It didn’t take long for me to feel the stress of not having a job. I was desperately trying to hold things together as much as I could, seeing Jaye nearly every waking moment, but that didn’t pay my rent. Over the previous few weeks, I hadn’t been sleeping well and my constant fatigue was draining all my energy. I wasn’t taking care of myself and didn’t know what was going to happen. I was becoming more panicked by the minute because I knew time was running out for me. I had to do something.
One night, very late, I left the apartment for the corner phone booth; it was a dangerous neighborhood for a woman to be walking alone but I wanted to make this call in private. The area where I was staying wasn’t short of characters, and the streets heated up at night. I was on the brink of crying, but I definitely didn’t want to call attention to myself, especially when I passed a guy who didn’t take his eyes off me all the way to the phone booth. I fumbled in my pocket for change, feeling extremely nervous about the phone call I was about to make. It had become obvious to me that I needed to go home.
I began to dial the number that represented my life before the current mess I had created for myself; just dialing brought a sense of peace to me, even though I wasn’t entirely certain what response I would receive. “Hello, Dad?”
“Chrissy?”
“Yes. It’s me. I was wondering if I could . . . just come home.” After some tears and a series of empty promises, I was back in my room, surrounded by familiar things.
“Chris, are you hungry? I can make you something.” My mom looked up when I walked into the kitchen.
“No thanks, Mom. I just want a little something sweet.” I grabbed a Nestlé Crunch bar and bolted down the stairs to the sanctuary of my room. I had been living at home for a few months now, doing my best to maintain an illusion of normalcy. Taking a small bite and setting the candy bar on my dresser, I walked to the bathroom. A muted overhead light cast faint shadows on my face as I stood facing my bully, the mirror, waiting for it to tell me what to do.
Chrissy, your hair is perfectly set. Sculpted waves framed my face. Creamy foundation made a smooth, dewy canvas for the dark liner around my blue eyes, the dark purple making the creases deeper and a pale gold color highlighting the curve under my brows . . . masterfully blended. I applied bright pink blush to my cheeks and chose a mauve lipstick. Well done. The corners of my lips lifted in a small smile as my eyes scanned my face. Yes. The mirror agreed. You have a pretty face. I breathed a sigh of relief.
But will it be enough? I gasped as the mirror went from compliments to condemnations. Jaye loves your pretty face now. But what about your body? Will he love you when you grow bigger and bigger?
My eyes widened, and I slowly looked down at the small bump peeking through my unbuttoned shirt. I wanted so badly to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t there. I grasped the edges of my shirt, trying to quickly button it up.
It’s not going to go away, you know. It’s been four months—and you haven’t told your parents? What exactly are you waiting for? What are you going to do? the mirror taunted. What kind of magic do you have now that will keep Jaye with you?
WITH EVERY WEEK, my belly continued to grow and I tried harder to conceal it. When I had told Jaye that I was pregnant, I didn’t get the response I expected. To me, he seemed indifferent to the news, which only fed my refusal to accept the truth. It was like I was a walking time bomb, and although an explosion would eventually come, I pretended the situation didn’t exist. Somehow I convinced myself that being pregnant would just work itself out because the most important thing was for Jaye and me to stay together. And now, my need to feel good enough for him turned into desperation. I lived in denial that intensified as the baby grew within me, completely numbing me to reality. I had jumped back into church and family life to prevent any suspicion and as I got bigger, I wore larger, boxier clothing to camouflage my pregnancy.
I had a life growing on the inside, and at the same pace I was deteriorating on the inside and no one, including my family, knew. Pretending I was job hunting, I would sneak out to find Jaye, hoping his presence would bring me consolation. When we were together there was never any real talk about our future. The topic of marriage never came up. But that didn’t stop me; I tried to be content with whatever I could get from him.
