Tim left for summer work off the coast of England not long after we had sex. Dave was already at his counseling position at a posh Texas camp about two and a half hours west of Austin in the hill country. I had to grab those required certifications for my camp job and soon I’d be heading out for my camp counseling position up east, the result of an all-out job search that involved sending out over a dozen applications and letters. I have summer plans, too, just like Dave and Tim, and I am not going to nix those plans or have my entire life suddenly thrown off course just because the squiggly sperm from one of these guys made it far enough into me. No way am I going to have a baby and mess up my dream of finishing college.
I do not know if this baby is Tim’s or Dave’s, and I am not about to let both of them off the hook. One of the two is the father. Tim is conveniently out of touch, so Dave gets the pregnancy news, and assumes it is his. Really, I refuse to think about the dilemma myself. I know how I would be labeled. Sex is one thing. Being pregnant at eighteen without knowing who the father is, that’s a whole different matter. I am in survival mode, plus I need some cash for the abortion. I know better than to share any of this who’s-the-father quandary with Dave, Carolyn, my sisters, and certainly not with the tight-lipped doc at the Health Center, nor the counselor he recommended. The doc refused to give me any information on abortions. They are illegal. Why would a counselor be any different?
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
I deliver the news to Dave and leave with a chunk of the necessary two hundred and fifty dollars for an illegal abortion. He is really loving his summer job—a boys’ camp that links with a neighboring girls’ camp with, of course, girl counselors—and appears a tad bit worried I might ask him to come with me. I’m feeling a little ignorant and dumb, but not stupid. I listen to Dave as he offers a few consoling words, then Carolyn and I hit the highway north to Dallas. We have a tough six to seven-hour drive home, and we are both exhausted. We’ve driven that distance already today, with the pregnancy news and abortion plans making up the middle of this sandwich.
Carolyn can’t drive a stick shift, so I sleep in the driver’s seat while she holds the steering wheel, one leg thrown over to press the gas pedal. She wakes me whenever we come into traffic or need to brake so that I can operate the brake, clutch, or use the gears. It is dangerous, but I am desperate, and Carolyn is only trying to help and has reluctantly agreed. This whole journey is a lot more than she planned for, but her commitment to our friendship never wavers. God, am I grateful for her.
Finally, I safely drop her off and arrive at my parents’ home around eleven. My dorm is closed for the summer and my plans have been to stay here before I leave for my summer job. Dad works the night shift and is about to leave, noticeably angry. “Your mom got mad and left. She probably went to Granny and Granddaddy’s.” He pulls the door shut with a bang, and I feel such relief to be home alone with my news. No Mom. No Dad. My old bedroom, and my old rocker. I rock and try to calm down.
Despite the hour, I call my sister Pamela, who is eight-months pregnant, and ask if she can lend me the rest of the cash I need and drive me to the abortionist in Denton the next day. I refuse to ask what she thinks about my plans. Stunned, she agrees, hearing the determination in my voice to go through with all this. For the most part, she is quiet, but is willing to help me rather than have me go alone. I do still have her car after all.
An old screen door slams behind us as we enter the tidy front room of the nurse abortionist’s home. The short, stout woman gestures Pamela toward a large comfy chair and then for me to follow her down a narrow hallway into a bedroom. I look back at Pamela and see her worried expression. What a horrible thing to be asking of my very pregnant sister.
Sunlight slips through some dusty blinds where one slat has not fully closed. In a commandeering voice, the abortionist instructs me to take off my jeans and underwear. “Lie on your back, spread your legs with your knees bent, put your feet flat on the bed.” I can tell she’s barked these instructions before.
I raise my hips, so she can place a clean towel under my butt. Beyond the towel’s reach, I finger little decorative knobs on the bedspread. I cannot really tell what this block of a woman is doing. She moves about the dimly lit room like a tank.
