So, no. There would be no tinkly sound of wedding bells or shotguns in my immediate future. Of course, I didn’t know then that there’d be no wedding bells in my distant future either. But that’s a fish of a different kidney altogether.
Option number two: right, so I would carry the baby for nine months, give birth, hold him in my arms – and then dump him with my mother and carry on with my life? Leave my parents to love him, feed him, comfort himand comfor, raise him? Live in the same house as my baby, with me a stranger or sister? Go back to the way things were before, with school, boys and attempted suicide? Let a child of my body, my heart, grow up seeing his mother every day, and knowing she doesn’t care enough to be a mother? Who does stuff like that?
Not me, that’s for damn sure. No, it seemed like motherhood was the only choice. Real motherhood: Option Three. If I was going to do this, I would have to do it right.
It’s all very well deciding this in your head. It’s quite another convincing others that you haven’t taken leave of your senses. I was dreading telling my mother what I’d decided. I was expecting arguments, threats and general motherly bullying. I wasn’t sure if I could stand up to that. I thought I’d give in and let her tell me what to do. Yet I didn’t know how I’d live with myself if I did that.
But my mother didn’t argue. She didn’t threaten or bully. My mother did a brave thing. She left it up to me. She trusted me enough to make the choice myself. That’s because she was cleverer than me.
Sitting on the lawn behind the garage that afternoon, she asked warily, “So, what do you want to do?”
I panicked for a second, because I hadn’t done my bar-graphs yet. Then I looked in her eyes and I realised she didn’t want graphs. I knew she was still cross with me, but I could see that she didn’t hate me, either. She never had. She was just scared for me.
“I want to keep the baby. I’m going to keep the baby.” It was weird to hear the words said out loud. It was weird that it was me saying them. I really did want this, more than anything else in the world. Even weirder was the realisation that I would fight for it, no matter what I had to do. No matter what. That was my first maternal thought, and it’s one every mother recognises. I think my own mother saw it in me.
Then I began to cry (big surprise).
“But I don’t know how I’m going to do it!”
I was scared because I knew I had no plan, five-minute, five-year, or any kind of a plan at all. I was graphless. All I had was the little voice in my head. I’d thought Mom would say I couldn’t keep the baby, that it wouldn’t work. “Over my dead body,” I expected her to say. “You’re on your own.” The Ugly Cry loomed.
But I’d underestimated my mother, as children do. She just loved me and was doing her best, making it up as she went along.
She put her arms around me and said, “Okay. Okay. That’s what we’ll do.” Hg="ll do.er voice wobbled, but she held me and didn’t let go for a long time. She knew The Decision was something I had to make by myself. The Plan, on the other hand, we could do together. I told you she was clever.
Eventually we stood up to go inside. I was shaky on my feet, my legs all pins and needles, and desperate for the toilet again. I was a queasy and tearful mess. So it is peculiar that it should hit me then, in that state – I was no longer a child. I was a grown-up now, a mother. Me. Who’d have thunk it?
I’d never felt like that before, that determined and that terrified. I didn’t know I had it in me to feel so strongly, to feel so strong and so utterly fragile at the same time. I was afraid, but I wasn’t lost any more. For the first time in my life there wasn’t a black hole where my future should have been. The road ahead was fuzzy and I knew it would be hard, but it was there. That’s a big deal.
