Where We Belong (17 page)

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said as I curled into a fetal position on my lawn chair, crumbling under the weight of so much guilt and shame and embarrassment. My parents had given me so much—
everything
—and this was the thanks I gave them.

But my mother remained strong. “Honey, it’s going to be okay. We will take care of this,” she said, running her fingers through my hair. “We will get through this … What did Conrad say?”

“I didn’t tell him,” I said.

“Good,” she quickly replied. And then added some disparaging footnote, blaming him for my predicament.

I felt terrible for not defending him, but decided there was no point. We were in problem-solving mode now. And Conrad, good guy or bad, my type or not, was not part of the solution.

*   *   *

The next day, my mother took me to her ob-gyn, and my news was confirmed with a blood test. According to Dr. Kale, who looked disturbingly like my grandfather, I was six weeks along—which meant that I was right about my theory: I lost my virginity and got pregnant on the same night. The ultimate curse. It was downright cruel and unusual, especially given that Conrad and I had used protection. I stared numbly at Dr. Kale as he took my full health history and discussed my prenatal care “should I choose to have the baby.”

Meanwhile, my mother took copious notes and asked occasional questions until there was nothing more to be said. Then the doctor put down his clipboard, took a seat on a stool, and slid over to the table next to me. I knew what was coming—and sure enough, he gave me a supportive smile, cleared his throat, and said given my age and circumstances, he wanted me to talk to a counselor. He looked at my mother for permission, and she nodded her consent.

Minutes later, after I had changed out of my paper gown back into my jeans and T-shirt, my mother and I were ushered down the hall to a small, cheerful office adorned with a child’s crayon drawings and a collage of photographs of towheaded boy-girl twins. Behind the pristine desk sat a petite, blond counselor named Megan, presumably the mother of the twins, who smiled at us, made insipid small talk, then calmly explained my “options,” all of which were perfectly obvious. I could terminate the pregnancy. I could continue the pregnancy and become a single parent. I could parent the child with the father’s involvement and support. We could parent as a couple. We could parent with help from our parents or other relatives. I could have the baby and place it for adoption—which came with another menu of options that she was available to discuss at any time. “You have a lot to think about, honey,” Megan said.

My mother thanked her for me.

“Is there anything you want to ask me?” she said.

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 carry 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.