It Started in June

by Susan Kietzman

  CHAPTER 8

  Bradley had asked Grace out again, for a weekday lunch, as they were sipping cappuccinos on Grace’s deck; the only thing left to decide was where. They had already determined that Thursday would be the day. They had discussed leaving their office building a couple minutes apart and pulling out of the parking lot in their respective cars, so that anyone who noticed such things would think they were taking individual lunch hours. And they would meet at an outdoor location, so they could escape the artificial cool of air-conditioning and soak in a bit of sunshine. On Thursday morning Bradley sent Grace a text, suggesting they meet at Station Point and eat something out of one of the food trucks parked there at lunchtime.

  She texted back: A picnic

  Yes!

  I love picnics. One issue: I’m a vegetarian

  I know this about you. I’ve memorized everything you’ve said

  Aren’t food trucks notoriously meaty?

  Not the Falafel King!

  Grace thought a moment and then texted: Will I need to have my stomach pumped afterward?

  Would I do that to you?

  Have you eaten anything from Falafel King?

  Nope. Why would I do that when I can get a Philly cheesesteak?

  This was followed by the smiley face emoticon, the one with a slight grin, sent to underline the lighthearted tone. But it had the opposite effect on Grace; she suddenly felt foolish, like they were going too far, too quickly—as if they had not already gone too far, by anyone’s calculation, by having sex in the backseat of her car.

  By the time they were sitting on a camping blanket Bradley had brought along, Grace with her falafel and Bradley with a jumbo hot dog, she felt better. Talking face-to-face through sunglasses was easier for her. She was out of the texting habit and didn’t miss its intrusiveness, its insistence on immediate response. And Bradley was so relaxed and conversational; he put Grace at ease. They talked about work, about the Maritime Museum account, and they talked about the summer Bradley worked in an ice cream parlor and calculated, afterward, that he had eaten his weight in cookies-and-cream, his favorite. An hour later, when they walked into the office a minute or so apart, no one noticed; there were no thoughtful glances, no stifled smiles.

  On Saturday night, they went out to a casual dinner. Bradley offered to drive to Grace’s neighborhood, so the chances of running into anyone from the office would be slim. She chose a Thai restaurant near the beach, and they ate on the patio overlooking the water. It was their third official date, and Grace was feeling more and more comfortable with Bradley. She hadn’t felt this level of relaxation with a man since her marriage to Kenny. Bradley reminded her a bit of Kenny, not in the way he looked or in what motivated him, but in his easygoing manner. Grace had been told she was tightly wound. Being with Bradley felt like a long, slow exhale. They talked about their Fourth of July weekends, both of which involved fireworks and burnt burgers. When Grace, fueled by a second glass of wine, told him that a burnt veggie burger tasted like dog poop, Bradley burst out laughing.

  * * *

  The following weekend, Bradley offered to make dinner for Grace at his apartment. He lived in a loft in a rehabilitated manufacturing building, where the only walls were freestanding and rose just halfway to the twenty-foot ceilings. They segregated Bradley’s enormous bedroom and renovated bathroom from the kitchen, living /dining area, laundry, and makeshift gym. That morning, he had washed the sheets and towels, in the hopes that the cumulative effect of their previous dates and the dinner he was going to prepare for her would be enough for Grace to see that he was earnest in his pursuit, would be enough for her to again have sex with him. As it turned out, it was. Their sex in the car had been urgent; they were frantic, desperate for each other. Their sex this time was slower, sweeter, and more loving. They looked at each other the whole time, never closing their eyes, never looking away.

  Bradley thought it might be too early to ask Grace to date him and only him, to ask for exclusivity, but he asked anyway—it just popped out—and she accepted, without making a big deal out of it. What this understanding meant for Bradley was this: If he asked Grace to do something, she would most likely say yes. And if they did something together, they might cap it off with sex. He wanted to explore every part of her body, with his eyes, with his hands, with his mouth. It was hard for him to be with her and not touch her.