Sensible Tracy’s list of every bad thing I’ve ever done in my life: Abridged and censored
Accidentally letting sweet wrapper blow away in the wind; didn’t try very hard to catch it
Allowing learner’s licence to expire three times and still not having driver’s licence
Eating entire (huge) packet of Flings and blaming it on the dog (more than once)
Chasing after boyfriend’s car in the street, after he left in a huff
Cheating on boyfriend (different one)
Neglecting to save ant found half-drowned in the bath
Getting atrociously drunk at friend’s twenty-first, and having to be brought home in disgrace by said friend’s mother
Forgetting to complete company attendance register, telling boss book had been water-damaged by leaking roof, necessitating its having to be thrown away
Having two children by two different fathers and displaying alarming lack of shame for imprudence
Hanging up on telesales consultant
Letting child go two nights in a row without bathing
Pushing mother off bed while play-fighting, necessitating X-rays of leg and crazy volumes of bandages (bad one, this – years later Mom’s leg still hurts in cold weather, even if she says it doesn’t)
Eating polony sandwich before class had finished saying grace in preschool at age four
Telling kindly beggar I had no money; later finding unexpected R5 in pocket, spending it on sweets
Writing name on black dustbin at school in Grade Two
There’s lots of other stuff. Some of it’s not so bad. Lots of it I’ll never tell.
Chapter Three
1993: In which she cries over the spilt beans that thicken the plot
The Plan began to take shape over the next few weeks. The biggest worry was my education. The idea was that I’d get through the year, then do Grade Ten by correspondence the following. After the birth, I’d take a short break, then I’d work in the mornings while my mom babysat. That seemed a sensible arrangement.
The only catch was finishing that year. It was still only August. By December, I’d be five months pregnant and definitely showing. My parents were terrified that if the school found out, they’d make me leave immediately. If I left with four months left of Grade Nine, I’d probably never catch up. I didn’t want to fall behind and end up giving up on my education altogether. If I couldn’t finish this year, I’d have to go back to a different school after the baby was born and repeat the year – that is, if I could find a school that would take me. And I did not want to go back to school again. That was just the worst idea imaginable. I couldn’t bear the thought of hanging out with all those giggly girlies, pretending to be interested in their nail polish dilemmas when all I wanted was to be with my child. I wasn’t afraid of gossip or judgement (okay, I was a little), but I was afraid I’d lose it and push someone down the stairs if I heard another word about What My Boyfriend Said To The Chick Who Called Me A Slag On Saturday Night Outside The Vic… And the idea of class netball and demerits and “abstinence first” lectures just made me want to snigger, or hurl. Or both.
And so began the Great Belly-Hiding Conspiracy. I did get a really big jersey. I pretended to have a dreadful and protracted case of salmonella. I told the physical ed teacher I couldn’t. II could do gymnastics because I had a bad chest. My incredible craving for grotty tuck shop Cornish pasties and Liquaroos was dismissed as a passing teenage fad. My bizarre emotional outbursts could have been anything, really. I was a fourteen-year-old girl; emotional outbursts are mandatory.
All would have been fine, really, if only I’d kept my fucking mouth shut. But could I do that? No, of course not. I was a teenager, after all. And what do teenage girls do? Besides giggling and self-consciously smoking Benson and Hedges Special Mild without inhaling? They talk, of course. To other teenage girls.
I told all my friends. Shortly after the pregnancy was confirmed (like, the very next day), I convened a Council of War in the girls’ bathroom.
My announcement was greeted with much screeching and hugging and profanity. One of them told me how wonderful and exciting it all was. I mean, sure, it was – at least, it would be once we got past the bit that was impossibly scary.
Even though it was unfair of me to expect them to understand, or be cross with them because they didn’t, I still wanted to smack her cheerful little face.
I asked them not to tell anybody. That really meant nobody – not their boyfriends, parents or random classmates on the bus. I explained that if the Governing Body found out, they would probably expel me and then my chances of ever finishing school would be virtually zero. This wasn’t a little secret like someone bunking or someone kissing someone else’s boyfriend. It was huge. It was real. Serious shit. I was trusting them with my whole life – my future and the future of my child. They were my best friends and I thought I could. And like the good friends they were, they swore blind they’d never tell anybody. I believed them.
But, like me, they did what girls do, and within weeks everybody at school knew. I don’t know how many blabbed, but one person would probably have been enough. People began to whisper and stare at my tummy as I passed, but I tried to ignore them. I counted the days until the end of the year and read my booklet a lot.
