Girls on the Verge

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  I go into the bathroom and start packing my stuff. Like a robot, I brush my hair. My eyes are bloodshot from crying and lack of sleep.

  I take out my phone.

  Hi Mom. Call when you get a chance?

  I dial the Houston clinic.

  “Hi, this is Camille Winchester. I was in there last week for my first appointment. I had an appointment for this Monday, but I had to cancel it. Is it still available?”

  “Camille Winchester?” I can hear the woman typing on her computer. “Oh yes. You had your sonogram with Dr. Esperanza. I’m afraid that space is no longer available. I can get you in on her first appointment in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? Isn’t there anything earlier with another doctor?”

  “I’m so sorry, but Dr. Esperanza has to do the procedure, or else you’ll have to start over with another doctor. How many weeks pregnant are you?”

  “Eleven,” I say. “The procedure costs more after twelve weeks, right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  I swallow. “Um, how much?”

  “The price doubles, I’m afraid. And it’s a more complicated procedure. Have you tried New Mexico? There are no age restrictions or waiting periods there.”

  “No. I didn’t know about New Mexico. I didn’t know they did that.”

  “Give me your email address and I’ll send you a list.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I run out of the bathroom. “New Mexico,” I say. I grab my shorts and tank top and pull them on. I search around the room for my phone charger.

  “What about it?” Bea says.

  “There are no restrictions. No parental permission, no waiting period. Annabelle, can we—”

  “Let’s do it.” Annabelle stands up and starts getting her stuff together.

  Bea looks at her phone. “Albuquerque is fourteen hours from here,” she says. “That’s really far. I don’t think…”

  I grab the pizza box out of the trash and copy the clinic phone numbers down on it.

  Annabelle and I start calling. But each clinic we call is slammed, and each receptionist says the same thing—they are booked with women from Texas.

  “I’m looking for an appointment for an abortion,” Annabelle says to the third or fourth clinic on her list. She shoots me a thumbs-up. “Yeah,” she says to the woman on the phone. “We can do that.” She scribbles a date onto the pizza box. She hands the phone to me. “She has some questions for you.”

  My phone buzzes with another phone call coming through. Mom flashes on the screen, and I send her call to voice mail.

  I make the appointment for July fifth and hang up the phone. I have enough money. I can do this on my own, just like I wanted to all along.

  “Next stop, New Mexico, ladies,” Annabelle says. She shoulders her tote bag. “Let’s go.”

  We get in Buzzi and leave Alamo, head north onto the highway, toward New Mexico.

  My phone dings. It’s my mom. I tried to call you. Everything okay?

  I pause, my fingers hovering over the keys. For just a second I think about calling her and telling her where we are going and why. But when I imagine her voice on the phone, and how she pauses after she hears something she doesn’t like, dread washes over me. I can’t do it.

  Yep! Just wanted to say hi. So … HIIII.

  :) Hope you’re having fun.

  Thanks Mom.

  * * *

  Annabelle insists she can drive straight through, but Bea and I veto that and decide on ten hours, max. We call ahead to get a motel for tonight to avoid repeating another Boobie Bungalow bungle.

  Ten hours doesn’t seem that long on the face of it. You can binge-watch a series in ten hours and barely notice. Play practice can last that long. You can sleep for ten hours and wake up feeling really good. But ten hours driving in a car is another thing altogether. Especially for Annabelle, who has to sit in the same position hour after hour. “I’m used to it,” she claims. “From flying international. You hunker down and accept your fate.”

  Bea wants me to sit in the back where I can stretch out and rest, but I want to ride shotgun where the view is better. Where I can see every mile sign, every truck stop, and every billboard as it vanishes behind us.

  “I can’t believe we have to drive all the way to New Mexico,” I say. “Texas is a joke.”

  “This should have been over and done with for you already, and it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that you have to miss out on your future because of one mistake you made in the past. I am so sick of old white dudes telling us what we can and can’t do with our bodies. It feels as if I need written permission to live every morning. There shouldn’t be a question of who is qualified to make a decision about your body. I was a volunteer escort at the clinic in Victorville before it closed, and you wouldn’t believe what the women went through. The protesters, first of all. It’s beyond scary and humiliating to have to run through a gauntlet of dickheads screaming at you.

  “Most of the women at our clinic were low income, mostly African American and Latina, scraping up six hundred bucks for the procedures from God knows where, plus taking time off work, which had to cost them more money. Once our clinic got a bomb threat, so that meant we had to evacuate the clinic, and none of the procedures got done that day. Texas doesn’t give two shits about women or the babies they force them to have.” Annabelle is talking really loudly. I lower my visor, and in the mirror, I see Bea. She’s very pointedly looking at her phone, clearly trying to ignore Annabelle. “Fucking hypocrites. You went to the clinic in Houston, right, Camille?”

  At that, Bea glances up, and she and I make eye contact.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  JUNE 26

  A line of people stand in front of Planned Parenthood holding signs and pictures of aborted fetuses. Some are holding rosaries, their heads bowed.

  I make the mistake of looking at one of the protestors, a man about my father’s age. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says ABORTION IS MURDER.

  He holds out a pamphlet. “Jesus loves you, and he doesn’t want you to have an abortion. He’s given you this child as a gift.”

  I ignore him and grip the strap of my bag. My heart starts to beat hard, and I want to run away.