  So Bradley was surprised and disappointed when Grace turned down his Thursday afternoon text invitation to a classical guitar concert and picnic dinner in the park on Saturday night, especially because she declined without offering a reason why she wasn’t able to make it. She said merely that she was very busy with a new client and would be unable to spend any time with him for several days. She canceled their Maritime Museum account meeting scheduled for the following Monday, and told him she’d let him know if she had time to meet with him on Thursday. This was very mysterious; there had been no mention of a new client at the team meeting that morning. And Grace had said nothing herself, until now.

  Bradley had trouble shaking her refusal from his mind. Had he done something wrong? Maybe she hadn’t been ready for the sex and had complied just to make him happy. Bradley dismissed this thought almost as soon as it entered his head. She had undeniably enjoyed the sex as much as he had. And she had awoken him in the middle of the night for another round. Plus, she had lingered in the morning, allowing Bradley to make her scrambled eggs and toast. And she had committed to dating only him. This was not the game plan of a woman who was sorry for what she had done.

  But maybe she was having second thoughts about their relationship. Maybe their age difference was bothering her. He didn’t think the twelve years between them was a factor at all. But maybe Grace had decided he was too young for her, too childish, too immature.

  They bumped into each other at work on Friday afternoon, when Grace told Bradley to “have a good weekend!” with a strangely brusque cheeriness. And Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of the following week were defined by more of the same: brief and what Bradley considered to be overly impersonal encounters, on Grace’s part. On Thursday morning before the team meeting, he texted her, just to check in—and to see if she wanted to meet with him in the afternoon about the progress he’d made on the museum account. It was a casual, nonthreatening message that included no mention of a future date. He ended it with a sun emoji because it was a beautiful summer morning. She responded with the running girl emoji and canceled their meeting for that afternoon. She asked him to send her an e-mail update on the account and made no comment on the work he had done so far. Bradley was annoyed. What kind of person doesn’t have thirty seconds to type a message, choosing instead to send a prefabricated symbol? Still, he was glad to get some response, no matter how small. The hardest thing for him to accept was silence.

  He was relieved when Grace called in sick on Friday morning; that she wasn’t feeling well, he decided, must be the reason behind her recent unavailability. Maybe her sickness had started the previous week. There was a nasty cold circulating through the office. Bradley instantly felt awful for not considering this possibility and texted her.

  Sorry you’re sick. Can I do something?

  Bradley glanced at his phone throughout the morning, waiting for a reply. He chided himself for his frustration at her lack of response. Of course she was not texting back—she was sick! She was most likely sleeping or at a doctor’s appointment or at the drugstore picking up a prescription. Finally, around noon, his phone dinged.

  No. I’m all set.

  All set with what—medications? Test results? What did she have—a cold? A stomach virus? Strep throat? Bradley reached up and felt the lymph nodes in his neck. Were they swollen? He swallowed. His throat felt a little scratchy. Maybe Grace did have strep throat. And if she did have it, maybe he had it, too? She’d tell him, wouldn’t she? She’d text him that she had strep throat and that he should get tested. Bradley looked at his phone again. Her choice of words was odd. Most p
eople would say, No, but thanks for asking! Or, It’s just a cold. I’ll be back on my feet by next week! He looked at his watch, vowing to wait an hour before he contacted her again.

  CHAPTER 9

  “You don’t have to tell him,” Shannon said over the phone. She was sitting at her desk at work and Grace was lying on the couch in her living room, a pregnancy test—the third she had taken in a week—on the table beside her and a plastic cleaning bucket within reach on the floor. All the windows were open, but there was no breeze. It was only nine o’clock in the morning, but it felt like noon; the late July heat forecasted to intensify over the weekend had arrived on schedule.

  “Why?”

  “Because he doesn’t have to know. I can go with you to get the job done.”

  “What if he wants to go with me?”

  “Do you want him to go with you? I mean, once this is over, are you going to continue dating him?”

