Screwed

by Laurie Plissner

  “Smart girls get horny too,” Grace said, feeling more than a little defensive. “And you can take your 1950s double standard and go fuck yourself.”

  “No, that’s not it. All I was trying to say, not very well, was that you seem like such a thoughtful person, I still can’t imagine you making such a big decision with so little thought. That’s all. I’ll never say another word about it.”

  Grace started sobbing. “That’s exactly what Jennifer said, and I don’t have an answer for why I didn’t use my brain that night, and I’ll never forgive myself. Feel free to hate me, because I sure hate me.” Swimming in a sea of regret, Grace feared she would drown before she ever reached the shore.

  “And now I’m just making it worse,” whispered Charlie as he stood behind Grace’s chair, stroking her hair, trying to stop the tears he had so stupidly provoked. Talking things out was definitely overrated. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Just let me love you,” Charlie whispered into her hair, but she didn’t hear him.

  CHAPTER 17

  The college essay Grace had originally written back in July, before her world had come crashing down around her — something about getting lost on a camping trip when she was ten and how it had affected her — sounded stale and irrelevant. Reading it over, she felt as if she were reading about the life of a stranger. How could she have changed so much in so short a time? Sitting down at her computer Grace let her emotions loose, the words flowing as easily as her tears.

  Who Am I?

  In a matter of minutes I had transformed from a good girl into a cautionary tale. A few well-chosen words, a wandering hand, a five-minute lapse of judgment, and I have become a totally different person. Or have I? Am I only the sum of my experiences, or can I choose to be something else, something more?

  When I walk down the street, people turn to stare at my swollen belly, making me feel like the bearded lady in a carnival sideshow. But am I a freak? Studies say that about half of all seventeen-year-old girls have engaged in sexual activity, so my current condition, while unfortunate, is not statistically unexpected. Condoms are only about ninety percent effective; somebody has to be in that unlucky — some might say stupid — ten percent.

  But is that it for me? Will I be an unwed mother for the rest of my life? Has my identity been cast in stone because of my careless behavior? I prefer to believe that this single thoughtless act will be just that, an isolated moment in a life that I hope will be remembered for other reasons. Ultimately it is my choice. Just as I chose to give it up in the back of a 2005 Jeep Grand Cherokee, I can opt to address my future with the care and consideration that I now understand it deserves. For this reason, I have found a loving couple who are perfect parents except for their inability to make a child of their own. My baby, although conceived unintentionally, is by no means a mistake; she is a gift, a life worth living, no matter how inadvertently she began. In the caring arms of a mother and father who are ready to commit to the ultimate sacrifice that is parenthood, my daughter will live the life she deserves.

  I cannot undo my poor judgment, I cannot bridge the abyss that now divides me from my family, and I cannot recapture my lost innocence. But I can make the best of this little detour, learn from it, and move forward into a brighter future. I am more than the sum of my experiences. I am whatever I choose to be.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it was the truth, and even if every school sent her a thin envelope, Grace knew she had done the right thing by being honest. Not that it would probably matter. College cost a fortune, and the sum total of Grace’s assets consisted of her laptop, her iPhone, and a Tiffany heart locket her parents had given her for her thirteenth birthday.

  “I’m so proud of you, Grace. Even with all of your distractions,” the guidance counselor said, trying not to stare at Grace’s midsection, “you’ve managed to get your applications in on time — early, no less. It’s very impressive.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Evans.” It was December twenty-third, the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and even though she was not even six months pregnant, Grace felt like she had swallowed a volleyball. She had only gained seven pounds so far, but it was all in one place. “I do have a question. My parents are having trouble dealing with my, um, distraction, and we’re kind of not talking to each other right now. They made me move out of the house back in September.”