Jaye and I weren’t going to nice restaurants and strolling hand in hand in Greenwich Village anymore. Rather, I was reduced to following him around wherever he was going, which made me crumble inside. I hurt so badly because now I had no strength to work to keep him. Although I had numbed myself to the fact that I was living in my parents’ home and that my due date was growing closer and they were bound to find out, the tension I walked around with was maddening. I couldn’t eat and I barely slept, and I couldn’t tell a soul the reason why. There were moments when I was so stressed that I felt I would lose the baby for sure. Weeks went by, and then months. And yet I never once regretted coming home. The reason I returned was the same reason I agreed to get on a plane in February, when I was six months pregnant. To be with the person who had made me feel safe from the time I was a little girl.
It was 3:00 a.m. and dark in the huge plane, except for the faint glow of a few reading lights scattered here and there throughout the cabin. We had been in the air for hours and almost everyone was asleep. I had been awake for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet, when the pilot’s voice announced over the loudspeaker that we were currently flying over the Andes en route to Buenos Aires. Nobody seemed to be paying attention but me. I was having a difficult time getting comfortable so I turned on the reading light and tried to finish the crossword puzzle that my dad had started, messing the whole thing up. I tucked the magazine and pen into the seat pocket when the flight attendant came by, smiled, and quietly asked, “Can I get you anything, miss?”
I pulled the blanket farther up and smiled back at her. “No, thank you.” As she continued down the aisle I closed my eyes, wishing I could sleep, but I was feeling way too tense. It seemed that when I was most nervous, the baby moved the most. I slid my hands under the blanket and held my stomach. At least I was safe, and that’s all that mattered. Leaning my head back, I glanced at my dad’s profile while he slept. I grabbed the armrest to recline my seat some more and closed my eyes again. Soon I felt his hand on mine. Dad squeezed it three times.
For the next several days, under the starriest skies I had ever seen in my life, Dad preached at open-air camp meetings outside of the capital city, to a crowd who came from all across Argentina. After the services, we would all gather outside and eat together. Listening to the sounds of laughing families and broken English mixed with the soft tones of Argentinian Spanish made me forget about my own troubles for the moment.
Dad took every opportunity to show me off as he always did. The expression in his eyes reflected a sense of ease, as if nothing had changed between us, like time had stood still since the last time we had shared this experience together. Everyone treated me as they had when I had come there with Dad six years before, and that put me at ease.
At the end of a long week, Dad and I returned to Buenos Aires for our last day before heading home. He suggested that we go to the beach. I grabbed my swimsuit from my bag and put it on, adding a couple of layers over it.
“Chris, I got us a couple of chairs.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need one, Dad.”
We found an empty spot where I laid out my towel on the hot sand and Dad set up his chair. As I got warmer and more uncomfortable, I began to peel off layers without thinking. I did cover my belly with a towel as I lay down on my back to soak up some sun. The warm breeze put me in a sleepy trance. The sound of children playing eventually woke me, and when I opened my eyes, all I could see was my belly sticking up in the air. I gasped, realizing that my dad, who was sitting beside me, was probably staring at it the entire time my eyes had been closed.
I quickly grabbed the towel and covered myself again. Only then did I peek up at Dad. His head was back and his lip
s slightly parted. He was fast asleep, exhausted from all the ministry he had done over the past few days. I sighed in relief, then turned onto my side with my back facing him. The fantasy I had created of a carefree life crashed into the reality of my situation.
I curled up into a ball, feeling the horror of how far my deception had gone.
Despite the scare on the beach, the trip gave me a time of rebonding with my dad. Our time together seemed to make way for some trust to be recovered, a new start for Dad and me. I decided to take advantage of that re-earned trust and ride on that wave when we returned so I snuck out to see Jaye more often. The more I saw him, the more the obsession grew. There was nothing I could do to get free of it—especially now that I was carrying his baby. When we were together, it often ended in fights, and more times than not, I’d be crying in public places. The fear of losing him, combined with my physical fatigue, was heightening my sensitivity to where his eyes wandered. Every woman with an hourglass figure who walked by became an immediate threat.