  Grace hesitated a moment before saying, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Start thinking about it,” said Shannon. “If you want to keep dating him after this abortion, you’re going to forever have to circumnavigate a pretty big elephant in the room.”

  “You’re suggesting I get rid of both of them, the baby and Bradley.”

  “Look, Grace, I’m just trying to talk this through with you,” said Shannon. “I thought this is what you wanted to do.”

  “I do,” said Grace, flipping the wet washcloth draped over her forehead to the cool side. “Or I think I do. It’s just really hard.”

  Shannon waited a moment before she said, “It is really hard, which is why you need to think really hard about it. I know you don’t want to repeat your past.” Grace said nothing, but her silence broadcasted her feelings. “Grace,” Shannon said. “Don’t be upset with me. I’m just talking straight up, like we have always done with each other.”

  “I know you’re talking straight up, Shannon. This doesn’t mean I want to hear it.”

  “Grace, I can tell you’re thinking about keeping the baby. You can’t help but think about it.”

  “Yes,” said Grace. “I am thinking about it. And now I’m going to hang up the phone.”

  “I’ll call you later,” said Shannon, hanging up first.

  Grace put the phone down on the table and curled her body into a fetal ball. She covered her face with her hands, pushing the now warm washcloth back onto the top of her head. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought about her mother—and now she had thought about little else in the last three days. Grace was pregnant and unmarried, as her mother had been with her. Grace conceived the baby in her car, as her mother had conceived her in a car. Grace was wondering if she should keep the baby, as her mother had wondered about keeping her. And Grace was undecided about whether keeping the baby would be a mistake, as her mother had so often told her it was. In fact, her mother had called Grace the biggest mistake of her life.

  * * *

  The night her mother, Robin Taylor, got pregnant started out as many senior prom nights do, with a dinner at an affordable restaurant followed by a dance in the high school gym, which, at Franklin Pierce High School, had been transformed that week by the decorations committee from basketball court to Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland. Afterward, many of them went to the beach for an informal beer-drinking party. A few beers in, the couples who were sitting in Robin’s circle of sand chairs surrounding a dying campfire began to peel off. Some got back into their cars and drove a couple miles down the road to the Sea Shell Hotel, having told their parents they were spending the night at a friend’s house. Others, who didn’t have the money for a hotel or who were dating girls who refused to go to one, girls who didn’t want to be branded as girls who have sex, headed to more secluded sections of the beach, with blankets in hand. Robin and her boyfriend of two years, Bryan Pearson, went to the backseat of his car.

  They had not had sex before, although they had, as Bryan had told a few friends, rounded third base. This had satisfied Bryan for the first year of their relationship. But when Bryan started his senior year, he began to pressure her to go all the way. And when Robin continued to refuse, Bryan looked elsewhere. For four months he dated and had sex with the chubby cheerleader a lot of boys turned to when their girlfriends said no. But Bryan had come back to Robin, had begged for her forgiveness. Robin suspected this was at least partially due to the brand new rumor about the cheerleader’s chlamydia, as well as her recent make-out sessions in the halls with a large football player known for weekend drinking and fighting. But Robin took Bryan back anyway. It was April, and she desperately wanted to go to her senior prom in June. When Bryan asked Robin to go and she said yes, she knew that she was also saying yes to sex that night.

  The backseat of Bryan’s car was tighter than Robin thought. They had been back there on other occasions, kissing, touching, and partially disrobing, but they had never tried to get completely horizontal. Bryan, who had developed a taste for beer, had gained some weight. He had her pinned against the door, the side armrest digging into the back of Robin’s neck, while he grunted and pushed into her with his eyes tightly closed. They rocked, rocked, rocked in the car, but the only thing connecting them was their skin. He was obsessed with his imminent orgasm, and she was fixated on the possibility that she would join the unfortunate percentage of teenage girls who got pregnant their first time. Bryan had insisted on not wearing a condom, which, he told Robin, would greatly diminish the pleasure for both of them.