  “Oh Grace, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. That must be very difficult. Are you staying with relatives?” Grace was not the first pregnant student to wander through her office, but she was the first who had actually been given the boot. It was common knowledge that the Warrens were hardcore conservatives, but Mrs. Evans couldn’t imagine how they could reconcile this move with their Christian values. After thirty years helping young people navigate the college process, Letitia Evans had thought she’d seen everything, but there was always something new under

  the sun.

  “I’m staying with my neighbor. She’s been great, so that’s not a problem right now. My problem is this: if I do get into college, how am I going to pay for it? I don’t have any money of my own, and if my mom and dad aren’t talking to me, I kind of doubt they’re going to shell out fifty thousand dollars to pay for school.”

  “That is a problem. You’re not eighteen yet, right?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in June.” Grace felt more like a hundred and eighteen.

  “So you’re still a minor, which means they’re still legally responsible for you. But of course there’s no law saying they have to pay for college, although the financial aid office will be looking at your parents’ tax returns to determine your eligibility … interesting dilemma.” As she spoke, Mrs. Evans flipped through a notebook on her desk.

  “Are there scholarships for idiotic pregnant girls? Maybe a pathetic scholarship instead of an athletic scholarship?” Grace asked.

  Mrs. Evans chuckled. “It’s good to hear you’ve kept your sense of humor, kiddo. I’m going to do some research, but I think your best course of action may be to go to court and get emancipated from your parents. If you do that, their income will not be considered by colleges that offer need-based grants. While your grades and test scores are fantastic, the colleges you’re considering don’t offer merit-based scholarships.” College counselors weren’t supposed to give legal advice, but in Mrs. Evans’s mind this was a special situation, and Grace was a special girl.

  “Emancipated?”

  “It’s a drastic move, for sure. You’ll have to think long and hard about your relationship with your parents and if there’s any possibility of reconciliation. Have you had any contact with them since September?” Mrs. Evans was uncomfortable advising a student to legally divorce her parents, but Grace was bound to get into some top colleges, and it would be a tragedy if she couldn’t afford to go. Spending senior year pregnant was punishment enough; the poor girl shouldn’t have to suffer the rest of her life.

  “I saw them once, and I tried to talk to them, but it didn’t go well. I even wrote to them asking for their forgiveness, apologizing and everything. But they didn’t answer.”

  Grace cleared her throat and wiped away a stray tear. Even though months had gone by and she was managing pretty well, all things considered, it was still hard to talk about it. No matter what happened, they were still her mother and father, and she couldn’t quite believe that it had turned out this way.

  A few weeks earlier Grace had bumped smack into her mother at the market. Vera needed lemons for a pie, and Grace had offered to pick them up for her. If she had been paying attention, Grace would have remembered that her mother always did her big weekly shopping on Wednesday afternoons after work, and Grace could simply have gone to a different store. But she had other things on her mind than her mother’s rigid schedule, so she wandered right into her path. Betsy had been as startled as she was.

  “Mom,” Grace cried, dropping the bag she was carrying, sending lemons rolling in all directions.r />
  Betsy considered ignoring her daughter, not for solely punitive reasons, but mostly because she had no idea what to say to her. Peering at the small bulge visible under Grace’s sweatshirt, Betsy stood gripping the shopping cart handle, worried that if she let go, she might collapse on the filthy linoleum floor. Prior to the front porch debacle, Betsy had never gone more than a day without talking to her daughter. Even when Grace went away to summer camp, she called every night on the cell phone Betsy had insisted she sneak into her duffel bag, because phone calls home were officially limited to one a week. Now it was the second week of December, and they hadn’t exchanged a single word since the beginning of September. And the subject of their rift, as Betsy chose to view it, was no longer merely a blue cross on a test stick or a notation in a medical chart. It was a full-fledged baby, poking its tiny head against Grace’s shirt, announcing its existence to the world. This was really happening, and even though she and Brad had chosen to ignore it, there was going to be a baby, a grandchild, in another few months. It felt strange being totally isolated from this person she had created, who had spent nine months in her belly. Through some elaborate scheme of rationalization, Betsy did not even consider that this separation was ultimately a product of the parents’ behavior, not the child’s. Self-pity now joined the anger, resentment, and humiliation that had continued to simmer in Betsy’s brain over the past few months.

