One thing for sure, Benny’s never going to know he got me pregnant. Next year I’m going to Hamilton Heights City College, and then in two years I’ll transfer to Cal State Northridge for a degree in Deaf Studies, just like I’ve planned all along. I’m not going to let this one mistake spoil everything.
On Wednesday morning Tiffany and I do a Safe Sex talk. I feel like such a hypocrite, standing up in front of a bunch of ninth graders and talking to them about the importance of using foam and condoms, just after I’ve thrown up in the bathroom because I’m pregnant, because I didn’t use foam and a condom when I should have.
After the class is over Tiffany and I walk down to the gym together. At first we talk about work, and the end-of-the-year party in Peer Counseling. Then she asks about my problem.
“I can’t have another baby. It would mess up too many lives, including mine.”
“So are you having an abortion?”
I nod, struck silent by the word. I hadn’t thought that word yet.
“You’re sure?” she says.
“God, I’ve thought about it up and down and backwards and forwards. It’s the only thing to do.”
Tiffany gets this far-away look in her eyes.
“Do you think I’m awful?” I ask.
“No. I just think it’s a hard decision. When will you do it?” she asks.
“I’m going to the clinic today to get an appointment.”
“Well, let me know when you get scheduled. I’ll take you. It’s better not to have to ride a bus on that day,” she says.
“Thanks,” I sigh. “No one else knows I’m doing this, or even that I’m pregnant.”
“Aren’t you even telling your boyfriend though?”
“He’s not really my boyfriend,” I remind her. Then we go off in different directions to our separate classes. I walk along the hallway, thinking about the guy who is not my boyfriend, and who will never know he got me pregnant. I can still hardly believe that it happened. Here’s the thing.
Benny and I have been good friends, only friends, for a long time. After Ethan was born, when I was intensely depressed, Benny would stop by every day with some silly joke or story— anything to make me laugh. I don’t know how I would have managed to get through that time if Benny hadn’t been there for me.
Anyway, about a month ago, or maybe more like six weeks, Benny was waiting on my front porch when I got home from work. He’s been stationed in South Carolina, so I was definitely surprised to see him.
“Let’s go for a ride,” he said. “I have a lot I want to talk to you about.”
I checked inside. Ethan was already asleep. I gave him a quick kiss on his baby cheek, grabbed a sweatshirt, told my parents where I was going, and went back outside where Benny was waiting, leaning against his car.
My friend Kim is always wanting me to set her up with Ben. She thinks he’s Mr. Studly, with his army muscles and his regulation haircut. He is sort of handsome, in an army way. I asked him about Kim once, but he wasn’t interested.
But back to the night I’m remembering, the night I wish had never happened. We drove about ten miles up toward Mt. Wilson, then parked in a wooded area near the edge of a cliff. We rolled down the windows so we could smell the pine trees, and sat looking at the lights—pointing out what we could identify, like the Arco Towers and the Bonaventure Hotel. Then Benny reached behind him and pulled a couple of wine coolers out of a styrofoam ice chest.
“Celebrate with me,” he said, taking the cap off two bottles and handing one to me. He clinked bottles with me, then took a long swallow from his.
“Celebrate what?” I asked.
“I get an all-expense-paid trip to a Caribbean Island.” He tipped his bottle back and took another gulp. “C’mon, drink up. We’re celebrating,” he said with a smile.
I didn’t understand what Ben was talking about when he told me he was getting a trip to a Caribbean Island, until he used the words “shipping out.” Then I got it.
“It’s a mess down there,” he said. “Someone’s got to straighten things out, and I guess it’s got to be Uncle Sam and the boys.”
I laughed, like I always did when Ben was sounding like John Wayne, but he didn’t laugh with me, he just clinked bottles with me again.
I don’t much like wine coolers, or beer, or any of that stuff. To me it’s like drinking cough syrup. I took a sip anyway, just because Benny wanted me to. Benny downed his drink in about three giant swallows.