As the weeks went by, I took to hiding behind desks and handy trees whenever a teacher got too close. In particular, I avoided Dragon Lady, the Chairlady of the School Governing Body and God, as far as our little town was concerned. She was a prominent elderly citizen with her fingers in more pies than a New Jersey Mafioso. She lurked around the school often, planting flowers in the quad and reading prayers at assemblies. She scared the hell out of me, with her daffy gardening hat and little green trowel. She looked so benign; you’d never guess she ate Bad Girls for breakfast. I imagined she’d toss me out of school in a second if she knew. She’d make an example of me, the ghastly affront to the fine, upstanding morals and good name of the school that I was. She may well have been just a sweet old lady doing her bit for the community. Who knows? I could have had it wrong. That was my year for misjudging people.
In the end, it was neither my loose-lipped friends, nor Timriends,a suspicious old biddy who caught me out. It was yours truly who, single-handedly, brought to light the Great Conspiracy. And in spectacular fashion, too, on my fifteenth birthday. An event full of high drama, with dustbins and delicate sensibilities flying in all directions.
Before I was pregnant, I’d been counting the minutes until my fifteenth birthday. I’d always loved birthdays – loved the presents and the fuss of my own, special day. This birthday, in particular, seemed important. Secretly, I believed turning fifteen would change my life – I’d be one step closer to that impossibly magical number of sixteen, and finally over the misery that was fourteen. Fifteen-year-old me would be someone new – a girl with confidence and grace, one who could talk to anyone, or catch a stranger’s eye and make him wonder about me. A sexy, personal theme tune would play as I sashayed down the street, all eyes fixed on me. Beefy, white-t-shirted mechanics and young hotties in generic sailors’ uniforms would turn to stare as one, movements fluidly synchronised and choreographed.
At fourteen, you simply cannot be that girl, no matter how often you shave your legs. Eyeliner doesn’t help, either. I didn’t understand that the number made no difference. Confidence and grace take a long, long time to come (personally, I’m still waiting), and no amount of Max Factor Smoky Kohl will make them pitch up faster. Mothers have been trying to pass down this profound Zen wisdom to their daughters for untold generations; unfortunately, their scantily-clad daughters steadfastly continue to disbelieve them. They’re too busy rolling their smudgy, raccoon eyes.
So, I’d thought turning fifteen was a big deal. Of course, that was before. Pregnancy changed all that. September 6th started like any other day in many a first trimester: random gagging, followed by an intimate conversation with the loo and topped off with a small, redundant ginger biscuit for nausea. Which doesn’t work, by the way, in case you wondered. Still, a cookie’s a cookie and not to be sniffed at.
My family gave me presents that morning, as they’d always done, but it wasn’t the same. There was none of the excitement and goofy aw-shucks-ness that came with previous birthdays. It was all a bit of a let-down, even though I got the Revlon make-up I’d asked for ages ago. I suppose it was my first adult birthday – the one where you realise you’re not so important after all and the world doesn’t actually give a rat’s ass about your cake. No more Special Treatment for the Birthday Girl when you’re a grown-up. No gold star, no silver tiara. Just another day of scrubbing the toilet and taking out the rubbish. Or telling your teacher you’re pregnant. As the case may be.
Besides the whole issue of Being-Pregnant-At-Fourteen-Slash-Fifteen – rather a big issue, in anyone’s book – I was also dealing with rampaging pregnancy hormones. I was prone to sudden, irrational crying jags that could last for hours and send friends, family and little dogs diving for cover. I was impatient and sometimes cruel. I hated everybody and everything, and all I wanted to do was sleep, puke and eat cookies. A textbook case, in other words.
They say knowing you’re normal makes you feel better – I say PUH! Until you’re at least four months pregnant, normal doesn’t exist. You know you’re crazy and you know that no-one else in the history of baby-making has ever felt as crap as you do right now. And you really don’t care to be told that everything you’re feeling is perfectly natural and will pass soon enough. Of course you’re going to be a retching, oozing blimp for the rest of your life.
