“I knew it would ruin his life, or so I thought. I knew my daddy would kill me, or so I thought. So I confided in my aunt, and she drove me up to Memphis to the Planned Parenthood office there. Two years later I met Jimmy, and on my eighteenth birthday we got married in the Church of Christ downtown. I started nursing school the next week and had my first baby right before our first anniversary. Jimmy wasn’t Chad. He was the right one.”
She pulled an appointment card from her pocket. “We’ll need to see you back in two weeks, for your counseling session. Set aside a couple of hours to spend with us. We’ll be doing a pelvic exam at that time too.” She paused. “You can bring your husband if you want.”
Tom. In two weeks he would be back. I couldn’t imagine him in this place. Right now, I couldn’t imagine him at all.
Angie ushered me toward the door. “God bless you, honey. You’ll make the right choice. Now give this card to the front desk, and they’ll make your appointment.”
Two weeks. It must seem an eternity for a scared teenaged girl. I tried to picture the Angie of fifteen, sitting in a Memphis waiting room. I looked at the card in my hand. July 30, it said. Two days after the Addys.
I passed Angie again on my way out.
“Can I ask you one more thing?” She nodded. “Have you ever regretted your decision—the one you made when you were fifteen?”
Angie’s smile was weak but warm. Wistful. Wise.
“Sometimes yes. Most days I think it was the right thing.” Angie put her hand on my arm. “But I work here because I’m thankful I had a choice. Every woman deserves one.”
Out on the street, even though the sun was blazing down, I felt goosebumps on my arm. Not caring who saw, I walked to the trash can in front of me and vomited. I wiped my mouth with the damp Kleenex balled up in my fist and looked up to see the spire of the Loyola chapel, not three blocks away. Onto the small pool of spittle in the trash I tossed all of the brochures except one.
That one I kept.
23
THE ABYSS
“ARE YOU PREGNANT, LITTLE THING? Is that what’s on your mind?” Maddy’s excitement was obvious. I had omitted the fact that I went to Planned Parenthood, what I was considering. We were walking back to the house, as storm clouds rolled in from the west.
“I think I might be.” I could not look Maddy in the eye, nor could I tell him the truth.
“Hot dog!” He picked me up and spun me around, only a half turn, clutching his chest as he set me back down.
“You should get that looked at, Maddy. Might be more than a pulled muscle.”
“Nah, you’re just getting heavy, little thing.” Maddy took his hand off his chest and grabbed mine.
We spent the evening cooking together and watching mindless television, our conversation starting and stopping in little bits.
“Will Tom be happy?”
“He really wants a baby. It’s me that doesn’t know.” We had finished the dishes, and I headed for the sofa, unable to keep my eyes open. “I don’t know if I can be a mother, Maddy.”
Maddy sunk into the leather recliner. “Ya know, Doro was in her fifties when she became a mother to you.” He kicked off his shoes. “What scares you?”
“I don’t know, everything. I don’t know anything about children. What kind of mother would I be? I just don’t know that I’m ready to bring a child into this world.”
“Well, you have no option there, do you?” said Maddy. Of course, in his world, there was no “choice,” no option. “But you would be a wonderful mother; why would you not be?”
How to explain that motherhood meant surrendering, losing, more of myself—relinquishing any control over my own future.
“Children just weren’t part of my plan—not now anyway,” I said. “I still want to be a writer.”
“Writers don’t have children?” Maddy asked. “Maybe children aren’t part of your plan, but they’re part of God’s plan.”
“Oh my gosh, you sound like Tom. You and your plans and your God.”
I could tell I had struck a chord with Maddy. His eyes flared.
“My God? You mean our God, Jo.”
I was quiet, knowing I had offended him. I also knew how I felt.
“I’m not sure I believe anymore, Maddy.” I paused to gauge the look on his face. It was one of concern, one that said he was trying hard to listen, to not speak. “Once Grace died, I just—”
He interrupted. “You closed yourself off—from Doro, from me, from everyone.”
“Because everyone’s lives were going on, and Doro was so insistent that I take that job in Chicago; it was like no one noticed that Grace had been killed, that I …” I stopped myself before I entered a conversation I didn’t want to have.
“Doro insisted you take that job because she wanted you to move on with your life. Did you know she cried every night because she missed you and worried about you?” Maddy waited for a response that didn’t come.
Maddy came over to the sofa and pulled me against him. “Listen, I know you are still grieving the loss of your friend. We all are, but I know you are especially because you were supposed to be on a walk with Grace that day.”
His words pierced my soul.
“Maddy, you heard that I had to work—that that’s why I wasn’t able to walk with Grace?”
“Yes, but it’s not your fault. Your being there would not have changed anything.”
Maddy was quiet for a moment, then continued.
“But I hate to hear that what happened to Grace took away your faith or made you think this is not a world to bring a baby into,” Maddy squeezed my hand. “This is the world that brought you and Tom together. One evil thing doesn’t make it a bad world.”
I looked up into those beautiful eyes and wanted more than anything to believe. But secret pains constricted my heart, and I could not.
