The Hole We're In

by Gabrielle Zevin

  She stops at the grocery store on the way back from the bank. She buys sandwich makings and drinks for the road. At home, she packs all of it into the cooler she and Tom take on weekend trips to Daytona Beach, and Patsy thinks to herself, It’s almost like a mother-daughter holiday.

  She sends an e-mail to her war buddy, Charles Scott, in Bethesda, confirming that she’ll be staying with him for two nights. She closes by writing, “Thanks to you and Cherie for the hospitality. Looking forward to catching up, Buddy. It’s been too long. Yours truly, SweeTart.”

  Before she goes to bed, she plots a map on the computer that starts in Orange City, Florida, and ends at what she hopes will be a “nice place” in Maryland. By the program’s estimates, the drive takes twelve hours if conditions are optimal.

  Orange City

  THE BOY WHO done it (as Patsy thinks of him) shows up at the house to see them off. “Mrs. French, I’d like to come with you,” he says.

  This is the one my daughter loves, she thinks. This half-formed weed of a boy. She wants to say, It’s you who got us into this fix. But she knows he means well. “We can’t afford to take you, Kip.”

  Patsy wants to run into the house and get a banana from the basket in the kitchen and a condom from her nightstand and make both Britt and the boy unroll the condom onto the banana. She wants to see with her own eyes that they know how to do it properly.

  “I could pay my own meals. I could maybe even get some for fuel. I could contribute,” Kip argues.

  Patsy shakes her head. “If you were gone, your folks would wonder where you were. It’s better if no one knows. It’s better if Britt and I can just disappear for a spell, all right?”

  The boy nods. “I’d really like to go,” he says dumbly.

  His earnestness is touching, but there’s no way she’s driving that boy to DC with her. “I’ll make sure she calls you from the road, OK?”

  Britt comes out of the house. She’s carrying a large stuffed tiger, a gift from the One Who Done It, and the toy makes her look like a baby, which, in point of fact, she is. Patsy gets in the car so that Britt and the boy can say their good-byes in relative peace.

  There are tears and tongues. After five minutes, Patsy honks her car horn. Britt shoots her a look of pure evil.

  Patsy rolls down her window. “We have to get going! I want to make it to Bethesda before nightfall!”

  Britt nods. She kisses the boy one last time, then gets into the backseat of the car.

  “You’re not gonna sit in the front?” Patsy asks.

  “I’m just gonna be sleeping anyway, Mother.”

  “What’d I do?” Patsy asks.

  “You know what you did. Like all this isn’t hard enough on me already.”

  It’s hard on Patsy, too. It’s hard financially. She’s gotta miss work. And the flip. And then there’re all the fuel and tolls and meals. And she isn’t even sure what the abortion will cost. After perusing several relevant online destinations, she’d come up with the figure $2,500, but things always have a way of costing more than you expect.

  Patsy hears her daughter crying quietly in the backseat.

  “I’m sorry about honking the horn,” Patsy says.

  Bethesda

  CHARLES SCOTT ANSWERS the door. “Aw man,” he says, “you’re a sight for sore eyes, SweeTart.”

  Patsy holds out a bottle of wine. “We brought this for you and Cherie, Buddy.”

  “You shouldn’t have. I’m just happy to see you. And this is Miss Britt, I presume?”

  Britt holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Good manners on this one,” Buddy says. “Reckon the apple does fall far from the tree.” Buddy laughs, and so do Patsy and Britt.

  The wife emerges from the kitchen. “Well, don’t leave them standing in the foyer, Charlie.” Cherie kisses Patsy on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, Patsy.” Cherie’s even blonder than the last time Patsy saw her.

  For dinner, Cherie serves turkey and mashed potatoes. For dessert, there’s apple pie.

  Charlie’s a lawyer, but he mainly works as a lobbyist for veterans. It’s a nice house. During dinner, Patsy finds herself imagining how the listing would read: Custom kitchen with granite countertops and a stainless fridge! Bonus room upstairs, etc. He’s done well for himself. Two twin boys, age six. A pretty blonde wife who teaches tenth-grade biology. Not bad at all, Patsy thinks. Buddy’s really done it.