All day long, he was on my mind; the safety of the baby, never. I was so nervous all the time that I barely ate and I couldn’t sleep. I kept telling myself, It will all just work out—my way of dismissing the fact that my due date was drawing near. I looked at my pregnancy as I would a common cold that would eventually go away. My parents could have really thought that things were turning around and that they were getting their daughter back, yet it was completely a ruse. Now entering the final trimester of pregnancy, I was becoming masterful at conning my parents and everyone around me.
At home and even at church, I noticed Mom starting to look at me in ways that made me wonder if she knew. If I saw her eyes scan me, I would suck in my belly and put on an extra layer of clothing, even though spring had begun and the temperatures were climbing. Those looks became more and more frequent, and I decided that I had better avoid her as much as possible. Even if she suspects something, she’ll dismiss the idea because of how crazy it is.
It was a typical Sunday in early April when I ran across Flatbush Avenue, rushing back to church from Jaye’s house, where I had spent the last several hours while Dad and Mom were in the early services. I dodged the moving traffic, focused on getting through the doors and slipping into the building unnoticed, before the third service ended. Figuring it would be best to avoid the balcony, I sat on the main level so that my parents hopefully would see me. As soon as I slipped into my seat, I could feel it—God’s presence was so strong and evident in the room, it was undeniable.
Dad had the microphone in his hand and his eyes closed, while Mom took her place to direct the choir. I wondered what had been going on since the service started, because it seemed like there was a cloud over all of us. When I heard the intro to the song, I recognized it and knew that I had better brace myself to reject what was about to happen. As I slid down in my seat, the choir began to sing . . .
Jesus, He’ll meet you where you are
Jesus, He heals your secret scars
All the love you’re longing for is Jesus
The friend of a wounded heart.
As they belted out the final notes, the congregation stood and let out shouts of praise and applause to God. Dad then took the microphone and gently said, “I ask that everyone remain standing for a moment because I believe that God is already speaking to some people today. We don’t have to wait for the end of the service to respond to God. If you felt the Lord reaching out to you today while the choir was singing and you need healing for your heart, I ask you to make your way to the altar, and we’re going to pray for you.”
A girl in the section to my right burst into tears and walked down with a tissue over her face, while dozens of people started coming down from the balcony. The area in front of the altar was so full that the aisles began to fill up with people intensely reaching out to God. Choir members came down from the choir loft and helped Dad pray. As the sounds of passionate prayers filled the room, I just stood there. I felt the pull on my heart as well, but I couldn’t risk dealing with what I stood to lose if I gave in to God. Instead, I chose to remain a bystander at that moment, although I knew my heart had to be in the worst shape of anyone’s in that room.
A few weeks later, I was talking to someone in the church lobby after the service when Mom’s secretary tapped me on the shoulder. “Chrissy, your mom asked me to come get you. She’s in the office.”
“Okay, tell her I’ll be there in a minute. I turned back to wrap up my conversation with the woman who had known me since I was a little girl, who was relentlessly inquiring whether or not I was still playing the piano. “So anyway, yeah, I’m not sure what I’m going to do next, but I still love fashion.” As she went to hug me, I made it a short and quick side hug. I exited the lobby through a side door and walked around the building so I could avoid running into anyone else.
When I entered the office area, I asked the receptionist, “Do you know where my mom is?”
“She’s in that office,” she said, pointing to the door next to my dad’s office.
I walked in, and Mom was sitting there alone. The vibe in the room felt strange to me as Mom told me to sit down.
At first her voice was strong. “Chris, I need to ask you something.” I could see that she was very shaky as she went on, and then her voice began to crack. “Chris . . . are you pregnant?”
I looked at the woman I had admired my entire life, who had always been the image of strength and beauty. Her shoulders were hunched over as if she’d lost all her strength. Beneath the beautiful clothes, she seemed fragile and almost broken.