“We may see combat,” he said. He opened another bottle for each of us and smiled at me. “Catch up,” he said.
I took another few swallows, and then it began to taste pretty good. We sat there like that, not saying much, gazing at the lights, drinking wine coolers, for a long time.
“Are you scared?” I asked.
“No, not scared. But it’s really made me think about things.”
Then, after another long silence, Benny took my face in his hands and turned it toward him, giving me a slow, gentle kiss. I was so shocked I didn’t even do anything, like push him away, or draw back from him.
“I’ve wanted that so long,” he said, looking at me with such warmth that I had to look away. “I tried to tell you last time I saw you. Remember that night we walked around the golf course?”
“I remember,” I said.
“I wanted so much to kiss you, and to tell you how I felt. But I was afraid. And then, when I got back to the base I wrote you about eight letters, but I kept tearing them up because none of them sounded right. But now that I’m shipping out, I’ve got to tell you. I love you, Christy,” he said in a whisper. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”
I could hardly believe what I’d just heard. He pulled me toward him.
“Marry me before I leave. Will you?”
I was stunned by the question.
“Will you?” he repeated.
“Benny . . .”
“Don’t say no yet,” he said, pulling me close to him. “I’ve got it all figured out. We can get the blood tests tomorrow and get married on Monday. You can finish up at Hamilton High. By that time I should be back from the little island skirmish and we can get housing on the base. Say yes,” he pleaded. “There’s a great little playground in the married compound. There would be lots of kids for Ethan to play with.”
I pulled away from him and sat back in my seat, looking at the downtown lights, trying to figure out what to say. Finally I told him I wasn’t ready to get married—that my plans for my life didn’t include marriage for a long time.
“Not ready to get married to anyone, or just to me?” he asked.
“Not to anyone.”
Benny reached for the wine coolers and opened two more.
I sipped at my drink, to keep my hands busy, to keep something in front of me so Ben wouldn’t pull me close to him again. I was trying hard to decide what to say, but I was having trouble thinking. My head was spinning.
“You’re my best friend, Benny. I love you like a brother,” I finally told him.
“I don’t want you to love me like a brother,” he said, so loud it scared me. “I want you to love me like a man. I need to know I can come home to you. If I end up dying under some coconut tree, I want my last thought to be that you love me. I mean really love me,” he said. Then he covered his face with his hands and began to cry in a sad, soft way.
Benny’s definitely not the crying type. I didn’t know what to do. I thought how he would soon be risking his life, and that he needed me, and how he’d been there for me when I needed him. My heart melted.
“Ben,” I said, putting my arms around him. “It will be all right. Everything’s going to be all right.”
He clung to me, his head against my shoulder. I patted and rubbed his back, comforting him in the same way I comfort Ethan when he’s hurt. I kissed the top of his head and wiped the tears from his face. It seemed natural, sisterly. Then, maybe it was the wine, or the stars, I don’t know what. But something changed in me and Ben mus
t have felt it. He kissed me lightly on the neck. I turned toward him and he kissed my mouth, gently at first and then with more force. I felt his tongue pushing at my lips, and I parted them for him.
Suddenly I couldn’t get enough of Ben. I wanted him to kiss me harder, hold me tighter, get closer, closer. My fuzzy head was telling me to slow down, but my body wasn’t listening. Somehow we were in the back seat, grappling with each other’s clothes, frantic with desire. The moment Ben came inside me I sobered, but it was too late then. He held me for a long time while I cried without words.
“I’ll be all right. Don’t worry,” he said. How could I tell him I was crying for me, not for him?
“Will you marry me, now?” he asked, as if having sex changed everything.
“No,” I said.
“But at least I know now you love me.”
I didn’t contradict him. I let him think that, knowing he would be leaving in days and that it would be a long time before I saw him again. But I felt awful—dishonest. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been drinking those wine coolers. But that’s no excuse. In a way it just makes things worse. Like I was doubly stupid instead of just stupid in one way.
