Preacher's Wifey

by Dishan Washington

  He released another sigh. “I’ve known her for years. We were high school sweethearts.”

  I almost fell off the couch. “What? This is a woman from your past? Well, if you loved her, why didn’t you just marry her? Why did you even get involved with me?”

  “For one, she would have never married me. She would have made me spend time I did not have proving to her I was marriage material. It didn’t matter that I had money, prestige, or anything else. She knew I was not capable of giving her the one thing she wanted. The one thing she asked for over and over throughout the years of our relationship.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Faithfulness. All she wanted was to be my only woman.”

  This time I released a sigh. This situation seemed to be getting worse.

  “So, let me guess. You repeatedly cheated on her, broke her heart, and you went after her again because you never really stopped loving her. You just couldn’t have her. And because she’s still in love with you, she fell for your advances, and in the process she got pregnant. Am I right?”

  He got up, slipped his phone into the pocket of his black Armani slacks, and went and stood in front of his bookshelf. Again his expression said it all. Without him needing to articulate it, I knew if he could really have what he wanted, his perfect world would include Leah and their child.

  “Yes, you are correct,” he said, sounding defeated.

  “So when you found out she was pregnant, you never suggested to her to have an abortion, because in some small way you feel like you owe her for everything you put her through. The baby is the only part of you she will always have, no matter what. And in turn, the baby keeps you connected to her.”

  With one hand resting on a shelf, he dropped his head, but it wasn’t before I saw tears forcefully escape his eyes.

  He really loved her.

  If I wanted information, I knew now was the time to get it. He was open and would probably answer any question I had.

  “How far along is she?”

  “Four months.”

  That was easy. Next question.

  “Does she live here? Does she go to our church?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Is she excited about the baby?”

  I knew I was pushing it, but I just had to know. I was getting rid of my baby in the morning. I wondered how she felt about hers.

  “She has mixed feelings. She knows we will never be together now that I have this arrangement with you. She is not exactly enthused about having to raise our child in separate homes.”

  At least she was not overly excited. I could not bear to imagine her being elated about her child while I grieved mine.

  “Understandably so. So this contract with me and your image at the church mean more to you than being with the woman you are obviously in love with?”

  “Allyson, you will never understand. There are other things about me that you do not know, and I am too deep into this life I have created. It is about more than an image. This is my life. I am one of the few pastors who get called to CNN and MSNBC when tragedy strikes and they need a religious figure to weigh in on it. I am one of the few who are called when the president has a meeting and needs clergy in attendance.” He stopped and exhaled. “If this was fiction, I would just rewind the hands of time and start all over. But this isn’t fiction. This is real life.

  “She has finally accepted I am not the knight in shining armor who will rescue her from love’s dungeon. And, unlike in the storybooks, we will never have our happily ever after. So I have decided I will make the best of whatever ending I get.” He moved back to his desk. “I’ll always love her. But I will have to continue what I have been doing for years, loving her from a distance.”

  He sat back down in his chair and, with the click of his mouse, gave me the signal that the conversation was over.

  The doors to his heart were now closed, and unfortunately, I was not the woman who could open them up again.

  Chapter Five

  My navigation system guided me through the one-way streets, which were the headaches of most downtown areas. While I knew my way around downtown Atlanta, I was as lost as a bat in downtown Augusta.

  “You have arrived. Your destination is on the right,” the GPS lady announced.

  I pulled into the parking lot and parked my car. I lowered my Moss Lipow sunglasses and took a glance at the gray, dingy building, which wore no sign or any indication that it was an abortion clinic. I surveyed the people who were walking by. I knew none of them. Augusta was outside of Atlanta just enough for me to feel comfortable going to have this procedure done, and I was certain I would not be recognized. The last thing I needed was to get an abortion in Atlanta and have an intake nurse who was a member of Cornerstone or the cousin of a member of Cornerstone, or a friend of a member of Cornerstone. I shuddered at the thought.

  Severe cramps ambushed me, temporarily taking my focus off of the abortion clinic. I leaned my head back against the headrest and waited for them to subside. After about ten long, agonizing minutes, the pain was tolerable enough for me to get my bearings and prepare to go inside. I grabbed my Hermès bag, slid my sunglasses back up, and exited the car. The quicker I got inside, the quicker I would be on my way back home. I needed this to be over with so I could go back to living my life—and being emotionless.

  I walked into the building, and surprisingly there was no one in the waiting room. That meant either not many people had abortions in Augusta or not many visited this facility to have it done. I looked around the room. It felt cold and uninviting. It had no warmth whatsoever. It was almost as if you could feel death hiding behind the walls, in the corners, underneath the floors. I wondered how many souls of babies had cried out to be saved.

  I shook away that thought and made my way to the registration desk.

  “Hello. Please sign in, select the type of abortion you are having today, and complete this paperwork. After you have completed the paperwork, bring it back to me and I will get everything set up for your procedure,” the receptionist stated.

  “Okay. You mentioned the type of abortion. I am not familiar with the types of abortion.”

