The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  Dad didn’t stay calm – he freaked out completely. I think he shouted at me, and I’ve never been able to handle my dad being cross with me. As a child, I was proud of my ability to stare my mother down without crying, but one stern word from my dad and I’d crumble like a stale cupcake. And some stern words were spoken that night.

  My big, strong father ran outside in tears. To see him like that broke my heart. I get nauseous just thinking about it.

  Left alone in the lounge, I finally broke down. I cried that ugly cry – the loud one with all the drool and snot and heaving bosoms (such as they were). I cried until my face was swollen and my chest hurt. I cried until no more sound came out. My head felt like it had been bashed against a wall and my arms and legs were wobbly. The counsellor lady would have been relieved to see I wasn’t freakishly self-controlled, after all. I now wished I had her tissues. My nose hurt from blowing it on scratchy toilet paper. Not government issue, but close enough for government work, as they say.

  Then, just as quickly as the tears came, they stopped again. All cried out, I thought. Since then, I’ve learnt that there’s no such thing. Just like there are always more socks in the washing machine than you think, so there are always more tears.

  I couldn’t sit still. Felt like I was going mad – I just wanted something to take my mind off it, something to distract me. I tried to read, but couldn’t focus. The words just wriggled on the page and made no sense. I tried to watch TV, but my head was pounding and I was overwhelmed by waves of nausea. I wanted to be asleep, to hibernate unconscious until this was all over. If only I hadn’t told them. If only I could go back to this afternoon, I could do it differently.

  Sarcastic bully weighs in: “Oh yes? And just what did you have in mind? Exactly what would you have done? Run away? Kill yourself? Buy a really big jersey? Very mature. You really are a silly cow, aren’t you?” Sensible Tracy was in the house, and she was having none of this crap.

  “I don’t know what I would’ve done! But surely anything would be better than this! I feel awful! Everybody hates me! I’m really, really scared!” This was Sensible Tracy’s other half – her twin sister, Flaky Tracy. Flaky Tracy tends to wail and whine and daydream a lot. The two of them are always at it in my head, with occasional visits from lesser personae like the Whatever Girl.

  Sensible and Flaky live together like a pair of lavender-scented cat-loving spinsters, arguing and sniping and eating Lemon Creams. Theirs is the constant battle between the romantic and the real, between wishing and planning, between “What Could Be” and “What Is”. Between espresso and decaf, chocolate and vanilla, Froot Loops and Weetbix.

  “You know this was the only thing you could do. You’ve got to make this right. There’s no room for any further stuff ups, my girl. So what, if everyone hates you? You know you deserve it.” Sensible Tracy’s a good sort – she’s managed to keep me out of a lot of trouble, although I sometimes get the feeling she doesn’t like me very much.

  Meanwhile, with all the drama going on, I’d forgotten about Emma, who was in her bedroom and must have heard the shouting. When I knocked on her door, she saw straight away that something was up. The puffy, red face ardy, red and incoherent blubbering may have been a clue.

  “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Emma’s pretty little face was crinkled with worry. We used to fight, as sisters do, but we love each other. All of a sudden, I remembered how much.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said quietly, as if whispering it would make it sound less incredible. She kind of gasped; her hand shot up to her mouth. And then she did something I’ve never forgotten – she hugged me. She held me tight and told me I would be okay. She made me feel safer than you’d think a small pixie girl of thirteen could do. In the midst of all that confusion and turmoil, even though I thought I didn’t deserve it, there was comfort for me. And I love her for that.

  It definitely wasn’t easy for her, being the younger sister of “The One Who Got Pregnant”. Emma went into her teenage years with all that baggage; she carted it around with her for a long time, and that’s my fault. She got the fuzzy end of the lollipop more than a few times, but she didn’t complain. At least not to my face.

