Bridge Daughter

by Jim Nelson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Also by Jim Nelson

  Edward Teller Dreams of Barbecuing People

  A Concordance of One’s Life

  Everywhere Man

  Visit the author’s web site at j-nelson.net

  Nariko

  So wise so young, they say, do never live long

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  About the author

  One

  On the morning of her thirteenth birthday, Hanna Driscoll decided it was time to learn if she was a woman.

  She eased out of bed and tiptoed to her bedroom door. She gingerly opened it to avoid making it creak. The house was silent, no noise from the kitchen, meaning her parents were still in bed. She closed the door as gingerly as she had cracked it open. Time to move quickly now.

  Hanna swept an arm between the bed’s mattress and box spring. She located by feel a slender pink cardboard box. Then she tiptoed across the carpeted hallway to the bathroom, box in hand. There she peed, feeling a bit queasy. The room tilted as she sat on the toilet, then righted itself. She washed her face and drank warm water, which she’d learned helped reduce the sick feeling in her head and stomach. She drank more, then gargled out the remaining sticky saltiness in her mouth. She returned to her room with the pink cardboard box and softly closed the door once more, checking it was latched.

  A stack of books stood on Hanna’s bed stand, along with a squat reading lamp and a lavender alarm clock. All of the books regarded flowers and floristry and flower arranging. Her bookshelf held more books on the subject, as well as a dictionary and a children’s encyclopedia set, along with other books her mother assigned in her homeschooling. One of her books was not on the bed stand or the shelf. She’d stashed it between the mattress and the box spring, the same place she’d hidden the slender pink cardboard box.

  It was a children’s book. Rather, it was a book written for children but stocked in the bookstore’s Parenting section, Mother & Baby by Margaret Millard, M.D., Ph.D.

  Mother & Baby was below Hanna’s reading level, written in simple language and illustrated with chalk-colored drawings of a family similar to Hanna’s own. The book’s family had a five year-old son, whereas Hanna was the only daughter. And the pregnant mother was Hanna’s mother’s age, not thirteen years old, like Hanna's friends Alondra and Cheryl. This did not concern Hanna, who knew girls of all ages could become pregnant, thirteen and up.

  Mother & Baby had enlightened Hanna on many points of reproduction, as Hanna’s parents had not discussed sex with her at all, either informally or in their homeschooling. Yes, Mother & Baby confirmed, a man is necessary to make a woman pregnant. Men possessed different equipment for that very reason. With each page showing the mother’s tummy growing, a calendar in the bottom corner counted the advancing weeks. Six months after conception, the mother gave birth to a baby girl.

  During the pregnancy, the father and son helped out around the house as best they could, especially later, when the mother’s belly was engorged. The father’s and son’s attempts were inevitably comedic, such as when they burned dinner, or when they couldn’t figure out how to operate the washing machine. The mother, practically bursting out of her maternity dress in the fifth month of pregnancy, had to show them which buttons to press. Then they all laughed.

  In between these family moments, Hanna gleaned the information of the most concern to her. For one, the mother in the book stopped menstruating when she conceived. Hanna knew something about menstruation. Her mother subscribed to a number of women’s magazines. Hanna would steal peeks at their columns and articles, curious what lay ahead for her in womanhood. She gleaned that most girls began menstruating at age eleven or twelve. Hanna was almost thirteen—no, she was thirteen, as of that morning—and, be it God or Nature, she was not menstruating.

  The book was also clear that pregnancy started with laying in bed with a man. Whatever procedure the father and mother actually performed in bed, she was positive she’d not done it. She’d not even held a boy’s hand. How could she, with her parents hovering over her every moment?

  If she wasn’t pregnant, how then could she explain the queasiness every morning? At that moment, looking through the children’s book, the thick, salty taste had returned to her mouth even though she’d gargled it out minutes earlier. Worse, she recently started growing hot and flushed at odd times of the day. Sometimes her stomach tied itself in a knot and she would lose her appetite, even if she had been famished minutes earlier. At that moment, re-reading Mother & Baby for the nth time, she lacked any hunger pangs even though she’d eaten only a dollop of casserole the night before. The thought of orange juice for breakfast made her slightly ill. Lately orange juice tasted like sour milk.

  In Mother & Baby, the mother had a husband. So how did Hanna’s friend Alondra get pregnant? She was thirteen when she began showing. Or her friend Cheryl Vannberg, who was about to turn fourteen and so big she looked the baby might pop out at any moment? Neither had a husband, not even a boyfriend—unless they were keeping secrets.

  Hanna set aside Mother & Baby. Did she want to have a baby? People seemed to think having a baby was a gift. Hanna watched adults shower their affection and support on Cheryl when she became pregnant, but Hanna didn’t crave those things. When she thought about growing up she thought of college and studying flowers and maybe even becoming a scientist. She never saw a baby in her future. But pregnancy would explain so much, such as why she wasn’t menstruating yet.