  Two months later, her fears were confirmed.

  Bryan never knew Robin was pregnant, never knew she’d had his baby. His dad had accepted an offer to relocate for a new job, and so Bryan had moved with his family from the small New Hampshire town they had lived in for twenty years to the other side of the country at the end of the summer. He had planned on attending a university in California anyway.

  When Laurie and Rick Taylor, Robin’s parents, found out about their daughter’s “shameful promiscuity,” they also moved. They didn’t leave the state, as they didn’t want to give up their church and their jobs, but they moved far enough away from the coast to lose contact with their neighborhood friends and acquaintances. All of this occurred before the Internet, when long-distance phone calling was an expensive way to keep in touch, and was therefore prohibited in many households, except in times of great sadness or joy. And the letters and holiday cards bearing cheery news that are so enthusiastically sent for a while have a habit of falling away after a year or two of no returned contact. Robin, who had gone to stay with an aunt in Louisiana instead of attending community college, returned to her new home the following March, with a flat belly and baby girl whom she, Laurie, and Rick named Grace.

  * * *

  Grace vomited again, prompting her to get up off the couch and take the bucket to the bathroom, where she emptied it into the toilet. She carried it out to the deck and used the garden hose to rinse it out, and then brought it back into the house again. She set the bucket down next to the couch, and then she walked into the kitchen for something to eat, something that would stay in her stomach for longer than twenty minutes. She decided to make Jell-O, which she kept in her cupboard, which her grandmother had always kept in the cupboard, serving it to Grace in her childhood when she had the flu. And while being pregnant was not the same thing as having the flu, the symptoms were similar: nausea, headache, lethargy. She leaned against the counter as the water boiled. She then made herself some peppermint tea, another trick she’d learned from her grandmother, prepared the Jell-O, and put it into the fridge to set. She went back to the couch to lie down. She awakened to the sound of the front screen door banging closed.

  “I know you don’t want to talk,” said Shannon, cruising toward the kitchen in the flip-flops she kept in her bag during the summer, her chosen footwear for to and from work and on lunchtime errands like this one. “I’m here just long enough to drop off some ginger ale, saltines, and vegetable noodle soup from the East Street M
arket. I know it’s hot today, but you may be able to keep the soup down. Are you feeling any better?”

  Grace sat up and put her hand to her stomach. “Yes,” she said. “I think I am feeling better. What time is it?”

  “A little after noon.” Shannon set the carton of soup on the counter. “The soup is already warm, so you can eat it anytime.” She put the six-pack of ginger ale in the fridge. “Anything else you need right now?”

  Grace had the look in her eyes that Shannon had seen many times before, the look that meant she was as close to tears as she ever got. “Can you stay?” she asked softly. With six steps, Shannon erased the distance between them. She sat down and wrapped her arms around Grace, who rested her head on Shannon’s shoulder and said, “What am I going to do?”

  “Honey, I’ve got to go in a minute; I have a one o’clock meeting. But I can come back after work. Tell me, quickly, what’s troubling you the most.”

  Grace turned her head into Shannon’s linen blouse, talking into the fabric rather than looking at Shannon’s face. “I’m thinking that I may want to keep this baby.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Bradley had stopped himself from texting Grace more than twice on Friday, and he had heard nothing more from her. He had analyzed his texts and their most recent conversations and could not figure out what he had done that Grace would see as a deal breaker. He could have chosen different words to express his feelings, he supposed. But what he had said in person, to the best of his memory, and in texts—he had scrolled through their limited messages twice now—was not offensive in any way that he could see. So he was relieved on Saturday morning when one of the bell sounds coming from his phone was a text from her.

  Can you come over this morning?

  Bradley wasted no time in replying: Yes—what time?

  Anytime

  Bradley hesitated, not sure if this meant as soon as possible or if a more casual approach would be better received. It was nine o’clock. Bradley quickly decided that anyone who texted this early on a weekend morning meant business.