  It was a long night. I answered their frantic questions about why and how and where and how could you, though not very well. What can you say? I had no real answers, no reason. No convenient tales of date rape or peer pressure. Not a millimetre of wriggle room in which to wail, “But it’s not my fault!” Because it was my fault, plain and simple. Any attempt to explain would just sound like an excuse. They didn’t feel my sense of predestination, of rightness and meant-to-be. They didn’t know there was a parade. If they did, they would have rained on it. If I’d waffled on about what a good thing this actually was, maybe throwing in a, “look on the bright side – at least I’m not dead, ho ho”, they’d only get angrier, because they’d think I wasn’t taking it seriously.

  In the face of their disappointment and anger, I began to wonder if I had it wrong. My resolve began to slip, and that scared me more than anything else. The more they talked, the more I began to see what they saw: a life ruined, education abandoned, potential wasted. They saw all the problems; they saw all the “you can’ts”. They didn’t know about the list of “I musts” and “I wills” that I’d spent the past week compiling. And that night they wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told them. As my parade slipped further away and the sound of the marching band faded into the distance, I panicked. Sensible Tracy floundered for a second and Flaky Tracy saw her chance. Unfortunately, this was just as my mother asked me, “And David? What does he have to say about this?”

  Like the brainless twit that she is, Flaky blurted out, “He says he loves me!” All triumphant, as if that settled the matter.

  Oy vey! Stupid bitch. As soon as I’d said the words I hated myself. Oh, how I wanted to bite off my treacherous tongue, to spit it out on the floor and jump on it, up and down, so that it would never be able say anything so ludicrous and embarrassn tnd embaing ever again. I would take a vow of silence and live on sour yak milk for the rest of my celibate life, if only I could take those pathetic words back. Only girls in soap operas say that sort of thing. It’s irrelevant and silly and it’s not as if I even believed it.

  I was young and sometimes naive, but I did recognise my relationship with David for what it was: an adolescent fling that didn’t mean much in the end, although we pretended it did. Isn’t that what you do? Declare undying love and then forget each other after a couple of months? I knew that, but my soppy alter ego opened her big mouth to stick both feet in before anyone could stop her. That girl's face cries out for a good smacking. Now, what would Mom think of me? Oh God, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.

  Obviously she thought I was an irresponsible tramp with no self-respect: I could just about live with that. But to have her think I was a hopeless romantic fool as well? That was just too much. Too late. The words were out and Flaky sat back feeling smugly pleased with herself. Not for long, though, because Sensible stepped in and hit her on the back of the head with a frying pan and she fell down unconscious. That’s Sensible Tracy for you – always prepared to do the jobs that need doing – the hard ones, the ones no one else wants to do. I suspect she enjoys them more than she lets on. Flaky was out of it for weeks, and what a good thing, too. I never would have got anything done with her hanging about blubbering and squeaking all over the place. For one thing, she wrings her hands and bleats way too much. It’s just annoying.

  I don’t think anybody slept very much that night – except me. I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow. Exhausted and somehow hollow, I think my body took over and shut down all non-essential functions, such as thinking and possibly breathing.

  You know the saying, “It’ll all look better in the morning”? Well, it didn’t. But it was the first day of the rest of my life.

  Chapter Two

  1993: In which she escapes ritual sacrifice, but not the specul
um

  I woke up with a stuffy head and a soaked pillow. For a few, blank seconds I thought I’d developed flu overnight. I felt hung over, my whole body stiff from lying in the same position all night. And what’s with the curious marks on my hands? Fragments of memory floated around my head. Like a dream that evaporates as soon as you open your eyes. Hmmm… something’s fishy around here. Fishy and slippery as a bugger. I just… couldn’t… catch it… It took a few more seconds for the fuzziness to clear, and then I remembered. Oh shite!

  There was no question of going to school that day; I was too wiped out. Felt like a zombie. I think we all did. Plus I looked like a freak with my still swollen, bloodshot eyes and matching sets of luggage plastered to my face. Bags under the eyes doesn’t even begin to describe it. It was diabolical – I never knew a person could look that bad and not be oozing into a body bag somewhere.