It occurs to me that I have not even asked for any details amidst my raw determination to take care of myself. I did not ask this woman about her background, the method she uses, or how long the procedure will take. I made the appointment and asked what it would cost. At the time, all I could think of was how guys could “relieve” themselves with an orgasm, and then just move on without a second thought of the consequences. That is exactly what I want to do: detach and move on. Take ownership of myself, of my situation, of my sexuality. Move on and not shed a tear.
I hover above my body watching, not really experiencing what is happening on that bed. Pulling on reserves of stamina and an ability to go into a numb, trancelike state—without questioning how I learned to do something like this—I slip into what feels like a familiar mode of handling reality. Dissociate.
It appears this woman is using a straightened coat hanger, swabbing it with alcohol, then slowly sliding it into me. I shiver. Am I cold? I feel a stabbing prick and a couple more jabs.
“It’s … almost … over,” she says, pausing between words. That’s it. Three words and no eye contact.
I notice some blood on the towel. Turning away from me, she explains in a low voice that I will feel cramping in the next three to twelve hours and will discharge some blood clots. “Just sit on a toilet,” she advises.
A low hum fills my head as I shakily pull on my underwear and jeans.
Just sit on a toilet. Waste. Whatever comes out will be waste. My breath gives a hitch, and then I let it go. Can’t cry, I remind myself.
“Are you sure this will work?” I ask tentatively, glancing her way, but she will not look at me.
“It will work,” is her clear, firm reply, her head down. She wipes her hands on a faded green skirt. I notice brown sweat stains under her armpits on a white short-sleeved button-down shirt.
Without trying to see her face, I hand her a damp wad of cash and walk alone up front. Done. I think of the guys, standing up, popping their penis back in their pants, then zipping up. Done.
With effort, Pamela pushes herself out of the chair and opens the front door for me. She looks so miserable for being a part of this whole scene. I wish I didn’t have to involve her, Paula, or Carolyn. But Dave and Tim? I wish they both had to feel the chaos and the desperation of doing something like this alone. Something so personal and heart-wrenching. Something illegal and dangerous. Something I will be shamed for by so many. Something that I had no other choice to do so that I could stay in college and move on with my life as casually as they were doing, with no concern about our having had sex and any consequences that might arrive from that.
Wisely, on the way home Pamela and I decide it might be best for me to stay with her in Plano rather than return to Mom and Dad’s in Richardson. Within six hours, amidst intense cramps, a huge amount of blood clots start slipping out of me as I sit on the toilet in Pamela’s trailer, looking between my legs at what pools in the toilet water.
Waste. What is coming out of me is waste. Isn’t that what goes into a toilet?
Pamela soothes and worries. Without saying a word, I let go in heaving sobs about it all, the abortion and all of the fears and insecurities and dreams of love and trust I so yearn for deep within, bleeding it all out and wondering what will come next.
CHANCE ENCOUNTERS
1972-73 (age 20)—Italy, Spain, France
The train is bound for Italy. I am on a holiday from my university in Nice, France. It is an early winter evening, and we are the only two in our lonely compartment—a young, blond American woman and a handsome, dark-haired Italian man.
From the first eye contact, our chemistry has been intense. After the conductor came by and checked our tick
ets, we closed the door, pulled the seats out, and cast off inhibitions. The rocking of the train and the sounds and lights whizzing by combine to make this scene feel like it is occurring in a crack in reality, as though I exist in some other dimension.
We shamelessly kiss, rub, and hump all while keeping our clothes on, finally straightening up and debarking the train at the next stop, never looking back at the other. Probably not the first time for this Romeo to do something of this nature, but it is for me. Still, somehow, I feel like I just caught a free lift.
I have been in Europe over four months as a junior year exchange student from the University of Texas in Austin. Patty sounded like “Potty” in French, so I started going by my full name, Patricia, which sounds beautiful to me in French, particularly the throaty “r.”
