Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  “And beds some big name men!” Seeing from his face I had roused his curiosity, I continued. “Paul McMann’s wife thinks Candy is sleeping with him. She asked Joyce.”

  Paul McMann was our CFO and Joyce his loyal administrative assistant, formatting his contracts and reports for twenty years. Two decades of coffee with three creamers, of reminding him of his wife’s birthday, and whispering to him when his tie was stained.

  “I’m pretty sure old Paul is sleeping with Candace. Not my business. Or yours.” Tom stood to begin clearing the dishes. “Can we go back to you not eating?”

  “Clearly I eat, Tom.” I patted my rump. “I just have a little stomach thing.”

  Tom deposited the dishes in the sink.

  “Jo, do you think you could be pregnant?”

  What a ridiculous notion. Especially since I had been so careful, not missing a day.

  And yet what if?

  The thought set my heart racing and brought that bile back into my throat.

  What if?

  The next morning I was waiting outside Candace’s office at 10:00 a.m. I knew that she and Tom were heading to the airport at noon. Tom and I had said our goodbyes in the parking garage that morning.

  “You’ll take care of the tire rotation?”

  “Yes and the house and the mail.”

  He leaned in for a kiss. It was slow and tender. “Seriously, will you be okay with me gone?”

  I said, “Why wouldn’t I be?” but I was thinking, No! Don’t go! Don’t leave me alone!

  The chairs outside Candace’s office were an oatmeal damask. A butler’s table in between held recent copies of Time, Newsweek, Forbes, and Glamor. A porcelain lamp cast shadows across the eternally youthful face of Meg Ryan. Looking up from this magazine, suddenly there were a thousand dots, like fleas, in front of my eyes. Nicole, sitting across the waiting area, was spinning.

  “JoAnna! Oh my gosh, are you okay?”

  I was on the floor, and Nicole was hovering, waving Meg Ryan’s face over mine. Miles Brennan had stopped to help. My pencil skirt was hiked up mid-thigh. I sat up and saw that Candace’s door was still closed. I felt the familiar bile and thought I was going to vomit. Accepting their arms, I assured them I was alright but asked that they apologize to Candace for me: I needed to go home.

  With each lurch of the train, I fought back phlegm, determined to wait until my stop. I longed for my soft yellow pajamas, worn in the knees and missing a button. I longed for a steamy bath.

  And, for the first time in years, I longed for Doro. And home.

  When I reached our house, emptied my stomach in the toilet, and changed into my pjs, I called Doro. There were no guests in the Inn, so she was heating up leftovers. Maddy was at church, working on his sermon.

  “I was sitting here reading,” Doro said, and I could picture her navy recliner, at the corner of their bedroom, where a high window delivered a beam of sunlight, speckled through the pines. Closing my eyes, I could smell the meatloaf warming, could see the crepe myrtles breaking out in ruby measles.

  “What are you reading?” I crunched on ice—a bad habit that Doro hated.

  “You’ll crack your teeth, I keep telling you! I’m reading The Optimist’s Daughter. Have you not started it yet?”

  “I read it in college.”

  “Oh. Well. So far it’s a little strange. What’s with all those relatives showing up?”

  “You have to get through to the end, Doro.”

  “Ya know, it reminds me of you.”

  I couldn’t imagine what I had in common with Laurel McKelva and said so.

  “Hmmm, maybe it’s the place. I don’t know … just some things she says and thinks.”

  “Write them down in the margins so we can discuss.”

  “No, no, it’s a library book. But I’ll use sticky notes. Anyhoo …” I heard the thump of the book against the side table. “What’s new with you? Have you been back to Dr. Weisz?”

  “Jesus, Doro, how can you go from a pleasant book discussion to nagging me? No, I am not going back to Dr. Weisz. Everything is fine. I just have a little stomach bug, and Tom is gone so I thought I’d call. I guess I missed you.”

  “Well, that is a sound for sore ears. Why don’t you come home this weekend? I’ll buy you a ticket.”