  “Hello, Grace,” Betsy said coolly, determined not to reveal the emotional strain she was under. Letting Grace know how much she had affected her mother would only shift the balance of power away from Betsy, and being a parent was all about retaining the power position. Without that, there would be chaos.

  “Mom, how are you? How’s Daddy?” Grace didn’t know whether she should kiss or hug her mother, but Betsy’s stiff posture was like a barbed wire fence with a Keep Out sign on it, so Grace just stood, hands at her sides, trying to think of the magic words that would break the ice.

  “We’re fine. You?” Pretending she was chatting with someone she had run into from her book group rather than her daughter, Betsy tried to hang onto her equanimity. It wasn’t easy.

  “I’m fine. Mrs. T. has been really nice to me.” There was no need to go into details about how Mrs. T. had basically taken over Betsy’s job for the past few months. “I’m just finishing my applications and trying to keep my grades up.” Hopefully the mention of college applications might spark a conversation about next year. Maybe Betsy would let Grace know which way the wind was blowing, although Betsy’s raised eyebrows when she looked at Grace’s belly probably meant that not much had changed.

  “Oh.” Betsy’s mind was reeling, and though she was rarely at a loss for words, nothing was coming to her, even though she had imagined this moment nearly every day since Grace had left. Dozens of speeches of varying tones, from forgiving to vicious, had been rehearsed as she drove down the highway, ran on the treadmill, raked leaves. But now that the moment to speak her piece was at hand, she drew a blank.

  “Yeah, I rewrote my common application essay. It was a risky move, but Mrs. Evans said it was really good.”

  Grace wanted to ask if her parents were going to send her to college, but she didn’t, and Betsy just stood there. Unable to believe that her parents were really done with her, that they really thought she was such a terrible person, Grace tried to see what was going on behind her mother’s eyes.

  Then from behind a pyramid of tuna fish cans stepped Grace’s father. Brad rarely went to the grocery store, but he had come home early from the office, just as Betsy was leaving, and on a whim he had decided to go with her. With him always gearing up for the next trial and Betsy always doing her do-gooding or selling houses, they had precious little together time, and he had vowed to make an extra effort to do a couple of things with her. Especially now that Grace was gone, Betsy seemed a little fragile, a little quicker to accept the glass of wine the waiter offered on Sunday nights at the club, a little more likely to borrow one of his Ambien, just because she had an early day tomorrow and needed a good night’s sleep. His wife was no longer the woman he married, no longer the unflappable helpmate who knew what he needed before he needed it. Wanting the old Betsy back, he had no idea how to make that happen. Talking about how they had handled their daughter’s unfortunate situation, reconsidering the wisdom of the Hefty Bag Solution, never occurred to him. Running errands together, however, seemed like a step in the right direction, and it was way easier than reexamining his values or his parenting skills. Besides, going to the grocery store was a pleasant distraction, like visiting a food museum where every iteration of food known to man was displayed in brightly colored packages, all vying for his attention and his money. It blew him away that there were nearly a dozen different kinds of raisin bran. Running into Grace had spoiled his tour of salad dressings and condiments.

  “Daddy, hi.” Grace smiled up at her father, hoping that an unplanned meeting might be just the thing to start the mending of their fractured family. At the very least, maybe Brad would be more loquacious than Betsy.

  “Oh, Grace, it’s you,” he said, nonplussed, staring straight at the swelling under Grace’s shirt.

  Bile rose in his throat as his brain thought about how his little girl had ended up in this condition. Images of sweaty bodies entwined in the back seat of a car, his daughter’s bra hanging from the rearview mirror, moans of illicit pleasure, invaded his brain. The saying was definitely true — out of sight, out of mind. Now he would never get this picture of his pregnant daughter out of his head. Secretly he had hoped that Grace wouldn’t reappear until after the baby was gone, when she would look like a regular person, not like a slowly inflating Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon.