When I first arrived in Europe in August, I anguished that Dave did not get in touch for over six weeks despite my onslaught of letters. I asked my mom to contact him to see if he was okay. Soon apologetic letters rolled across the Atlantic claiming how badly he missed me and how lost he felt after I left. (Years later a mutual friend would tell me the moment I left the country, Dave went on a wild and reckless dating spree that lasted weeks.) Doubts of Dave’s faithfulness linger in my mind, but he professes his love so eloquently that I once again let his words and poetry swoop me up and carry me along.
During August, shortly after arriving in Paris, I met a wonderful Frenchman, Jean-Jacques, at a concert by The Who. But other than touchy-feely, passionate embracing, I have been consistent about establishing careful boundaries with him, much to his chagrin. After my illegal abortion just slightly over a year ago, I decided to absolutely not have intercourse with anyone while in Europe during my junior year. I didn’t even bring birth control pills with me.
By the time I am on the train to Italy, I am not really aware that at last, I am beginning to cut ties to Dave’s dubious love by acting out a bit on my own. My self-confidence as a single woman is strengthening, all while keeping my clothes on.
Several months later on my way to Spain, an attractive, young Spanish man and I find ourselves sitting next to one another in a crowded train compartment. A picnic lunch of sorts ensues in the compartment, with everyone sharing food. As we pass food, the Spaniard and I let our fingers brush each other’s, stealing glances that hint of desire. When the entire group slips into siesta time, we cover ourselves with our coats, then delicately and quietly touch one another oh so erotically. Our daring and controlled responses seem to only accentuate our pleasure.
I consider following him somewhere as we debark the train, but by then the mood is broken. That’s as good as it gets for now, I think, pressing my clothes with my hands, and good enough for me. I laugh out loud and promise I will never tell anyone about this guy, or the one in Italy. It occurs to me that this type of pleasure seems to have been reserved exclusively for men, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to refrain from similar explorations. I feel sure Dave has not kept his pants zipped, and each time I test my freedom, an undeniable pull of independence grows within. And there is something else, too, something I can’t quite identify—like an urge to do what I’m not supposed to do because that is what I do. And to keep it secret.
Spring rolls around and I decide to go to Avignon and Saintes Maries de la Mer during another holiday. I settle into a hostel in Avignon, then head out for a hike around the outside of this small, quaintly walled French town on a gorgeous spring day. I want to write in my journal and munch on the cheese, bread, and salami I picked up in town. I follow a trail across some open ground, inhaling the fragrance of lavender and freshly plowed fields and letting my long, fit legs and my burgeoning independence carry me along. I feel adventuresome and romantic, even though alone.
Suddenly, without warning, my feet are airborne, and rocks are tumbling. As I go down, I reach up and grab a thorny branch, coming eye to eye with the caked wall of mud and stones of an abandoned well. I listen to dirt and rocks careen downward, plopping into water somewhere far below. One knee is slightly bent with my foot pressed against the crumbling wall, and I quickly bring the other up to join it. I push and pull with an unknown strength, gradually managing to throw one leg up out of the well, then clumsily pull and push some more, finally rolling myself out of the deadly hole.
My body shakes uncontrollably as I sit there looking down a well with no cover, luckily with only the daypack holding my journal and picnic meal at its bottom, and not me. I stand up and brush the dirt off my back and jeans. Not a person in sight, and the town is at a considerable distance. My arms and hands are scratched and bleeding from the thorny branches of the bush that saved my life. My jeans are torn and dirty. I get up and dust off, finding clots of dirt in my hair. I stand there for some time, barely comprehending what has occurred, then slowly begin walking back toward Avignon, trying to steady my shaky legs and spirit after this frightful incident. Dusk begins to settle in, and I pick up my pace.
I head toward one of the town’s entrances, following a raised pathway lined with trees and flowers just above a narrow road that circles the wall that encloses Avignon. It is getting dark, so I walk as quickly as my wobbly legs will let me. Soon I become aware of a man walking behind me and feel tiny hairs perk up on the back of my neck but tell myself that not every man behind me is going to jump me. I even slow down a bit, in attempts to relax, and damn it, the guy comes up quickly, grabs my waist, and begins pulling my already ripped jeans down my bruised hips. As he pushes and tugs I scream loudly, then manage to turn around and fling a foot up toward the jerk’s crotch, hitting his balls with an amazing force of fury. Groaning, he lets go as I pitch forward onto my feet and run down into the road below.