  “This clinic offers two types. The one most commonly done is called the aspiration. The other is the D and E.”

  “Which do you recommend?”

  “Ma’am, I really can’t provide any input or opinion. It is totally up to your discretion which you prefer.”

  The little heifer didn’t have to be so curt about it. This was hard enough on the patients who came in this place for an abortion, and dealing with a not so nice receptionist did not help.

  I sat down in one of the metal chairs, which reminded me of the chairs that we had in my home church’s basement. The same chairs I sat in as a child in Sunday school. How I wished I was sitting in a church chair now.

  I scanned the paperwork. It included the usual consent forms, privacy forms, and medical history questionnaire. I filled out the information and flipped to the other pages detailing the abortion procedures. After reading over the two options for the abortion, I selected the aspiration. It was only a five- to ten-minute operation, was the most common, and had fewer risks.

  The door to the clinic opened, and an older woman walked in. She appeared to be in her mid- to late forties. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and wrapped into a ball on top of her head. If it were not for the bags and the wrinkles plaguing her eyes, she could have passed for a much younger lady. Wearing a pink and purple velour suit, she made her way to the front desk. Assuming she was a part of the staff, I focused my attention back on my paperwork to make sure I had completed it all.

  “Hello. Please sign in select the type of abortion you are having today, and complete this paperwork. After you have completed the paperwork, bring it back to me and I will get everything set up for your procedure,” the receptionist stated.

  My head shot up. Was she talking to that older woman? She was here for an abortion too? Nah, couldn’t be.<
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  The older lady made her way past me to sit down. She reached into a worn leather purse and retrieved her glasses. Women her age can still get pregnant? She caught me staring at her and turned her body slightly away from me. No doubt she was probably as embarrassed as I was. But for some reason I could not pull my eyes away from her. She had the most intriguing and stunning look.

  “Do I know you?” the woman asked. It caught me off guard, because I was not expecting her to say anything.

  “I . . . I . . . I don’t think so,” I stammered.

  “Then why are you staring at me? For goodness’ sake, didn’t your mother ever teach you that it was impolite to stare at people?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. Yes, she did. You just have this stunning beauty about you,” I said.

  “Next time just say that. You make a person feel uncomfortable when you gaze at them.”

  “You are right. I apologize.”

  “It’s fine.” She glanced down at my lap. “Are you done with your forms? You should probably go and take them to Cindy.”

  “Cindy?”

  “Yes, Cindy. She’s the receptionist.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not on a personal level. Hell, I don’t think anyone knows her on a personal level. She comes in here, does her job exactly by the book, and leaves no room for cordialness. She has the same script for everybody, no matter how many times she’s seen you.”

  “You . . . you . . . you come here . . . often?”

  She dropped her head and cast her eyes to the floor.

  “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business,” I said, hoping to ease my way out of her business.

  “No, it’s okay,” she said as she picked up the pen to begin filling out the forms. “I opened myself up for that question. Yes, I’ve been here more times than I care to admit. Eight, to be exact.”

  My hands flew to my chest in shock. Eight?

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I don’t, either, anymore. I am forty-six years old, and I continuously ask God why He keeps allowing me to get pregnant. There are so many women out there who would love to be able to have children and never do. Or they struggle to. Me? I’ve killed eight babies, and this will make nine. I do not want kids and never will.”

  Her words held little to no emotion at all. Neither did they contain any remorse. This seemed like a regular doctor’s appointment to her and not a shameful act.

  “What does your husband think? Does he know you keep, um, killing his babies?”

  “Husband?” She laughed hysterically. “I don’t have a husband. I have not had a husband for almost twenty years now. My husband walked away from me when I was thirty. He left me for another woman and her kids.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. He made his choice. I am happy with myself.”

  “So your boyfriend . . .”

  “No real boyfriend, either. Look, honey, you probably know nothing about the lifestyle I live. Look at you. The Christian Louboutins you are wearing cost more than my car outside. You are a woman of status. A woman of class. You have no idea about the street life. Matter of fact, I cannot imagine what you would be doing in a place like this.”

  “I am here for the same reason you are—to have an abortion. In here you and I are the same. It doesn’t matter that I have money, status, or class. In here I am a woman killing my baby.”

  Saying it in that way pierced my heart. I am a woman killing my baby.

  “Why are you doing it? I can look at your face and tell you don’t really want to go through with this.”

  “I don’t, but my husband is not ready for a baby. It’s a long story.”

  “But what do you want? Do you have a say-so in this matter?”

  “Not really. It would cause more problems than I am willing to deal with.”

  “Do you ever want to have kids, though?”

  “Most definitely. I just don’t know if I ever will.”

  “I started having abortions the year my husband left me. I was pregnant at the time he walked away. He had gone on and on about not wanting kids, so when I got pregnant that year, I immediately had the abortion. Imagine how I felt when I found out the woman he was leaving me for had kids. It was a hard slap in the face, because at that time I still wanted to have kids. Well, after we got divorced and he moved on, I eventually moved on as well. Well, I tried to. I’ve never really moved on, because one thing about it, I loved that man. Would have died for him.”

