later with a slip of paper bearing an address in Granville.

‘They can see you at two. The procedure only takes about ten minutes, but the appointment will last three to four hours and will include paperwork, blood and urine tests, ultrasound and pelvic examination followed by the medical procedure and recovery. There'll be a uniformed security guard at the door, who'll ask for that appointment slip and get you to walk through a metal detector. He's there to make sure you and the staff are safe from nutcases, so once you get past him you can relax.'

Honey stood. ‘That it?'

‘That's it. You sure you don't want to talk a bit? You've got some time before the appointment.'

Honey started to decline, but the sound of glass breaking cut her off. Aggie ran from the room and Honey caught the words ‘fucking cuntface fucker' and then something incoherent and then a door opening and then, ‘For fucksake, what next?'

Honey walked out into the main office. The front window was gone, except for a few jagged edges clinging to the frame. Aggie stood amongst the shattered
glass, looking out at the deserted street, holding a brick in both hands. Another was at her feet.

Honey felt like she was going to cry, not that that was such a big deal these days. But still, this was maybe something to cry about, unlike ads for toilet paper or that thing in History class about the Aboriginal kids being taken from their families. Steve and the guys broke windows a lot. Cars, shops, houses, offices, whatever. They didn't do it for any reason except they were pissed and bored and it was fun for about ten seconds to hear the smash and then run until your blood rushed in your ears. But being inside and seeing this poor lady staring helplessly into space was not fun.

‘Got a broom?' she said. Aggie turned and looked at her as though she'd appeared out of thin air. ‘Dustpan and brush or something? To clean up the glass with?'

‘Oh.' Aggie shook her head and kind of smiled. ‘Don't you worry, Honey, you've got enough on your mind.'

Honey noticed a door next to the one she had gone through before. ‘So this'll keep my mind off it,' she said, pushing the door open and seeing a sink, fridge, mop, bucket, broom. She grabbed the broom and bucket and headed back out to the mess. Aggie was on the phone, so Honey got to work sweeping the glass into a neat pile. She was just finishing scraping it into the bucket when Aggie hung up.

‘Thanks, Honey. That was really nice of you.' Aggie took a deep breath. ‘Police are on their way. Not that they'll do anything. Never do.'

‘This has happened before?' Honey leant the broom against the wall and sat on the edge of the desk. The sweeping had made her dizzy.

‘Not exactly. Usually it's graffiti or people standing out there yelling stuff. They've never . . .' She stared at the brick.