  Honestly, the thought of being back at the Inn was tempting—eating fluffy biscuits on Doro’s gingham placemats and pulling worn quilts over me as crickets sang outside.

  “I can’t come home, Doro. I’ve told you that.”

  “That’s in your head. You can come home and you should. Laurel did.”

  “I’m not a fictional character.”

  “Well, you may as well be for all we see you.”

  “I have to go, Doro. I just wanted to say hello, and that I love you. Make sure you finish that book in two weeks for our club.”

  “Eh, I’ll try. Now what is wrong with your stomach?”

  “Just a little virus or something. No big deal.” In my mind, however, Tom’s question lingered, and I was counting days. Weeks. When was my last period?

  I hung up and climbed into bed, although it was barely eight o’clock. As was my custom when I was alone, every light in the house stayed on. Every part of me hurt. I should get up and drink some water, I thought. But I was too achy to move.

  Tom’s call woke me up.

  “Jo, what the hell? Candace said you wiped out outside her office. You okay? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Did you just now hear?” Frankly, I had been expecting his call for the last six hours.

  “Yes, obviously. If I had heard earlier, I would have called earlier. I’m outside a restaurant now. We’re at dinner, and Candace just told me.”

  “Nice of her.”

  “Jo, let’s focus on you. What’s wrong?”

  “I think I have a stomach thing. I’m okay. I’m humiliated that I have to reschedule with her.”

  “All humans get sick.”

  “Ah, but Candace is not human!”

  He chuckled. “I guess if you can make jokes, you’re not too bad off.”

  “I’m okay.” There was a lull between us, filled with the noise of restaurant-goers, the whooshes of air as the door opened and closed.

  “Well I better get back in. I’ll check with you tomorrow. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then I better get back in there before they order for me.”

  “They? Not just you and Candy? Candace?”

  “No Todd’s here too. You have nothing to worry about; she has the hots for him I think.”

  Before we hung up, I blurted out what I had told myself I wouldn’t say.

  “Tom, before you go, I need to tell you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think I’m pregnant.”

  Tom called back the next day and the next and the next. Each time his question was the same: “Did you take the test?”

  And every time my answer was no. I ignored the aisle with the home pregnancy tests. I avoided families on the el and changed the channel at every baby food commercial. I worked longer hours, crackers stashed between files in my drawer.

  “Damnit, Jo, don’t you want to know?” Tom was calling from Philadelphia, six days post my blurting out the possible news.

  “I think it’s too soon to show up on a test.”

  “No that’s not true. Candace said that certain kits can tell—”

  “Wait. You shared this with Candy Cane?”

  Busted, he was.

  “Yes, but I wanted to talk to someone, and you haven’t seemed to want to talk to me. Anyway, both she and my mom—”

  “Your mom?” My face flushed with anger. “It there anyone you haven’t told my news to?”

  He was silent for a minute, then, “You mean our news.”

  “It’s my news right now. It’s, it’s nobody’s news. We don’t even know that there’s news!”

  “So take the test so we know … so
I can be justified in screaming the news.”

  And that’s when I realized, like a cold towel across the face, that we were at an impasse: He wanted a baby. I didn’t.

  The next day I made an appointment at Planned Parenthood.

  22

  WAITING

  ON THAT MONDAY IN THE CROWDED WAITING ROOM, I was surprised by the number of young children, most trailing crusty blankets or huddled around the secondhand Lego table in the corner. Walking from the train to the Planned Parenthood office, I slipped my wedding ring off and into my wallet. Why? Did I feel regret? Embarrassment? Guilt that I, a married woman, was contemplating what I was?

  After signing in, I sat on the edge of a mustard vinyl chair in the corner. On my left was a middle-aged Hispanic woman and her teenage daughter. The girl sunk in her chair so that she was balancing on her tailbone. She gnawed at her nubby fingernails, which had once sported a plum polish. An “S” pendant hung where cleavage should be, were the girl not flat-chested. I found myself trying to guess her name. Sarah? Susan? Samantha? Evidently I was staring unknowingly, and our eyes locked. She smiled very slightly, telling me with big basset hound eyes that she was more than an initial. In her anemic smile was a story that I would never know.