  Inside the pink cardboard box was an instruction sheet folded in a tight paper wad. It said to urinate on the stick and wait ten minutes. Hanna had peed on the stick in the bathroom, but now the ten minutes were taking an eternity. The possibilities had consumed her for weeks, a dozen medical reasons she imagined for not menstruating, and her curiosity grew excruciating waiting for the test results.

  She’d stolen the kit from the pharmacy where her mother picked up prescriptions and analgesics. Hanna was not the sort of girl to shoplift, but she saw no other option. She couldn’t imagine asking her mother for help on this matter. Her mother turned off the television when the late-night comedians began using bawdy language and double entendres. Why would she give a straight answer to Hanna’s questions, let alone purchase a pregnancy test for her?

  The instructions said much more than to urinate on the stick and wait. Hanna found the finely-printed sheet numbingly detailed and lawyerly about each step of the process. She was to unwrap the tube with care, and to avoid touching the felt stick protruding from its end. If s
he touched the felt stick, she was to discard the tainted test and wash her hands thoroughly in warm soapy water to remove the chemicals from her skin. When she urinated, she was to let the initial liquid flow, then dip the felt stick into the stream, to prevent contamination. The instructions also included a long list of drugs and medications that, if consumed forty-eight hours prior to administering the test, would corrupt the results. Hanna even held her breath while peeing on the stick, worried bacteria in her mouth might somehow affect the chemicals soaked into the felt strip. The process seemed so complicated and the question so simple, she wondered if she could expect to receive a straight answer at all.

  Hanna’s appetite returned, and she looked forward to eating. The ten minutes were not quite up, but the tube’s window was already displaying colored lines. Hanna searched the instruction sheet to decode the results. One red line on the right indicated a negative result, no pregnancy. One purple line on the left indicated a positive result. Hanna held the plastic tube under the bed stand light for an accurate look.

  Twin purple lines were distinctly visible across the white felt stick. One line on the right, one on the left. Purple lines, positive.

  She checked the instruction sheet once again. It said one line, not two. But they were purple, so yes, she was pregnant? She reread the “Test Results” section, careful to consider each step and warning. Nothing seemed amiss.

  Then she spotted something she’d previously overlooked, a faint asterisk no larger than a pinhead. Hanna’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the sheet:

  Two purple lines indicate pons viviparous hemotrophism. Contact your legal guardian or medical professional.

  Pons viviparous hemotrophism sounded like a rare disease: incurable, perhaps painful, most likely fatal. She went to the slender bookcase on the opposite wall of her bedroom and took down her dictionary, one compiled for grade schoolers. It offered no definition for viviparous, but Hanna wondered if the word vivid was related. Hemotrophism was also missing, but Hanna took some comfort from the entry for hemo–, defined as “of or relating to blood.” For pons she found nothing.

  She waited five more minutes hoping one of the lines would fade off and the other would color-shift to red. The twin purple pillars remained fast. Perhaps this was the good news she craved. The test might indicate her first menstruation was on its way. That would explain the lightheaded queasiness, she told herself, the sticky saltiness in her mouth every morning, and her random lack of appetite. Her period may even arrive today, her thirteenth birthday, a trumpet fanfare of her first step toward womanhood.

  The illustration on the last page of Mother & Baby depicted the mother laying in a hospital bed cradling her newborn girl. Around the bed stood her husband and son and a gray-haired doctor holding a stethoscope. Printed at the bottom of the page in cursive script:

  With their beautiful bridge daughter now a part of their family, Sam & Laurie & Timmy had years of joy to look forward to until the finality.

  The back cover advised the reader to purchase the next book in the series, Mother & Bridge Daughter.

  Hanna, relieved and delighted, returned the plastic tube to its cardboard box. She slipped it and the book back under the mattress. Before this morning, she’d planned to ask her mother for a trip to the bookstore so she could secretly search for Mother & Bridge Daughter. Now with the gift of the matching purple lines—vivid blood on the way—she happily told herself she did not need it, that she had all the answers she wanted. She went to her closet and dressed, eager to sit down to her mother’s Saturday morning pancake breakfast, only to discover she’d lost her appetite once again.

  Two

  After breakfast, Hanna and her mother drove to a downtown family-run bakery that specialized in decorated sheet cakes. Inside, rows of iced cakes stood under glass like exquisitely wrapped gifts waiting to be opened. The bakery made their own doughnuts too. Their fried richness mixed with the aroma of chocolate and vanilla made the bakery heavenly for Hanna, now finally hungry.

  Some customers eyed the cake and bread displays. Others stood off to the side with numbered tickets waiting to be called to the order window. Hanna’s mother tugged one free from the ticket dispenser. The electronic wall display read 46 but her ticket read 60. She retreated to the rear standing counters where customers ate and sipped coffee, Hanna close behind her.

  “We should have come earlier,” her mother said. “We hit the lunch rush.” The bakery also sold soup and made-to-order sandwiches.