  “I was just telling Mom that I finished my applications. Senior year isn’t terrible so far. I really like my AP Psych class.” Always able to connect with her father on the topic of school, Grace hoped that his internal geek wouldn’t be able to resist a chat about neurotransmitters and mental illness.

  Betsy continued to stand, holding tight to her shopping cart, looking like a department store mannequin except for her periodic blinking. Brad, however, had not been rendered paralyzed by the unexpected appearance of their daughter. “About that, Grace. Where did you end up applying?”

  Perhaps the cold shoulder had begun to melt. Grace’s hopes soared. Maybe that bullshit about time being the great healer wasn’t bullshit after all. “I applied to Princeton, Penn, Dartmouth, Georgetown, University of Chicago, and NYU.”

  “That’s ambitious. Those are some pricey colleges. Have you considered how you plan on paying for one of those schools, assuming you even get in?” Brad said, still staring at Grace’s stomach, refusing to look her in the face.

  There was nothing remotely warm or encouraging in Brad’s voice. So much for a thaw. His chill tone sounded more like the dawn of a nuclear winter.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. I’ve been too busy writing essays and keeping up with my schoolwork.”

  Her father sighed histrionically and said, “Well that’s not too bright, is it? Did you assume your mother and I were going to pay for it?”

  Grace shrugged. Feeling her father’s eyes burning into her belly, she crossed her arms protectively and looked pleadingly at her mother, who remained catatonic and surgically attached to the cart.

  “Robert Louis Stevenson said something about everyone eventually having to sit down to a banquet of consequences. Grace, I think your table is ready. Bon appétit.” Brad had read that quote in a book on financial planning the week before, and he smiled to himself at his own cleverness. “Betsy, I’ll meet you at the car. I need to stop at the drugstore.”

  Without a backward glance, he sauntered away, as if he had just run into his accountant, rather than his estranged and very pregnant daughter to whom he had just spoken for the first time in months. To Brad, this ability to move through life without being burdened by sentimentality was a gift. It would be many years befor
e he realized how much he had missed.

  Not knowing what else to do after having been so mightily dissed, Grace bent down and retrieved the runaway lemons. At least she knew where she stood now. Based on her father’s reaction, Grace understood that this feud could outlast all of them.

  “Bye, Mom.” Grace briefly placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder and then walked quickly away, leaving Betsy in front of a huge bin of walnuts, a single tear rolling down her otherwise expressionless face.

  Trembling from head to toe and unsure whether she could safely drive home, Grace had sat for a few minutes, trying to slow her breathing and her hammering heart. Looking down, she realized she had walked out without paying for the lemons, but she was too upset to go back. A second encounter with her stone-faced mother would surely do her in.

  Grace sat back in her chair. Repeating the story was enough to get her adrenaline pumping. “So I don’t think they’re planning on helping me.”

  “That’s such a sad story. You poor little thing. Well, based on that,” said Mrs. Evans, “I think your only shot is to go the emancipation route. It’s unlikely you’re going to find two hundred thousand dollars in change between the couch cushions.”

  “I’ll think about it over Christmas vacation. Thank you for listening, Mrs. Evans.”

  “No problem, Grace. Try to have a merry Christmas.” Giving Grace a hug, Mrs. Evans doubted that was possible.

  Talking to her counselor about that day at the market was a relief, because Grace had never told Helen about the lemon encounter. It would only make her hostess and savior more sorry, more worried, more determined to compensate for Betsy and Brad’s shortcomings. Although Grace hadn’t intended on telling Charlie either, that proved impossible as Charlie took one look at her face when she returned home and forced her to spill the beans, which she did only after she made him swear he wouldn’t tell anyone, especially Helen.