  I was directed to pee in a cup and then sent back to the waiting room. My spot was occupied by a fifty-something wiry woman with tight white curls and freckles that reminded me of Doro. To her left was a black couple who could not have been over seventeen. His basketball shorts hung around his knees, and his right high top Converse dug an imaginary hole in the linoleum, while he played something on his Nintendo DX.

  “I’m hungry,” I heard the girl whisper. Distractedly, he held up his right arm so she could dig in his jacket pocket. As she did, she revealed a very pregnant belly. Was she five months along? Seven? I couldn’t gauge, knowing nothing about pregnancy, babies, or children. She retrieved a package of M&Ms and adjusted herself in her chair, stopping to rub her belly.

  “Marco, feel.” Grabbing his free hand, she set it on her protruding stomach. He reluctantly moved his eyes from his Nintendo. Hanging in the air between them was an air of expectation, of uncertainty girded by joy. Another story I would never know.

  What do they know about raising a baby, I thought and then, just as quickly, what do I?

  A policewoman with an attractive face and hair a la Suzi Quatro sat down on the other side of me and smiled. “This place is crowded, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m surprised by how crowded.”

  “At least there were no protestors this early. They usually get started after lunch.” She filled the clipboard form out quickly, in perfect seraph script. “Two months ago I was here with my friend, and we had to walk through them.

  “It just about killed her. Creepy.”

  Protestors: I hadn’t thought about that. Truly I hadn’t thought about choice or non-choice or life at all. It was never something on my perimeter. The cop was still talking.

  “That’s why I wore my uniform today. Thought it might keep trouble away.”

  I felt my stomach do its now familiar flip flops and dug in my purse for a packet of Saltines. Watching me, the woman began talking again.

  “I’m not sick at all. Weird, right?”

  I smiled, not anxious to continue the conversation.

  “Ya know, there are more boyfriends and husbands here than usual.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Jane.”

  “Clarissa.” Had I really just said that?

  “What’s your story—is your man in the picture?”

  “Yes, it’s just … I’m just exploring my options.”

  “Oh.” Her smile faded a bit. “I don’t really have those.”

  How was I supposed to react to that? My body tensed, and I wanted not to be here talking to this woman. To not be anywhere.

  “Me and Jared—my husband—have twin three year olds and a ten month old and three jobs between us. His mom lives with us; she don’t work, and his daddy done run out on her.” She popped a piece of gum in her mouth. “No one told me you can get pregnant when nursing.”

  “Oh, I, I didn’t know that either.”

  “Now I knew about the antibiotic thing; that’s how my friend Justine got knocked up.”

  “Wait, what about antibiotics?”

  “Oh yeah, them with the pill makes it not work.”

  My sinus infection. Damn!

  “Jo Wilson?”

  I arose immediately when I heard my name, then remembered the lie I had told. Turning back to Jane, I said, “I’m Clarissa Jo.”

  She laughed, revealing a tooth missing at the side of her mouth. “Yeah you are,” she said.

  The frumpy woman who called me back had reddish hair parted by a skunk stripe. It was difficult to gauge her age: one of those women who seems stilted in time. Pinned to the top of her pink scrubs was a name badge (Angie) and a wide button with six laughing children’s faces. She directed me to a chair in a room the size of a closet. On one wall was a cross-stitched “Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life,” and on the other an enormous poster of the female reproductive system, including a uterus with fetus tucked inside. I looked away and asked about her button.

  “Are those your kids?”

  She kissed her finger, then the button. “Grandkids. I have seven now; this was before the baby was born.”

  “Wow, you don’t look old enough to have grandchildren.”

  Smiling, she revealed braces on her teeth. “I started young. I was nineteen when my oldest was born. Then I had three more lickety-split.”

