by Neta Jackson
Hannah’s story made the other women angry—raped by an abusive uncle, had an abortion to protect her deeply religious family who couldn’t handle the truth, had never told anyone. But even five years later, she felt unable to move on. “I’m so stuck. It’s . . . it’s a relief to finally be able to tell someone.”
Camille Cortez and Shantel Morris had more typical stories—consensual sex with a boyfriend, an unwanted pregnancy, friends who said no big deal, just get an abortion. Now having second thoughts.
Camille twisted a strand of her long brown hair. “Mi familia, we are Catholic. I am supposed to get married before I have a baby. But my boyfriend—he disappeared. Huh! Didn’t want to be a daddy. What was I supposed to do? But . . . even though I got rid of the baby, somehow it didn’t seem right.”
Shantel shrugged. “Girl, I didn’t want to get an abortion, either. But I can’t support no baby by myself. An’ it’s not like I broke some law. What’s done is done, can’t feel bad about it the rest of my life. Some of my home girls, they came here to Lifeline to get help when they got pregnant, an’ I guess I coulda done that too. But . . . I dunno, can’t help feelin’ relieved I’m not the one with a kid in a stroller an’ another by the hand.”
“Yeah . . . in th’ end, ya still got a kid . . .”
Michelle tensed. Where did that thought come from? She’d heard someone say it recently. But she shook it out of her head. She had to focus.
But even as she heard herself read Jesus’ promise in the Sermon on the Mount that “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted,” and told the story in the Gospels about the woman who washed the feet of Jesus with her tears because she’d been forgiven so much, the voice in Michelle’s head continued to tickle the edges of her consciousness . . .
“Yeah, but in th’ end, ya still got a kid—or two or three or six. Abortion’s legal an’ it’s quick. Seems like th’ easy way out ta me. I done it. Why not?”
The memory clicked. The woman Lottie at Manna House the night she and Grace had gone with Estelle to share about Lifeline said, “Seems like the easy way out . . .”
The hour ended. Michelle passed out some questions and scriptures to think about relating to God’s character—the One who sees us as we are, the One who loves us as we are, the One who forgives us when we fall—before the next meeting. Then she pasted on a smile, hugged each woman, said she’d see them next week, and excused herself. Slipping away to the staff restroom, she locked the door and leaned against it, trying to get her breath.
“Seems like the easy way out . . . Why not?”
Michelle closed her eyes, hands and forehead pressed against the bathroom door. The idea of having another baby at her age felt like being swept along by an avalanche. Losing their second income. Stuck-at-home like Nicole Singer, left behind professionally by all her peers. Sleepless nights. Colic. Diapers. Potty-training. Preschool. Another eighteen years before she and Jared got to enjoy an empty nest. Eighteen years! She’d be in her late fifties by then!
Except . . .
Michelle was breathing hard. She hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy, not even Jared. Only her doctor knew, sworn to confidentiality.
The fetus wasn’t viable. No one would ever have to know.
There’s a way out . . .
Chapter 37
Michelle lurched over to the sink and turned the water on full force. What was she thinking! This was crazy! It went against everything she believed, everything Lifeline was trying to do, everything she talked about in the Hope and Healing groups. Abortion was not an “easy” way out.
But . . . it would solve so many problems.
She gripped the sink with both hands, head hanging, shoulders shaking as big silent sobs rose up from her gut, pushing a flood of tears down her cheeks. O God, what am I going to do?
A knock at the door. “Sister Michelle? One of the twins called. Uh . . . you all right?”
Had Bernice heard her crying? Michelle quickly flushed the unused toilet to make more noise and grabbed a paper towel to blow her nose and dry her face. “Yes, yes . . . I’m fine. Can you take a message? I’ll be out in a minute.”
But it took another five minutes to get control of herself. Her insides felt as if they were doing a tug-of-war, tearing her apart. I can’t do this, I can’t . . .
Can’t do what? Can’t go through with a pregnancy? Can’t go through with an abortion?
She felt like screaming. Can’t do either!
But she took several deep breaths and slowly blew them out. She had to open the door and go out there. Had to assure Bernice she was fine. Had to take Grace home.
The phone message Bernice handed her was from Tavis, wanting to know if he and Tabby could ride bikes over to Pottawattomie Park with DaShawn. Michelle asked Bernice if she’d call back and tell them Mom said fine. Bernice gave her a funny look but said, “Sure.”
As she and Grace went out to the car, she wondered how was she going to make it home with Grace right there. Michelle felt on the verge of having a hysterical crying fit. On impulse she slid an instrumental CD into the car player and murmured, “Just sit back and listen to the music, Grace. We don’t have to chit-chat. Sometimes it’s good just to reflect on the things that were said in the group, stay in touch with your feelings.” Yeah, blah, blah, blah . . .
Jared and Destin weren’t home yet when she came in. The twins were still out, having left peanut butter and jelly smears and breadcrumbs all over the counter. But the jars and loaf of bread had been put away. Their version of cleaning up after themselves.
There’s a way out . . .
No. She had to get busy. Stay busy.