  But worse, the God of Teenage Mothers had decided that today was a great day to unleash the hellish monster that is morning sickness. I spent most of the morning hanging over the toilet, dry heaving until it felt as if my innards would explode out my ears (and the afternoon too – where the moniker, “morning sickness”, comes from I do not know.). Every moment not spent gazing forlornly into the toilet bowl was spent sitting over it, because that minor pregnancy niggle of needing to wee every ninety seconds had also reared its nasty little head. I’d like to chat to the sadistic bitches who call it minor, by the way. It felt pretty major to me when racing to the loo for the sixteenth time in half an hour with a seemingly bursting bladder – only to find that said bladder contained exactly one trickle and three drops. Again.

  What, with all the crying and weeing that followed over the next few weeks, a severe toilet paper shortage developed in our house. I notice the pregnancy books never mention the feeling of bleakness that overcomes you as you tear the last square off the roll at three in the morning. Twinsaver Rage, I think it’s called.

  I don’t know why all these textbook symptoms hadn’t started earlier. Maybe my body was waiting until all was out in the open, so that I could vomit freely without arousing suspicions of bulimia or cholera. Very considerate, you might think if you wanted to be philosophical about it. Although it’s hard to be philosophical with your head in the toilet. I bet Socrates never had that problem, but then again, he never had a toilet, nor a uterus.

  No school, then, thank God. Instead, my mother and I went off to the doctor for a confirmation test (all together now: “Maybe they made a mistake…”), and then the plan was to sit down to a conversation about My Options. I don’t know how she got organised so quickly. My father was a military man, which meant we were all treated by military doctors. Handy, as it’s free, but best you never suffer from anything that a Cepacol throat lozenge won’t fix. Tonsillitis? Athlete’s foot? Leprosy? Have a Cepacol. Cutting edge it was not, and it is also notoriously difficult to get an appointment with those camo-wearing doctors Same day service, in particular, was unheard of. Unless you arrived with an arm or leg in a plastic bag, you had to wait at least two weeks to get an appointment. Even then, there had better be lots of ice in that plastic bag, because you’d be waiting a long time. And don’t bother trying to phone. If by some lucky accident the number actually worked, they probably wouldn’t answer, because it would be teatime. Or lunchtime. Or everybody would be on a management course, or the place would be closed for fumigation. If it’s free, the service is allowed to be crap. Well-known fact.

  But somehow Mom managed to get me to the doctor that very day.Newat very Traditionally, in our family, she deals with those delicate Telkom complaints or rat-in-the-KFC type situations that require a firm hand, especially after others have tried in vain. This routine is known in our house as sending in the heavies. I’ve never got the hang of it myself.

  I would have thought there’d still be much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but no. That’s my mom for you. She’s never been one for wailing. Thinking back, maybe she should have permitted herself at least some minor clothes renting and chest beating. She was due some freak-out time, but she never took it. She was too busy being Sensible. Maybe it would have been easier on her if she had let go a little then. Nobody would have blamed her. It’s obvious that I inherited Sensible Tracy from her (why, then, not her skinny figure or supersonic metabolism, as well?).

  We waited for the doctor in silence. Silence would become a pattern those early days. There was too much to be said and we didn’t know how. It was a bad time for small talk. When my name was called, we made our sheepish way to the sister’s office. I felt like I had a flashing neon sign above my head: “Watch Out – Pregnant Girlie Coming Through!” Maybe they should have just given me one of those lepers’ bells. Picture me shuffling along in a brown Friar Tuck habit: “Unclean! Unclean!” Ding dong.

  My mom quietly reported the reason for our visit to the nurse, who made her repeat herself louder, as per standard nursing practice, at least twice. She then went off to speak to the doctor and I was handed another huge, plastic wee glass. Old hand that I was, I took it and stalked off to the loo as if I’d been doing it all my life. No matter how old they are, eventually all pregnant women develop an air of resigned dignity – nothing can ever embarrass them again. Dinner party conversation turns ugly if you have more than one pregnant or recently pregnant woman present. Floaty bits in urine sample? That’s nothing. Sixteen episiotomy stitches through three layers of tissue? Piece of cake. Emergency enema? Pish. Bring it on. We are superwomen. We love this stuff. Compared with the other paranoid horrors of first-time pregnancy, weeing into a wineglass seems delightfully tame.