  “Why didn’t you fight to keep him, then?”

  Her story was beginning to sound like my mother’s. And it seemed they both had one thing in common. They didn’t fight to save their marriages the way I was going to fight to win Byran’s heart. Some things and people are worth fighting for. Especially the ones you loved.

  “Oh, I fought. I fought the way I knew how, but she had what he was looking for at the time. And no matter what I did, it was not enough. I mentally checked out of the marriage, and eventually he left.”

  “Either of you ladies done with your forms? We have a slew of appointments coming in in just under an hour,” Cindy said.

  “We’ll be there in a minute,” the woman answered.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Helen. Yours?”

  “Allyson.” She held out her hand, and I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Helen.”

  “You, too, little girl. So are you going to go up there and get this show on the road? You will be fine. It doesn’t take that long. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

  Good.

  “Yes, I guess I will go on and get this over with.”

  “You can always walk out that door. You do not have to do this. This is still your choice. I choose to be in here today, and I chose it every other time I came. I have been a professional side chick, as they call it, since my husband walked away. So basically, I make a living and sustain my lifestyle by sleeping with other people’s husbands. And every time I get careless and slip up, I find myself in here, doing away with yet another child.”

  “Did you say a professional side chick?” This woman was honest to a fault. Who would actually admit that to someone out loud?

  “Yes, that’s what I said. I have learned to be happy and content with getting the financial benefits of sharing a man versus having him as my own. They cater to me when they are in town, or on the weekends their wives are out of town, or on the days when they are supposed to be at work. I live a good life. My bills are paid, and I have a few things I want. I’m good with that. Who needs love, right?”

  Her words were empty, yet full of emotion. She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself of what she was saying.

  “We all need love, Ms. Helen. Even those of us who kill our babies,” I said somberly.

  “Well, I had my one shot at it. And it slipped out of my grip.”

  “Don’t close your heart to it. It might just find you again.”

  “Ha. Doubt it. I am too old now.”

  “Ms. Helen, you are not too old.” I laughed. “Forty-six is the new twenty-five.”

  That made her chuckle, and for the first time since I started talking to her, I saw a little light in her eyes. I reached into my purse and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. I wrote my number on it and gave it to her.

  “If you ever want to talk to someone, call me. I would love for us to continue our conversation,” I said, smiling, hoping she would take me up on the offer. “I live in Atlanta, but I wouldn’t mind driving back down here for lunch or something.”

  “Atlanta? No wonder you are all prissy. You didn’t strike me as a woman who lived here,” she said jokingly. “Why did you drive all the way here for an abortion? I’m sure there are tons of clinics there.”

  “Long story.”

  “Didn’t want to be seen, huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I understand.”

  “Ladies?” Cindy called out agai
n.

  “We are coming,” Ms. Helen snapped. “Don’t be rushing us.”

  “It was nice talking to you. I hope to speak to you again soon,” I said as I stood up.

  “Go on now, child. Ms. Helen too old to be crying,” she said, half joking . . . half serious.

  I gathered my things and walked toward Cindy. There was something special about Ms. Helen, and I silently prayed that she would call me. She needed a fresh hope, and maybe I was the one to give it to her.

  Cindy flipped through the forms to make sure they were all completed.

  “Come around through this side door. We need to do some lab work, followed by a physical and an ultrasound.”

  I followed her directions and went through the door, which led me to a small examining room.

  “Here’s a robe. Strip down, and put this robe on. Dr. Carson will be in momentarily. Celeste will be your nurse,” she said and walked out of the room.

  There were no pictures on the wall, no diagrams of the female reproductive system, no posters of smiling women. There were only pamphlets and brochures about different methods of birth control.

  I took off my clothes and draped them over the chair that was sitting, isolated, in the corner. I slowly climbed onto the exam table. And waited.

  Finally, after what seemed like forever, the door opened and a tall, very handsome doctor entered the room.

  “Allyson?”

  “Yes?” I answered, mesmerized by his light brown eyes and smooth, semisweet chocolate morsel–like skin. My pride wouldn’t let me fan myself, but I wanted to.

  “I’m Dr. Seth Carson. I and my nurse, Celeste, will be performing your procedure today.”

  Back in the day, I would have jumped at the chance to spread my legs for him, but I was a changed woman. However, this man was fine—in every sense of the word. And it did not help that I was feeling vulnerable.

  “Here is what’s going to happen,” he continued, almost with the same attitude and personality—or lack thereof—as Cindy. “Once Celeste does your lab work, your physical, and an ultrasound, I’ll come in and examine your uterus. If there are no roadblocks to be concerned about, I will administer you a sedative and place a numbing medication at the opening of your cervix. I will then proceed to open your cervix, insert a tube, and use a suction device to empty the uterus of its contents. Once I get started, it’ll be over in ten minutes or less. Do you have any questions?”