Quickly making a shopping list, she got back in the car and headed for the grocery store. But by the time she was loading bags into the back of the minivan, she started to feel faint and realized she’d only had a piece of toast and a cup of coffee all day. Pulling a banana and a carton of orange juice out of one of the bags, she sat in the car in the store parking lot, trying to eat and crying.
* * *
Jared and Destin were home—the twins too—by the time Michelle got back from the store. “Hey, how was camp?” she beamed, bussing Destin on the cheek and sending the twins outside to carry in the groceries.
Destin cast an anxious glance at his father. “Um, great. I got an award for Best Post-Up Moves, and a couple scouts talked to me after the game this morning. Right, Dad?”
Jared shrugged and nodded as he leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, eyebrows raised as if reluctantly acknowledging Destin’s comment. “Could say that. One of the coaches told me Destin has real defensive potential too, introduced him to a few of the college scouts—Eastern Illinois, Southern Illinois, U of I in Champaign. Just one little problem . . .”
Michelle looked back and forth between her husband and son. “Problem? What problem? Oh no . . . they wouldn’t refund your room key deposit.” No wonder Jared looked peeved.
“No! It wasn’t that, Mom. I turned in the key and they canceled the charge on your credit card.” Destin heaved a sigh. “It’s just that—”
Jared snorted. “Just that they caught him selling SlowBurn to the other guys in the dorm, gave him a disciplinary warning, and confiscated the cans of SlowBurn he’d brought. They said one more infraction of the rules and he was outta there.”
Michelle’s eyes widened. “What infraction of the rules? I didn’t read anything like that in the rules.”
“See, Dad? I didn’t know.”
“Oh, come on. Think about it, Michelle. They see a kid selling who-knows-what to the other kids. Could be alcohol, could be drugs, could be steroid enhancement—”
“But it’s not, Dad! It’s just an energy drink! Already told you, I thought basketball camp would be a smart place to sell it. Guys always get real thirsty playin’, and need extra energy.”
“Well, it wasn’t, was it?” Jared pushed away from the counter and pointed a finger at Destin. “You need to find a rea
l job, young man.”
Destin sulked. “It’s Fourth of July weekend, don’tcha know. Nuthin’s open till Tuesday.”
“Well, then, find someplace else to sell this energy drink. You still got five hundred bucks to cough up.” Jared headed downstairs to the family room and Michelle heard the TV flip on.
Destin turned pleading eyes on Michelle. “Mom . . .”
Michelle sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know, Destin. Maybe you should just give the stuff back to Mr. Singer, tell him you can’t work for him any more. Put all your efforts into getting a regular job. Maybe bagging at the Jewel or Dominick’s or something. Anything.”
“Not that easy . . .” Destin mumbled, headed for his room, and slammed the door.
* * *
Michelle felt like a puppet at church the next morning. Going through the motions. Jerk a string, give a churchy hug to First Lady Donna and all the “church mothers” dressed in white. Jerk a string, stand up, sing and clap with the choir. Jerk another string, open the Bible and follow along as Pastor Q expounded on 2 Chronicles 7:14: “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land”—his favorite sermon around Independence Day, which happened to fall on Sunday this year. Jerk another string, check in with the women’s ministry committee about next Saturday’s presentation on Discerning the Voice of God. Sister Norma said she’d review the second session and do the introduction to the next video. Amen, hallelujah.
At Old Country Buffet after service, all three kids began clamoring to go to the fireworks downtown that evening.
“Thought Chicago did their fireworks on July 3.” Jared looked hopeful.
“Changed it back this year!” Tavis hooted. “An’ Monday’s a holiday too. You got the day off, Dad?”
Jared shook his head. “Taking my holiday at Christmas.”
Tabby cuddled up to her Dad’s arm. “So it’s a good thing the fireworks are tonight so you can go too, right? Please, Daddy?”
Jared laughed and pulled her close. “You got it, baby girl.”
Which turned out to be a good thing, Michelle realized. In spite of the tension of the night before, they packed a picnic supper and made plans to go downtown by “L” to avoid parking headaches. By the time they were ready to leave, Tavis had told DaShawn Bentley, who wanted to go too—Harry and Estelle said they weren’t up for those big crowds—and before they knew it, Grace and Ramona from next door wanted to tag along as well. Between three adults, five young people goofing off and laughing, the noisy “L,” navigating the crowds along the lakefront, and the huge, deafening display of fireworks over Lake Michigan, there wasn’t time for real conversation or even thinking, for that matter.
Which was just as well, as far as Michelle was concerned. The voice in her head hadn’t bothered her all day. Maybe it was gone.
Except . . . when she crawled into bed at eleven o’clock, and the house had quieted except for Jared’s gentle snore, she felt as if a heavy weight was sitting on her chest.
Nothing had changed.
She was still facing the possibility—probability—that she was pregnant.
She still hadn’t told her husband.
And the voice was still there, whispering in the darkness . . .
There’s a way out . . .
* * *
The phone rang at eight the next morning.
“Michelle?” It was her boss at Bridges. “I hate to do this to you on a holiday, but we got a call from one of your case homes out in Franklin Park near the airport, foster kid ran away, whole family is upset.”