  I managed the manoeuvres fine this time, but it took ages because of the “one-trickle-and-three-drops” deal. I stood by and watched as a very young looking nurse tested the sample. I think she was about to start a rousing jazz version of, “maybe it’s negative” – but she saw my face and changed her mind. True as cookies, the little pink lines showed up immediately, pinker than ever. You could call it cerise, even.

  “Yes, it’s positive. You’re definitely pregnant,” Young Nurse reported helpfully. Um, yes. I know. Thanks.

  A whole bunch of standard antenatal tests followed. There was the usual pricking of the finger to test haemoglobin levels, with a malfunctioning needle gun thing. She had to shoot me three times before she got it right. I was about to go and find her a stapler to use instead, but then, hallelujah! The tiny smear of blood on the glass told her I was so anaemic as to be nearly dead. This was bad, I knew. I’d been reading my bookd oding mylet, you see. I got all tearful suddenly. “How bad is that? What does it mean? Is everything okay?” I croaked.

  “Don’t worry, bokkie. We’ll give you some iron pills and you’ll be fine. And baby too.” She smiled and squeezed my shoulder. It was the first time anyone had mentioned “the baby”. So far, it was just called “The Situation”. Nobody had gotten as far as thinking about the actual baby. I was so grateful for that that I almost started bawling again. Along with the morning sickness and bladder control, indiscriminate howling was another new development that day. Later, I cried when I couldn’t find any mayo in the fridge, and then I cried when I did find it. I cried watching starving orphans on the news and buxom blondes on Baywatch. Apparently, this is normal and all down to hormones. I thought I was going nuts.

  Then it was time to be weighed, which wasn’t that bad, and have my first ever internal examination, which was extremely bad. The gynaecologist was a scary old woman with sharp, bony fingers and an Eastern European accent. She would not have been out of place in a gingerbread house. She poked and prodded with her freezing hands and creepy silver implements, then left me to languish with my legs around my neck and my nethers flapping in the breeze, while she went off to have a cup of tea or boil a small child in oil or something.

  She came back eventually and seemed surprised to find me still lying there, half naked.

  “Vell, get dressed. Ve are finish now,” she cackled. Okay, so maybe it was a chuckle
. It seems she hadn’t gone off for a spot of human sacrifice, after all. She had just left the room so that I could get dressed again. Duh! I would have slapped my forehead if my hands weren’t busy covering various outlying regions. It didn’t make sense, really, as she’d just seen all the bits worth seeing. What difference did it make if she saw them again in the process of being covered up? But there you go. That’s how things are done. You live and learn, and if you can provide perfect strangers with a little entertainment along the way, so much the better.

  She looked like a seventy-five-year-old Elizabeth Bathory, had the latter not been walled up inside her castle and left to starve to death. Anyway, as I clearly wasn’t a virgin, she wouldn’t have been interested in bathing in my blood. This should have made me feel better, but no. She gazed at me over the tops of her gnarled, steepled fingers. She was scary. Then she got scarier.

  “Now ve do ze blud,” she intoned in her creaky Transylvanian voice. Excuse me? Ze blud? What the hell?

  Trying to restrain my ridiculous imagination, I managed to stutter, “Um, but the nurse already checked my blood. She pricked my finger…”

  She cackled again. No really, this time I swear it was a cackle. “Zilly chile, zat vas only ze aitch-bee. Now ve test for all ze ozzer tings.” Small pause, while I transe. hile I lated sinister witch talk into English.

  “Oh, the HB. I see. So now we do more tests?” I smiled in what I hoped was a non-threatening and, above all, non-virginal way.

  “Yes. Nurze vill take more ze blud, and zen ve talk, okay?”

  Okay. Then we talk. Woo-hoo!

  I went off with Young Nurse to “take more ze blud”. She ushered me into what looked and smelled like an operating theatre – I checked for iron maidens and suspicious looking vats but didn’t spot any. My eyes watered from the overwhelming smell of pink industrial-strength disinfectant and the faint whiff of the reason for the disinfectant. Bleeergh…