“I don’t believe in a God that would let what happen to Grace happen. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t make any sense. But I still believe. And I suspect that deep down inside, you do too.”
We sat there quietly, as the grandfather clock in the hall ticked its way steadily toward bedtime. Past bedtime. I was tired of explaining myself—to Maddy, to Tom. I wanted to close my eyes and be in an all-white apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, a cup of strong coffee in a stoneware mug, my computer before me. I wanted pages piling up in a box, and my agent leaving voice mails on the answering machine. Most of all, I wanted to be able to call Grace and plan a girls’ weekend in Chicago.
We sat there so long that we both nodded off—roused by the stroke of eleven on the clock.
“You need sleep, little thing,” said Maddy. “You sure you’re sleeping okay in the April room?” He paused. “You don’t want to sleep up in your old room? I can clean out that old air conditioner.”
I wanted no part of my room, the place where Grace and I had shared secrets, learned to dance, and spent the wee hours of the mornings whispering. That room, hovering at the top of the attic stairs, was like the giant canvas in my Chicago closet.
“No, Maddy, I’m good.”
He kissed me on the cheek and headed toward his room. Pausing in the door frame, he turned to look at me.
“I love you, little thing. If you are pregnant, Doro would be so happy.”
Ringing in my ears, as I started down the hall toward April, were his words.
You were supposed to be with Grace that day.
I spent the next morning in bed, sleeping until past noon. At some point Maddy came into the room, set a bagel and cream cheese and a glass of iced tea on my nightstand with a note that he was going to visit someone in the hospital.
Tom’s call woke me up around one.
“I’ve tried to call several times. I’ve been checking on you with Maddy.”
“You don’t need to check on me.”
Tom cleared his throat. I could tell he was trying to stay calm.
“There was a
message on the machine, Jo. You missed your appointment.”
“I know.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means my aunt died and I left town and missed my appointment.”
“But what does it mean … for us?”
“I don’t know. But I know you left me. I have to go, Tom.”
I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t know myself. All I knew was that I felt completely alone, shut off from my husband, from Maddy. And I was not ready to return to the world—to their questions, to the decisions in front of me.
I just wanted to be swallowed up by magnolia branches: to be invisible.
I nibbled at my bagel, drank the tea, and took my dishes to the kitchen. Passing Doro’s corkboard I noticed the calendar. No one had turned the page from July to August.
There at the bottom, screaming at me, was July 30.
Tom returned home the day before the Addys. It was Friday morning, and when he called from O’Hare I was hunched over my cubicle desk, a forty-eight-page annual report before me, my eyes squinting against the columns of numbers.
“There’s my girl. I’m home!”
I smiled. His was a voice you had to smile at. “Hi. Sorry I couldn’t get you from the airport. I’m really racing against the clock. This proof has to go back to the printer by the end of the day.”
“No problem. I’m not much fun, and I think I stink. I’m ready for a shower and a nap.”
“There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge; I’m afraid there’s not much more.”
“Okay. You know what I really want?”
I knew.
“Yes, I took the test.”
“And?”
“I am pregnant,” I whispered.
A scream erupted from the other end of the phone, and I could imagine the look on his face. “Screw that annual report and get home so I can hold my baby.” He paused. “Both my babies.”
The lump was like a brick in my throat.
“Tom, I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay, go be responsible. Hey, but Jo.”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
I hung up, tears clouding the profits and losses.
When I got home, just past eight, the sun was low in the sky, and Tom had cleaned the kitchen, done laundry, and showered, his wavy hair still damp.
“Hey.”
“Hey back.” I moved into his arms and clung tightly. “I missed you,” I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it. “It feels like you’ve been gone forever.”
“I know. So ready to be back.” He pried my arms from around his waist and looked me up and down. “How are you feeling? You look beautiful!”
“I’m okay … just nauseous and tired all the time.”
“I brought you a present.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I was hoping I hadn’t bought it in vain since I wouldn’t be able to return it.” He pulled a small blue bag from his briefcase.
I reached inside and felt a book. He knew there was no shorter path to my heart than a book. I smiled and pulled it out. Immediately, my smile dimmed.
I was holding What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
That night I feigned fatigue and huddled on my corner of the bed far from Tom’s reach. My mind replayed our dinner-time conversation: all focused on babies and birth.
“Let’s call my parents. Have you told Doro and Maddy?”
“Lots of pregnancies don’t make it to twelve weeks, and I’m not there yet. Let’s wait, okay?”
Tom agreed and I silently cursed myself. I was duplicitous, deceitful. The card that said July 30 screamed obscenities at me from my purse. When at last I heard Tom’s breathing deepen into a rhythmic snore, I turned and whispered to the back of his t-shirt.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Hmmm,” he muttered in his sleep.
But my voice was silenced by fear. By cowardice and a desire for privacy. And so we slept together, secrets suspended in the space between us.
The Addys were held in the Sheraton downtown. Tom and I posed for a photographer from the Tribune. Although he had never been textbook handsome, Tom looked delicious in his tux. The royal blue sequined dress I borrowed from Lori fit surprisingly well. Her waist was a couple of inches smaller than mine, and I was concerned that mine had expanded in the previous weeks. However, when I stepped on the scale that morning, I was down a couple of pounds—undoubtedly lost to the trash cans in S&H. The blue dress pushed my tender breasts up and cinched my waist, and I felt pretty for the first time in months.