  After dinner, Charlie’s sons take Britt to see their room, Cherie excuses herself to grade papers, and Charlie and Patsy retire to the den to tell old war stories and a few new ones.

  “Whatever happened to Smartie?” Patsy asks after a second round of drinks.

  “He wrote a book.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. It won some big-deal prize for nonfiction. It’s about...” And Charlie describes it for Patsy, which is completely unnecessary, because she’s already read it. Patsy just feels like talking about Smartie with someone who knew him. “He did a reading in DC, and me and Cherie went to it. Same old Smartie...”

  She closes her eyes and enjoys hearing a story about a man she used to love.

  IN CASE HER daughter’s fallen asleep, Patsy tiptoes into the guest room that she’s sharing with Britt. She’s awake, though, and is on her stomach messaging with Kip.

  Patsy grabs Britt’s phone.

  “Hey!” Britt says.

  “It’s late, and we’ve got a long day tomorrow. You can text Kip all you want once this whole business is over.”

  Patsy flips off the lights and gets into bed next to her daughter.

  In the darkness, Britt whispers, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “What’s wrong with who?”

  “Mr. Scott. You know, his face. It sort of looks like a mask.”

  A Nice Place in Maryland

  THE PLACE IS only a twenty-minute drive from Bethesda, and Patsy chatters inanely the whole way to distract them from the task at hand. “Look, birds!” she says. “I didn’t know they had birds in Maryland!”

  “Yes, Mother,” Britt replies, “they do have birds in Maryland.”

  “Look, a Payless Shoes! I could use some new flip-flops. Maybe on the way back?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I think you could use flip-flops, too. And while we’re on the subject, where do you think you might want to eat later? Because Cherie was telling me about this wonderful little tea house—”

  “I don’t think I’ll want to eat.”

  “Well, the tea house only has finger food. So, it might be good—whenever you’re hungry, no rush—just to eat something light. Just to get something in your—”

  “Honestly, Mom. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but could you just try to be quiet?”

  “Sorry,” Patsy says.

  * * *

  THE PLACE HAS no official name. There’s a sign out front that says YOUNGER’S STONE FRUIT FARM, and Patsy knows that’s where she’s supposed to make her turn.

  She turns onto the dirt road. There’s a large building that looks like a barn. Patsy hopes that it doesn’t look like a barn on the inside, too.

  Patsy gets out and walks up to a window in the front of the barn. A skinny red-haired, red-faced man asks Patsy if she and her daughter are here for the tour.

  “No,” Patsy replies. “We’re here for the hayride.” Patsy feels rehearsed and awkward, like she’s in a school play.

  “Can you pay for the hayride?”

  “Yes.”

  “We only take cash.”

  “I know.” Patsy looks around. She wishes she’d thought to bring a firearm with her.

  “One thousand up front. One thousand when it’s done.”

  Patsy nods. It’s slightly less than she was expecting. She counts out a thousand dollars and is about to push it under the window when she stops herself. “Can we look inside first?”

  He tells her that she can look inside after she’s handed over her money.

  “Could
I talk to the doctor?”

  He shakes his head.

  Patsy looks around the “stone fruit farm.” It’s a pretty place. The grass is just coming in and there are leaves on the birch trees. The barn is freshly painted. When they were driving in, she had noted several metal trash cans lined up along the side of the gate, but they weren’t bloody or anything. No one’s screaming. Birds are chirping. Patsy pushes the pile of cash under the glass window.

  “Go around to the side,” the red-haired man says.

  “That man was wearing a wig,” Britt whispers to Patsy on the walk over. “Did you notice?”

  Patsy hadn’t noticed, because she’d been too wound up to notice much of anything. But now that Britt mentions it, his hair had pretty much looked like Ronald McDonald’s. A disguise, Patsy realizes. So we can’t identify these people later if something goes wrong. How could I not have noticed? Patsy takes a calming breath: Get yourself together, girl.