It was in this unstable frame of mind that I set off for school, even though the thought of smelly science labs made my head hurt. I gritted my teeth and tried to swallow the fits of rage that kept popping up whenever anyone said “happy birthday”.
I sat glowering and muttering grumpily to myself at the group table in class. The first period of the day was S.U.R.E. – Silent Uninterrupted Reading for Enjoyment, that is. Otherwise known as Sundry Unfulfilled Randiness for Everybody, depending on the time of the month and the table at which you were sitting. Busy, busy pheromones; no rest for the horny. Except for me, obviously. I couldn’t get within ten metres of a pheromone without feeling queasy.
Ms H was the most feared person in the school (except for the janitor, a mean, Jelly Tot-shaped man who wore nasty, grubby white lab coats over teeny little shorts, and Joey, the ghost in the Home Ec corridor). She had terrorised generations of unruly teenagers, her luridly dyed, reddish-purple hair and yellow suits the stuff of legend. Do not tangle with Ms H when she’s wearing yellow. It was a chicken or the egg thing, I don’t know which came first – the migraine-inducing outfit or the vicious mood. Either way, it was one of those things everybody knew. I want to say she was wearing yellow that day, but I can’t be sure.
I don’t know who it was, but somebody set her off. She must have thought someone at our table was chatting, that cardinal sin of the schoolroom, a transgression far worse than talking. Maybe someone had been, but it wasn’t us. We were reading innocently. Which is why I was so astonished when she lost it. Maybe she was contending with hormonal issues of her own. Whatever the reason, she descended on us like a purple-haired Aztec monster goddess. Eyes bulging, neck veins popping, bosoms swinging wildly from side to side. Ms H was furious.
“I don’t know what to do with you lot! There’s just no respect! You think you can do as you please! If you want to chat, you’d better get out and do it somewhere else!” she shouted. She ranted and raved for at least five minutes, arms waving and spit flying. It was totally unfair. We were hardly the “problem kids”; we were all reasonably well-behaved and could be relied upon not to start any fires or smoke dope in class.
Under normal circumstances, I’d probably have sat there blushing and trying not to cry, waiting for the floor to open up and swallow me. But normal circumstances these were not. My blood began to boil. There’s really no better way to describe it. As I was getting angrie thtting ar and angrier, holding my breath and biting my tongue, my bum involuntarily clenching the seat, it felt as if my blood was progressively heating up to a gentle simmer, then to a brisk boil until it became an aggressive, red-hot throb unde
r my skin, my head pounding apace, as I fumed at the crazy injustice of it all. I’d never been so damn mad in all my life. I wanted to jump up and tell her to stop being such a loony. I wanted to punch her on the nose. I didn’t for a minute imagine myself doing it, though. Of course not. Good Girls Do Not Shout At People In Authority. But, wooh boy, was I wrong. They do. Sometimes they do worse. And when Good Girls Disobey, you had better bloody well get out of the way.
I was having a really crap day – it was my birthday, I was pregnant, nauseous, scared and angry. And here comes a mad woman accusing me of something I hadn’t done. I’d had enough. If this were a cartoon, my face would’ve been bright red and steam would have been billowing out of my ears.
Suddenly my clenched bum gave up its valiant struggle – it could keep me on my seat no longer. I shot to my feet, stumbling away a few paces. Ms H stopped in mid-harangue, stunned into silence. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The whole class sat enthralled: this was good stuff. The mousy little girl nobody ever noticed was about to get herself into some deep shit and they were fascinated.
I stood at the table, shocked that I’d even gone this far. Oooh crap, what the hell now? I couldn’t very well sit down again. That would look stupid. Besides, I was still angry. Wild-eyed, I was running on adrenaline now and not thinking straight at all. Sensible Tracy was cowering in a corner somewhere, gibbering and terrified. She was no help.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Ms H asked. She had recovered enough composure to rustle up some face-saving sarcasm. She truly thought I’d surrender, but we were both horrified to discover that this was not going to happen.
The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom Page 5