In that moment, my world stopped, the breath knocked out of me. The fantasy I had created was shattered, and a million thoughts shot across my mind like a machine gun. Their grandchild . . . I lied while I was living in their house all this time . . . Where will I go now? . . . What will the church say? I can’t admit this . . . I can’t hurt Mom like this . . . What will Jaye do? I trembled, trying to think of a way out of answering her question. But all that came out was the shocking truth: “Yes, Mommy.”
Her eyes welled up with tears and as one ran down her cheek, she asked, “How far along are you, Chrissy?”
Dropping my head, I answered, “I’m due in eight weeks.”
I HEARD THE PACING OF FEET above my basement bedroom. It went on intermittently throughout the night—1 a.m., 2:30, 3:45 . . . I couldn’t sleep either, which wasn’t unusual for me, except tonight I hoped that when I finally did fall asleep, I would never wake up again. I stared into the darkness, feeling like a stranger in my own bedroom.
After a silent ride home from church, gloom followed us into the house like an unwanted visitor. The look on my dad’s face was unbearable for me to see; he couldn’t bring himself to look me in the eyes. Mom was devastated too, yet I got the impression that she wanted to come with me to my room. But instead, she glanced at me from the staircase, her expression suggesting that she wished she could say more.
I must have finally drifted off, because the soft knock on my door and Dad’s voice—“Chris?”—startled me out of a deep sleep. I squinted at the clock: 11 a.m.
“Come in,” I croaked hoarsely.
Dad stuck his head in. “Come upstairs when you can. Mom and I are in the living room and want to talk to you.”
“Okay, give me a minute.” He stared at me, then averted his eyes and quietly pulled the door shut.
As I swung my legs off the bed, a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over me. I took slow, deliberate steps to the bathroom sink, leaned over, and took a sip of water from the faucet before heading upstairs. As I opened the basement door into the kitchen, the atmosphere I felt in that empty kitchen was contrary to what I had always known.
When I walked into the living room, I found my parents just sitting there . . . waiting. Dad had been clutching his forehead with his hand but slowly lowered it to rest on the arm of the couch. He lifted his head and looked into my eyes. His eyes were red, like he had been crying a lot. I shifte
d my eyes quickly to Mom and noticed the utter exhaustion on her beautiful face.
She seemed to be studying me, reaching down deeply, trying to understand. Her gaze followed me as I made my way to the closest chair. Feeling weak and still dizzy, I slowly sat down. Even though I sensed that Mom wanted to be close to me, she moved closer to Dad with her hands in her lap.
Dad sighed heavily. “Chrissy, you know how much your mom and I love you, don’t you?” His words opened a floodgate, and they both began to cry.
“Yes,” I responded sullenly.
“Our hearts are broken, and we just don’t know what to do. We have done everything, tried everything. But Chrissy, the bottom line is that you have to decide what you want to do with your life now, because as far as we’re concerned, you don’t want help, you only want to tell us lies.”
The blood rushed to my face. Steeling myself against whatever else they had to say, I braced for their decision.
“You know you’re not the first girl in the church who’s gotten pregnant,” Dad said. “The pregnancy is not the huge problem we face. The problem is that our daughter, whom we don’t recognize anymore, has become a compulsive liar and is obsessed with a relationship that’s destroying her.”
“Dad, it’s not that . . . You don’t understand.”
“Well, help me to understand, Chrissy. You love this guy and he loves you?”
“Yes,” I insisted, dropping my head.
“And you’re carrying his baby? Well, where is he? Why isn’t he taking any responsibility?”
I shouted back in my mind, You don’t know WHAT you’re talking about!
Dad continued, “Your life has become nothing else but sneaking around with him. You gave up college . . . you’ve given up your church, the people who love you . . . and you’ve been hiding in your own house with a life inside of you.”
Girl in the Song Page 12