“Franklin Park? The Domingo family?”
“That’s the one. You probably know he was supposed to spend the holiday with his birth mom, now she’s freaking out too. They really need someone they trust to calm the situation, help them decide next steps. Could you by any chance . . .?”
“Sure. I got this one, Charlotte. ” Michelle surprised herself by how quickly she said yes. The office was closed for the holiday and she could sure use a day off. But she also needed time away from conversational potholes at home. She wasn’t ready to talk to Jared yet. She just needed to keep busy. By the time she got home, he’d probably be at the tower for his two to ten shift, and the tumbleweed week would be on a roll, giving her at least until next weekend before they came up for air again. By then she should know for sure. By then she’d tell him.
But she forgot just how far she had to drive to get out to Franklin Park—a good forty-five minutes. Not counting bumper-to-bumper traffic. Didn’t people stay home on the holiday? Were people leaving town? Coming home? Whatever, Michelle began to feel oppressed by the silence in the car. Too much time alone with her thoughts. The doctor’s pronouncement . . . the dream she’d had . . . the feeling of heading toward that steep cliff with nowhere to turn . . . the women in her post-abortion group . . . the voice in her head . . .
There’s a way out . . .
Michelle turned on the radio, punched the button for 1390. Gospel music. Loud.
As she neared the airport—the drive Jared took every day—she took the ramp onto Route 294 South. Only a couple of miles to her exit . . . yep, there was the sign. Irving Park Road 1 Mile—
Oh, great. Toll plaza came first. She didn’t have an I-PASS on the minivan, didn’t use the tollway that often. But she’d been in such a hurry to get out of the house she hadn’t checked whether she had enough change for tolls.
Michelle slowed as cars in the Cash Only lane edged toward the tollbooth. She fished in her purse for her wallet. What? No bills? Oh, crap! She’d used up her cash last night feeding the vending machine at the “L” station for tickets for the five of them. How much did she need? She glanced out the windshield . . . Cash Only: $1.50. And no attendant in the booth, either. She needed coins.
Fishing in her coin purse, she dumped all the change into her lap. Three quarters, four dimes, a nickel, two pennies . . . okay, that was a dollar and twenty-two cents. She still needed, uhh, twenty-eight cents.
The car ahead of her rolled up to the unmanned toll booth, tossed change into the basket, and the gate went up. And down again.
Her turn. She inched up beside the toll basket. Twenty-eight cents . . . she needed twenty-eight cents!
Michelle frantically pulled out the little drawer that supposedly held parking money. Two dimes and two pennies . . . Almost there.
The car behind her tooted its horn. “Okay!” she yelled.
She was still six cents short. Michelle dumped out her purse in the seat beside her. Sometimes change fell into the bottom . . .
More horns blaring now. Somebody yelling. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. O God, O God, all I need is six cents . . . there! A nickel! Maybe she’d counted wrong. Maybe it was enough.
Rolling down her window, Michelle gathered up all her change and dumped it into the basket. Metal hitting plastic. Rolling down into the bottomless pit . . .
She held her breath.
The gate didn’t move.
“Hey, lady!” the man in the car behind her yelled. “You gonna sit there all day? Move it!”
Michelle felt like giving him the finger. What was she supposed to do? All she needed was one penny! Why was everything in her life going wrong? Where was God when she needed him, huh? What ever happened to “I will never leave you nor forsake you” and “I will supply all your needs”?
More horns blared. More voices were yelling. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m not asking for much, God!” she said, gritting her teeth. “I just need one rotten penny!”
Her breath was coming short and fast. Maybe she should just step on the gas and crash right through the gate—
And then she saw it.
A penny sitting on the concrete ledge right beside the toll basket.
One dingy, beautiful penny.
Opening the car door, Michelle got ou
t, picked up the penny, and tossed it in.
The yellow-striped gate lifted.
* * *
Still shaking, Michelle got off the toll road at her exit, turned in at the first fast-food place she saw, and found a parking space. She needed to pull herself together.
What had happened back there? She’d come close to losing it.
But God came through. Came through with a penny.
Such a little thing . . . but it felt big. Felt huge. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you,” she breathed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and blowing her nose.
Michelle sat in the fast-food parking lot for a good ten minutes. Her thoughts tumbled, became prayers, back to thoughts again. Was that God? That penny had to have been sitting there . . . who knew how long? But it was there when she needed it.
Lord, I just need to know you’re going to take care of us! I mean, if I’m pregnant, it’s going to knock our whole lives off course.
Huh. Things had already felt “off” for longer than that. Jared’s demanding schedule at the airport. Her own long workdays at Bridges and volunteer work at Lifeline. Their responsibilities at church. All good things! But . . . not enough time with the kids. Not enough time with each other. Finances were tight, even with two working parents, and going to get tighter with college looming. And the other elephant in the room: Pastor Q wanting Jared to go to seminary. Okay, deep down she knew Jared wanted to go too . . .
God, what are we going to do?!
Wait. God had just answered her desperate prayer back at the tollbooth . . . for a penny. Was God trying to tell her something?