  Her voice revealed a Southern drawl. Alabama perhaps?

  She took my blood pressure and temperature. To settle my nerves, I kept talking.

  “You have a Southern accent.”

  She smiled broadly. “And you do too! I’m from Mississippi—about twenty miles South of Jackson.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  She finished making notes on her clipboard and then leaned back in her seat, rubbing knees that obviously ached. “Let’s see, my Jimmy got a job driving trucks, and we moved here around ’87. All these years and I still haven’t gotten used to the winters.

  “Now, let’s talk about you. Your test results are positive.”

  “I’m pregnant.” Those foreign words echoed against my heart that threatened to pump out of my chest.

  “Yes indeed. When was your last period?”

  I thought back. “It was around May 20. But I’ve been on the pill; I never missed a day.”

  “No days missed? Were you on an antibiotic by chance?”

  “Yes, I had never heard about that.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Most people haven’t. At any rate that puts you at about seven weeks. That would make your due date February 24.” She scribbled more notes. “Of course, these dates are an estimate.” She put the clipboard down and scooted her stool closer. “So I assume you are here to talk about options.”

  “Yes,” I said quietly, then interjecting a “ma’am.” I’m not sure why I added that, except that Angie seemed old and wise and so comforting. I could listen to the gentle lilt of her voice all day long. I wanted to climb into her ample lap and have her read me a story. “I mean, I wasn’t planning to do anything today.”

  “Honey, that’s not how it works. Today we determine whether you are pregnant, and we send you along with some information. Are you considering termination?”

  Hideous word. “Yes, I guess. I mean, that’s why people come here right?”

  She chewed on her lips and arched her eyebrows dramatically. “Well, if you believe certain politicians, that’s all we’re here for, but the truth is that termination is a very small part of what we do. Many women come to us because they want to consider other options: adoption, for instance. Or because they’re pregnant and need pre-natal care.”

  She tucked a strand of greying hair behind her ear and continued. “You seem like a professional woman. Let’s see …” She cons
ulted my paperwork. “You work for an ad agency? Well that must be nice. I’m sure you have insurance, right?”

  To my nod, she said, “You’re lucky. So many women don’t have it. That’s why we’re here. A huge part of what we do is screenings. Women who can’t afford to get a pap or mammogram somewhere else.”

  She slid the stool to the drawer underneath the examination table and pulled out some brochures: Your Baby and You. Caring for Yourself. Understanding Abortion. Adoption Resources. My eyes clung to the pamphlet on top: Making the Right Decision for Yourself.

  A lone tear slid down my cheek. “How do I make the right decision?”

  She handed me a box of Puffs. “There is a mandatory counseling session that most women find helpful. Beyond that, you have to think about what you want. No one else can tell you that.”

  “Do most women …” I trailed off, unsure of what I intended to ask.

  “There are no mosts here, honey. I’ve seen girls barely thirteen years old who were pregnant with their daddy’s baby and refused to terminate. Women who walked in here so beat up by their husbands they could hardly open their eyes. Some choose one path, some another. Yesterday I worked with a woman who has five children under the age of seven. Husband works two jobs and won’t let her use birth control. Thinks it’s the Lord’s plan if she gets pregnant.” She cleared her throat. “Her mother brought her here.”

  Angie patted my knee. “But you know what all those women have in common with you?” When I shook my head, she said, “Nothing. Every woman is different. Every situation is different. That’s what the counseling is for.”

  Both cheeks were now lined with tears, and my throat choked. “I’m married,” I whispered, almost as an apology.

  “I see,” she said. She was quiet for a minute, watching my face contort with the tears. Wise woman that she was, she knew they needed to come. Then, from out of nowhere, “I had an abortion when I was fifteen.”

  My eyes immediately turned to that button—those laughing children.

  “I grew up in rural Mississippi. Kind of place where everyone’s up in your business. Boy’s name was Chad, and it was in the back seat of his Camaro the night of the state championship. He was three years older, wanting to go to med school.