Thankfully, a car is approaching.
I frantically wave my arms and scream, “Arrêtez, arrêtez!” The car screeches to a stop and the driver leans across, opening the passenger door,
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” the guy teases with a flirty smile and voice. Struggling to use the appropriate French to impress upon this stranger the severity of what just happened and crying in desperation, I beg for help. By now he sees my bloodied hands and arms, the ripped jeans barely covering my hips, and understands enough of my panicked explanations in French to correct his intentions and insist politely that I get in and allow him to help. The guy on the path above has disappeared in the darkness. No other car is in sight. I take my chances and climb in.
He offers to take me directly to a friend’s hotel in town after first going by the hostel, where I had been planning to stay, to retrieve what I did not lose in the well. He politely escorts me to the hotel, introduces me to the concerned owners as he explains the situation, and leaves. I never see the guy again. The female owner puts her arm around me and gently guides me upstairs to an ancient, beautifully windowed room, pointing out how I can later move the antique dresser in front of the bedroom door that unfortunately does not lock. She leaves me a clean towel and points to the bathroom and shower down the hall. When I return to a freshened room, bed turned down and curtains drawn, I find a tray with warm soup, bread, cheese, and a glass of wine. I move the dresser in front of the door, sit on the crisp, white sheets pulled tightly across the bed, and begin sobbing out of anxious relief. Why can’t I get it right? Was all this my fault? How will I ever know when there are gaping, dangerous holes ahead of me?
After eating a comforting breakfast the next morning and thanking my hosts profusely, especially after they insist on no charge, I catch a bus to the festivities at nearby Saintes Maries de la Mer. The colorful parade celebrating Mother Mary helps lighten my mood, and I decide to walk down to the sea to enjoy some sun and write in the new journal I picked up at a stationery store. I find a welcoming place at a slight distance from others out enjoying the day, then carefully ease my very sore body, dressed in a T-shirt and cutoffs, down onto the sand, and close my eyes.
Suddenly two French guys plop down on each side of me. They ask where I am from and invite me for a swim. I prop up
on my elbows and politely decline. As if on cue, each guy grabs one of my breasts, squeezing so hard I later discover they have left bruises, then run off laughing.
Standing, I quickly gather my things and begin frantically looking around. Although there are other people on the beach, they are not close enough to have seen what just happened. Am I wearing a sign on me that announces my vulnerability? Now I am scared. I feel like bursting into tears but realize that would just make me look more vulnerable.
I walk toward an area where others are gathered. One group appears to be Americans around my age, so I amble toward them. As I approach, a blond guy with a friendly smile asks, “Are you American?”
“Yes, I am. My name is Patricia. And you?”
“Rudy. Great day, isn’t it?”
Well, not so great for me. I meant to take my time, but I blurt out what just happened, along with a brief description of the day before. Rudy expresses genuine concern and can see I’m visibly shaken. The scratches and bruises on my arms and legs from my mishaps are visible, even though those on my breasts aren’t. My breasts ache.
“Would it be all right if I hang out with you and your friends for a while?”
After a few hours sitting together and talking at the beach, Rudy kindly invites me back to the campsite where he and some of these other travelers have settled. He puts together a picnic dinner for the two of us, and then we sit around the campfire casually talking until late. When it is time for sleep, he makes sure I feel safe and settled in a make-do bed he prepares for me, close to but entirely separate from his own. As the stars glitter, I massage my tender and bruised breasts, consciously choosing to focus on the kindness of a stranger like this, rather than on the actions of the Frenchmen at the beach or on the path outside of Avignon.
Being Mean Page 7