So now I’m throwing up every morning, and getting ready to make arrangements for an abortion. And in spite of what Tiffany said, I’m still wondering if this makes me a slut.
After school, at the clinic, I go in for a consultation, fill out all the necessary forms, and get an appointment for the following Saturday.
***
Tiffany picks me up at eight on the appointed day. I’ve told my mom I have to be at school for special college entrance tests, which in reality I took months ago. I hate lies, but what can I do? Right now my whole life feels like a lie anyway because Benny still thinks maybe I love him. I can’t bring myself to write him when he’s in danger and add heartbreak to his problems, can I?
On the way to the clinic I start talking non-stop, I guess because I’m nervous.
“I’m only about five weeks pregnant,” I tell Tiffany. “It’s just a little blob of cells right now, not really a baby.”
“It’s good to do it now,” Tiffany assures me.
“It’s not even two inches long yet, no arms or legs—just a blob,” I say.
Tiffany nods, her eyes on the road ahead.
“When I went in for my consultation, and to get my appointment, the nurse said that the vacuum things . . .”
“Aspiration.” Tiffany supplies the word for me.
“Yeah. The vacuum aspiration abortions they do in the first trimester are safer than tonsillectomies or circumcisions . . . I haven’t felt it move yet. I don’t want to feel it move,” I say. “The nurse told me it wouldn’t be too painful. I wonder exactly how painful it will be.”
“Do you want to change your mind?” Tiffany asks.
“Oh, no. I’ve been thinking about this all the time since I knew I was pregnant. No matter how many times I go over it in my head, this is the answer I come up with.”
“It probably won’t be too painful,” she says. “Mine wasn’t.”
I’m totally surprised. I mean, Tiffany and I have been school and work friends for a while, but not the kind of friends that hang out together all the time and tell each other everything. It’s just since that night at work when I told her I was pregnant that we’ve started talking about personal stuff. And now that I think of it, I’ve done most of the talking. I guess I’ve been so caught up in my own problem I’ve not been thinking about anyone else.
“You’re surprised,” she says.
“Yeah. I thought . . . I mean, it seems like maybe you would be one of those saving-herself-for-marriage kinds. Not a prude or anything, but just maybe not into sex.”
She laughs.
I think about how I wasn’t into sex except for that one wine cooler night. I wonder if that’s what happened with Tiffany.
“You’d be amazed to hear some of the other girls from Hamilton who’ve had abortions. It’s like the deep dark secret that no one can talk about.”
“It’s embarrassing,” I say.
“And maybe shameful?” she says.
“Maybe. I don’t think so, but I guess a lot of other people do.”
“Look,” she says, as we turn the comer near the clinic. There is a crowd and two police cars. A man, older than my father, is carrying a big, hand-lettered sign that says “Legalized murder done here.” Police are keeping people clear of the walk up to the clinic door. As we get closer I hear some of the crowd chanting, “Abortion is murder. Abortion is murder.”
Why can’t these people mind their own business?
Tiffany pulls close to the curb and lets me out. “I’ll come back and get you when you’re finished—I’ll get here about eleven. You can call my beeper if you need me sooner.”
“Thanks,” I say. Then I put my head down and run past the jeering crowd to the doorway and into the waiting room. I sign in, then sit down and open the book I’ve brought to read. I can’t concentrate.
“Don’t you hate those bastards?” a woman next to me says, jerking her head in the direction of the protesters.
“I don’t even know who they are,” I say.
“I hate their guts. ’Specially the men who don’t know shit about having babies.” Her eyes flash anger. She is probably forty, real skinny, and her hair is bleached white.
“I know their type, too,” she tells me. “They’ll go home and get drunk and beat up on their wives, maybe their kids, too. Bastards!”
Then her whole attitude changes. “What’s your name, Honey?” she asks me in a kindly manner.