  Hanna stood close to her mother, back upright and her chin level with the ground. She kept her hands at the small of her back and her ankles together. Her public posture was as her mother had taught her since she was young. The other girls here, they wandered freely about the store and talked among themselves or with the boys. A few pressed their faces to the display glass to ogle the racks of cupcakes organized by color, a tempting sugary rainbow. Hanna remained mute and upright behind her mother, as she’d been raised.

  Then Hanna noticed Cheryl Vannberg on the other side of the bakery. Cheryl was thirteen, Hanna’s age. Like Hanna, Cheryl stood behind her mother, back erect and chin level, her posture even more exemplary than Hanna’s own. Cheryl’s thick blond hair cascaded in waves down past her shoulders. She always wore clothes Hanna never saw other girls their age wear, designer blouses and brand-name tops, skirts that flared at the knees and dresses with jazzy or delicate prints. At the bakery, Cheryl wore a dark blue maternity dress hemmed just above her knees with satin embroidery along the neckline. Cheryl’s belly made the dress bulge. Cheryl rested her hands on the top of the bulge, occasionally massaging it while her mother transacted business at the counter.

  Hanna knew why everyone thought Cheryl was so charming. Be it God or Nature, Cheryl enjoyed the gift of a dainty exquisite face and high-boned sun-kissed cheeks. Her mother allowed Cheryl to use lip gloss and eyeliner, and they often went together to department stores for makeovers. In the center of Cheryl’s face was a perfectly proportioned nose that danced like a bee when she laughed. Her smile revealed smooth, straight teeth, and Cheryl always smiled. Both were thirteen, but it felt like Cheryl was twenty-one and glamorous and on the covers of magazines.

  Although Hanna didn’t go to school, every weekday Hanna’s mother taught her math and reading and penmanship at the kitchen table. Cheryl was similarly excused from school, but she and her mother took day trips to the department stores in Union Square and spent weekends at Napa Valley spas and boutiques. Cheryl had been to Disneyland three times, whereas Hanna had only seen the park on television. It was all just so unfair.

  Hanna chanced to peer down at herself. A plain brown sweater balding at the elbows. A pair of blue jeans she’d worn since she was eleven. Sneakers curled at the toes thanks to runs through the dryer after rainy days. Plain clipped fingernails, nothing as elegant as Cheryl’s nails, all ten of them manicured and polished turquoise to accent her blond mane. Even Hanna’s mousy auburn hair made her self-conscious. Hanna’s father still took her to his barber, an elderly man named Ray who stocked men’s magazines in the waiting area and knew only one cut for girls.

  “Did you get my invitation?” Cheryl said, face glowing. “We mailed them on Monday.”

  Hanna, lost in thought, did not notice Cheryl’s approach until she was before her. “I don’t know,” Hanna said softly.

  “I’m sure you’ll receive it soon,” Cheryl said. “We’re having a bridge party!”

  “I don’t know how to play bridge,” Hanna said, still gathering herself.

  Hanna’s mother was not particularly tall, but she stood over the two thirteen year-olds like a totem pole. “I received your mother’s invitation yesterday,” Hanna’s mother said to Cheryl. “I don’t believe Hanna will be able to attend.”

  “It’s not a bridge party,” Cheryl said to Hanna. She laughed imperiously, her petite nose dancing. “We’re not playing cards.”

  “I know what a bridge party is,” Hanna’s mother said. “Hanna will n
ot be able to make it. Thank you for the invitation. Say hello to your mother for me.”

  “All right,” Cheryl said, shrugging. She rejoined her mother on the other side of the bakery and said something to her. They exited smiling and shaking their heads.

  When they were gone, Hanna asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re not going to their little…bridge party.”

  “Why not?” Hanna said.

  Hanna’s mother turned her back to Hanna. She peered up at the electronic display over the cash register. It read 58, meaning their number would be called soon.

  “Does Cheryl have a boyfriend?” Hanna asked softly. Her mother appeared not to hear her, or else was ignoring the question.

  “I want to go to Cheryl’s bridge party,” Hanna said firmly under her breath.

  Hanna’s mother twisted her neck to peer down at Hanna behind her. “Do you know what a bridge party is for?”

  “Yes,” Hanna lied.

  Hanna’s mother studied Hanna’s face, trying to read her. Finally she looked straight ahead. “Let me think about it.” Their number was called.

  *

  Hanna had a vague idea about bridge parties. She’d heard the term many times. She knew it didn’t involve cards, that was a nervous slip on her part. She also knew a bridge party was for adults and not children. In particular, it was not for the bridge daughter, at least in the sense that the bridge daughter did not participate in it.

  Family television shows often featured episodes about bridge parties. Hanna never understood the fuss. The bridge daughter would sit off to the side staring into the camera, pregnant and mute, as she always did in these TV shows. Family and neighbors arrived at the house with food, flowers, and wine. Every so often, the bridge daughter would rise from her isolated chair and go about the party gathering dirty plates and discarded wrapping paper. If the party went late, the bridge daughter would be sent to her bedroom while the revelry continued.