  Around the side, they are met by an extremely overweight woman who is also wearing a wig—a big blonde one like Dolly Parton or Mae West.

  “Red only gave me money for one,” Dolly says, annoyed.

  “There’s only one today,” Patsy says.

  “Which one of you?” Dolly looks from Patsy to Britt.

  Britt raises her hand like she’s in class.

  “Come on, then.”

  Britt and Patsy move to enter the barn.

  “No,” Dolly says to Patsy, “you wait outside.”

  “I’m her mother. I want to come in with her,” Patsy says.

  “Only people having the procedure go inside.”

  “That man”—Patsy gestures to the front of the barn—“that red-haired man told me I could go inside once I paid my money! I want to go inside with my daughter! She’s underage!”

  “Calm down,” Dolly says. “If you’re upset, there won’t be any procedures at all today.”

  Patsy takes a very deep breath and thinks a little of the NATO alphabet to herself. “OK,” Patsy says. “OK, OK. Now I’m gonna beg. Woman to woman. We drove all this way from Florida. This is my only daughter. My husband, her father, is dead five years. My mother is dead, too. I do not speak to my father. This girl is my whole life. Please, just let me go in with her. I won’t disturb anything. I’m not a cop, if that’s what you think. I’m a waitress. I’m just a woman. I’m just—”

  “I don’t need your life story. Just no hanky-panky in there, all right?”

  * * *

  THE FIRST THING Patsy notices is the smell—like fecal matter and rust. For the record, she cannot see any fecal matter or rust, but then the lighting is not particularly conducive to seeing much of anything. Several dim fluorescents. The bulbs aren’t in fixtures either, just cords that swing from beams. There’s a low-pitched buzz, which Patsy thinks is the lightbulbs but might be something more sinister—flies, maggots (do maggots buzz?), she doesn’t know.

  “Mom?” Britt says.

  Patsy wonders if the dirt is just a front to conceal what really goes on here. That once this filthy curtain is pulled back, there’ll be the sparkling clean clinic of Patsy’s dreams.

  “Mom?”

  Patsy’s eyes adjust to the dim lights and she discerns a row of folding lawn chairs. A girl about Britt’s age with a bruised eye sits in the first chair. She’s clutching a wad of cash. A woman near Patsy’s age, wearing an old velour sweat suit, leans on the wooden counter for support. Patsy thinks she sees a blood stain on the back of the woman’s pants—it’s hard to tell on account of the dim lighting and also because the word JUICY is embroidered across the seat pockets of the pants.

  “Mom, I’ve got to throw up.” And then Britt vomits on the floor.

  An orderly hears Britt’s retching sounds and comes out to see who it is. He looks from Patsy to Britt. “I’m not cleaning that up,” the orderly announces to no one in particular.

  In an instant, Patsy decides. She takes her daughter by the hand and leads her out of this place. They run out the side of the barn, past Dolly, who says nothing. They run past the front of the barn, past Ronald McDonald, who yells, “Don’t expect your deposit back!”

  Patsy doesn’t.

  Ramada

  PATSY CHECKS INTO the first hotel she can find. “I got to make some calls,” she tells Britt. “Why don’t you go out to the pool?”

  Without a word, Britt puts on her swimsuit, slathers on some sunblock, and leaves.

  Patsy calls Tom and tells him what happened. “I don’t know what to do,” she says. “I’m going crazy here.”

  “Canada,” Tom repeats. “Your brother’s still living in Toronto, right?”

  “Yeah.” Vincent is an editor for Canadian television.

  “Call your brother,” Tom says. “I don’t need you for a couple of days, and you’re halfway to Toronto already.” Tom doesn’t bother saying that this is what he’d told Patsy to do in the first place. “Get some rest, then run for the border, Patsy babe.”

  Patsy hangs up with Tom and then calls her older brother on the phone. They aren’t particularly close, owing to the ten-year age difference between them, but Vinnie is still her brother and he’s glad to help.