“Christy,” I say.
“I’m Yvonne,” she says. “Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand to me and we shake hands.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” I tell her.
“Ain’t life a bitch?” she says.
The chanting is louder now. “Abortion is murder. Abortion is murder.” Over and over again.
Yvonne walks over to the door, flings it open, and yells “Shut up, you dirty bastards!”
A policewoman lunges at her and pushes her back inside. The receptionist and someone else, a nurse or counselor or someone, hurry over.
“This doesn’t help,” the policewoman says, still gripping Yvonne by the arm.
“I know,” the receptionist says. “It won’t happen again.”
Now Yvonne is chanting, “Dirty bastards, dirty bastards, dirty bastards” the way some people chant Hail Marys.
“Come back here and sit with me,” the other clinic worker says, taking Yvonne by the arm and leading her down the hall.
“Bring Christy, too,” she says. “She’s my new little friend— seventeen.”
“Okay, come on, Christy, if you want,” the woman says, and I follow them down the hall, not wanting to hurt the skinny lady’s feelings. While we’re waiting for the doctor, Yvonne tells me she’s HIV positive. “You know what the chances are of my baby eventually ending up with AIDS?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“Plenty,” she says. “I wouldn’t put no innocent kid through that. Those bastards out there, they wouldn’t care. They wouldn’t be around to help, you can bet your life on that! . . . So what’s your story?” she asks.
“Well . . .” Just then Yvonne’s number is called and she goes back to the examination room. I’m glad I don’t have to tell her my story. Instead I remind myself of all the hurt and difficulty that would result from me having another baby. I remind myself that I’m doing this not just for me, but also for Ethan and my mom and dad. Even, in a way, for Benny. He deserves more love than I could offer him. When he gets a baby, it should be with someone who loves him a lot. Most of all though, I’m doing it for Ethan, so I can be a good mother to him, and make a life for us both.
About twenty minutes later my number is called. I feel all shaky inside as I follow a nurse into another room. She tells me to use the bathroom, then come
back, which I do. I put on one of those hospital gown things and lie on my back on the examining table with my feet in the stirrups. I hate this! My palms are all sweaty and I feel like I can hardly catch a breath.
“Relax,” the nurse says. Easy for her to say, but I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying not to be so tense.
The doctor comes into the room, introduces himself, checks my chart, washes his hands, puts on sterile gloves and examines me.
“You may feel a little cramping, Christy,” he says. “It won’t last long. Try not to tighten up.”
I close my eyes and think of Ethan at home with my mom, probably eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drinking apple juice while she works in the kitchen. Or maybe she’s helping him find sow bugs outside. He loves to do that. I love him so much. I want so much for him to have a good life.
I know what is happening. I read the pamphlet the nurse gave me before, and I looked at the pictures. The doctor is putting a tube up into my uterus. The tube is connected to this aspirator thing which is going to suck stuff out. Yuck.
Just as I’m picturing Ethan searching under the hibiscus bush for bugs, I feel a sharp cramp, more like a labor contraction. I gasp with pain.
“Relax, relax.” The nurse takes my hand and holds it gently but firmly. “Breathe deeply, slowly,” she says.
Another cramp, this one longer. I catch my breath. Bright colors, the color of pain, dance before my eyes.
“It’s almost over,” the doctor assures me.
I’m crying. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I feel the speculum eased out of me. They do something, clean me up I guess. I can’t see and I don’t ask.
“You did fine,” the doctor says. “Stay here and rest for a few minutes. Just relax.”
I’m so relieved, I cry even harder. The doctor leaves and the nurse hands me a tissue.
“Okay?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’ll be back and check on you soon.”
I feel crampy and nauseous. The nurse comes back and wipes my face with a cool cloth, then leaves again. After a while she returns, takes my blood pressure, listens to my heart, and checks for bleeding.
“Any more cramping?” she asks.
Beyond Dreams Page 10