“You’re very distracting in that dress,” Tom said as we waited in line at the bar. “A gin and tonic and one plain tonic,” Tom told the bartender. He handed me my anemic drink with a shrug. “Sorry—hate to drink in front of you.”
About fifteen minutes into the program, the Sandalwood & Harris Addy was announced. Tom, Candace, and Adam, along with a couple of other people I didn’t know well, were beaming on stage. Tom looked directly at me and winked.
See that, Grace. That’s him. That’s my heart, I thought. Grace. Where are you, Grace? I need you!
Tom returned to his seat. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“I’m very proud of you,” I whispered.
“You are?” He was a little six-year-old boy, wanting my reassurance.
“Very, very proud.”
“I’m proud of me too,” he whispered sheepishly, his dimples taking twenty years off his age. The award show had already lasted an hour, and I could tell from the program that we had another hour to go. A server came and removed the rubber beef, bloody and barely touched, from in front of me.
“I could ask them for something else,” Tom whispered, though we both knew he couldn’t.
“No, I’m fine. I ate the potatoes and salad.”
“Baby doesn’t like his meat rare.” Tom pulled my hand to his lips. Had he ever seemed happier?
My face flushed, and I felt hot all over.
“I’m going to the restroom.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I just want to get some water, and I have to pee.”
I gently pushed the heavy door of the ballroom to and walked toward the bathroom. There was a crowd outside—women of assorted ages and sizes, adjusting their dresses, waiting in line to reapply makeup. I felt invisible to their chatter.
In front of me was the bar. I looked around, unsure who or what I was looking for. The only person who could possibly care about my stopping at the bar was floating on his own personal Cloud Nine inside the ballroom.
Sucking in my stomach, as if there were anything to suck in, I requested a vodka tonic from the bartender. It went down in three swallows, and I followed a hunch, circling the ballroom to find a different bartender on the back corridor. Passing fifteen minutes there, I returned to the first bartender who undoubtedly presumed the glass I extended for a refill was the one he had originally handed me.
“You having a nice evening, miss?”
“Oh yes. My husband is the talk of the town. I have a dead end job I’ll probably be doing the rest of my life. The person who loved me longer and better than anyone was murdered, and I’m pregnant with a baby I don’t want. And my prime rib was bloody.”
Such were my thoughts. What I said was: “Could you make it a double please?”
With the third vodka, I felt the familiar sharpening of colors and shapes. The liquor coated not only my throat but my nerves, giving me a false sense of peace. Like everything that could never be right again would be. Once I had taken the last sip I turned and almost bumped against Tom.
“What are you doing?” His voice was shaky, his tone a cocktail of rage, fear and concern. “Are you drinking?”
“I just had …” I paused. The vodka was not playing nice with the greens in my stomach. “Tom, I have to …” I stepped out of my slingbacks and reached the bathroom in time to retch in the toilet. Mercifully, the bathroom was vacant,
and I sunk down onto the toilet seat, the small space spinning around me. I made it to the sink and splashed cold water on my face, my beaded chest.
I looked into the gilded mirror and saw not a professional woman, not an elegant party-goer. I saw the scared little girl going to Woodbury Elementary in the early 1980s. I saw the teenage girl huddled over her composition book, pages filled, pencil digging a crevice in her finger. I saw the girl whacking the elephant ears and dancing at the prom with her best friend.
I saw failure. And remorse. And fear.
“You’ve got to face this,” I whispered to myself as an older woman, three facelifts to her credit, pushed past me toward a stall.
What I had to face was Tom.
He sat on a low bench between the bathrooms. He had removed his tie, and his lanky legs crossed in front of him at the ankle. Those beautiful grey eyes spoke volumes. In one hand was his award. In the other dangled my black heels. Dejected and deserted: them and him. I wanted to bury his head in my chest, to hold him until the look on his face was erased. But I knew I had done something—was about to do something—that was not erasable.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t say a word. Just stared straight ahead—at me? Past me?
“I guess I shouldn’t have …” Why wasn’t he speaking? Where was that giddy smile I had seen on stage? I knew: I had taken it away.
“Did you throw up?” Tom said finally.
“Yes, just a little.”
“Are you okay?”
I reached out and took my heels from his hand. “I’m fine. We can go back in.” I reached for Tom’s hand, but he snapped it back as if mine carried an electric charge.
“Is the valet slip in your purse? It’s not in my pocket.” His eyes stayed locked with mine.
“Tom, are you mad? I just so wanted a drink. Just a little drink.”
He took my hand then, steadying me as I pulled on my left heel. “You scare me, Jo,” he whispered. “I don’t know what you’re thinking. You know you shouldn’t be drinking. You have to think about—”
“The baby?” I finished his sentence a bit too ruefully. “It was just a couple of drinks, Tom.” I almost lost my balance trying to put on the other shoe. “I’m fine.”
Mt. Moriah's Wake Page 20