  * * *

  IN THE MORNING, Patsy wakes before Britt, so she decides to use the hotel’s hot tub. The only other person there at this hour is a very old man who is wearing very old swimming trunks. Patsy herself is wearing a towel and, under that, an old bra and her underwear, as she hadn’t considered she might want to go swimming when she packed for this trip.

  Patsy thinks the old man is black, though she isn’t quite sure. He’s at that age where all old people start to look the same color—shades of gray. The underwear and bra she’s wearing are the same color as the man, more or less. She says to him, “Sir, I hope this won’t offend you, but I got nothing on under here.” And then she corrects herself. She hadn’t meant it to come out that way—provocative-like. “That didn’t come out right. I meant to say, all I got is my underthings on. I mean, I’m not wearing my swimsuit. I didn’t think anyone else would be using the hot tub this early.”

  He laughs and says, “Come on in, darling, the water’s fine.”

  She takes off her towel and slips into the hot tub, and he says, “See, I wouldn’t have even known you weren’t wearing a proper bathing suit, if you hadn’t told me. You jumped the gun, missy.”

  “Yeah,” Patsy concedes, “story of my life.”

  Patsy reads a tabloid that someone had left in the hotel room. The names change, but it’s always the same old stories. They’re taking some pop star’s baby away from her. A movie star yelled at the paparazzi and the so-called journalist suspects the movie star may have done something to her face.

  “What brings you to these parts?” the gray man asks.

  “Nothing,” she tells him. “I’m just passing through.”

  “Where you on your way to then?”

  “Nowhere,” she says. “Somewhere up north.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it, but I couldn’t help but notice you’re missing a toe.”

  She isn’t missing the whole thing. Just half of what used to be the longest (the second) one on her right foot. “Lost it in the army.”

  “Bet there’s a story there,” he says.

  Patsy smiles and shakes her head. “Yeah, the story is very short. The story is, I accidentally shot it off.”

  He wants to know what she did in the army, other than shooting off appendages, ha ha.

  “I was a thief,” she says.

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “I went around parting the natives from their weapons.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “Waitress,” she says. “Amateur real-estate baron.”

  He laughs. “So, what really happened to your toe?”

  “It won’t make any sense to you,” Patsy says.

  “Try me.”

  Patsy shrugs. She’ll never see this man again anyway
.

  “I got pregnant. I didn’t want to go on administrative detail, so I shot off my toe instead of shooting myself in the head. They discharged me for being nuts, which I pretty much was after two tours Over There. I came home spitting fire and tacks and eventually I got some help in a PTSD place and that was that. A lot of folks have it worse than me.”

  “That’s not a short story at all.”

  “Maybe not,” Patsy concedes.

  “So, what happened to the baby?”

  Toronto

  THE ABORTION LIVES up to all of Patsy’s expectations. Actually, the abortion exceeds Patsy’s expectations. Things had seemed so terribly bleak when Britt told her she was pregnant. Patsy hadn’t known what to do. She couldn’t afford another baby, and even if she could, that wasn’t the kind of life she wanted for her only child: single mother at sixteen. And then, once they’d all decided an abortion would be the thing, the question of where and how and who. She had been picturing rusty tools and mustache-twirling men. And that’s what she’d more or less gotten a preview of in Maryland. Except there’d been women, too. Patsy had never imagined that a woman, someone’s daughter, could participate in such a bad business. In any case, it had been an excellent suggestion to go to Canada. Because here, for once in her life, no one is making anything hard for her.

  Vincent presents his ID and explains that this is his niece from America and they have come for an abortion. The nurse smiles, and Patsy and Britt are shown into a beige room with a series of reassuringly dull nature lithographs on the walls. They are presented with brochures, and a female therapist comes in to consult with them. Does Britt understand? Yes, she does. They make an appointment for 9:30 AM the next morning.

  The abortion is over in an hour. Britt is given painkillers, and Vincent drives them back to his apartment.

  “How was it?” Vincent asks.