  Two clinic volunteers dressed in bright pink vests stand between the protesters and me. But that doesn’t stop them from yelling at me. “The devil has you in his grasp,” one of them shouts. “Those women are his handmaids!”

  “Don’t worry about them,” an escort with long braids says. “They’re here all the time.”

  “Don’t let them intimidate you,” another volunteer says.

  Too late.

  * * *

  I check in, and the receptionist hands me a clipboard with paperwork to fill out. I find a seat toward the back and sit down, tucking my purse under the chair. The girl next to me is talking to her boyfriend, something about getting a pizza tonight. He puts his arm around her and kisses the top of her head.

  I look away before they notice me staring.

  I fill out the paperwork as fast as I can, worried the nurse will call my name before I’m done. My pen pauses over one question: How many sexual partners have you had? I look around the room, wondering how many sexual partners all these people have had.

  I hate that phrase sexual partners. It sounds like something from the sixties, like the word lover. I’m not sure Dean qualifies as a sexual partner, because it only happened once. I write in the number one, cross it out, and then write in one again with a question mark next to it.

  I watch patients come into the clinic. Some walk in with their arms crossed tight over their bodies, staring down at the ground like they want to make themselves as small as they can. Some come in defiant, their jaws set and a determined look in their eyes. Most of the women are accompanied by other women, though a few are with guys; one trails behind his girlfriend, his expression sheepish, holding a wad of money in his hand.

  People come out of the cl
inic door clutching small cans of ginger ale and white prescription drug envelopes. Some are crying; some look relieved. Others come out nonchalant, and I have to guess those are the ones here for birth control and not abortions.

  Finally, my name is called. The nurse takes me down a hall, and we do the weigh-in—I’ve gained two more pounds—blood pressure, and temperature thing.

  She hands me a plastic cup, and I go into the bathroom and pee in it. I leave it on a little shelf in the bathroom where she told me to, wash my hands, and leave. I feel sorry for the person who has to test those pee cups day in and day out. It must be the grossest job.

  Another nurse takes me into a room and has me undress from the waist down. This time I leave on my socks. I hide my underwear inside my jeans pocket.

  I sit on the crinkly paper and wrap the paper sheet around me. I wait. The longer I wait, the more nervous I get. I think about the crisis center, and how they made me wait on purpose. I know this is Planned Parenthood and they wouldn’t do that, but I can’t convince my body. My hands start to sweat and my heart starts in with that pounding.

  There’s a knock on the door, and a woman in a lab coat comes in. She’s reading my file and closes the door with her foot.

  She sits on a rolling chair. “Hi, Camille,” she says. She holds out her hand and I shake it. “I’m Dr. Esperanza.” She wades in right away. “So you probably already know that you’re pregnant, and the test does confirm that. You’re trying for a judicial bypass?”

  “Yes, I’ve already met with the lawyer Jane’s Due Process got for me.”

  “Okay, so this will be our first appointment together, which will include the Texas-mandated counseling and ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy. Your second will be the actual procedure. Now, have you thought of all your options?”

  “I don’t want to have it,” I say quickly, firmly. “I don’t want to talk about my choices. I mean, if that’s okay.” I try to look Dr. Esperanza in the eye, but I can’t. I’m not like those defiant girls in the waiting room. I try to sit up. I try to pretend I am.

  She hands me a pink booklet called A Woman’s Right to Know. “Texas law requires me to present this to you, but I can tell you that it isn’t accurate. For instance, the side effects of abortion that they name are the same ones as being pregnant. Look it over because the judge might ask you questions to check you’ve read it, and then make sure you keep it for your court file.”

  “Okay,” I say, my voice shaking. “Did I fill out the paperwork correctly? I mean, I didn’t know what to put for birth control or for that question about sexual partners. I’ve only been with one guy.” I swallow. “Man, I mean. He’s not my partner.” Stop talking, Camille!

  “Of course,” she says. “Go ahead and lie back, and we’ll get started.”

  The ultrasound is the exact same thing they did at the crisis center so I know what’s coming—the cold, hard probe covered in goo. But I’m having a harder time putting it in. It’s like my insides have clenched up.

  Dr. Esperanza sets her hand on my shoulder, her face kind. “It will be better if you relax. I know that’s easier said than done.”

  I finally get it in, and Dr. Esperanza takes hold of the handle. Dr. Esperanza is gentle, and I don’t feel it sweeping around as much as I did at the crisis center.

  “Okay, Camille,” says Dr. Esperanza, looking at the screen. “I’m required by Texas law to describe what I see. You don’t have to respond. By the measurement from head to rump the fetus is about eleven weeks along, and about an inch and a half in size. I’m going to turn the screen toward you, but it’s up to you if you want to look at it.”

  She turns the screen, and I keep looking at the ceiling. I hear the squeak of the screen as she turns it back toward her and then the hum of the printer. She takes the ultrasound picture and puts it into my file. I remove the probe and take the cloth she hands me. She holds out her hand and helps me sit up. The paper crunches as I scoot back on the table.

  “Any questions for me?” she asks.

  “Will the abortion hurt?”

  “It can be uncomfortable with cramping and bleeding, but we’ll prescribe pain medication to make it easier for you.”

  Suddenly I don’t care if the abortion hurts or not. I want this over and done with. I’m sick of thinking about it. I’m sick of it taking over. I want everything back the way it was. I want to stop thinking about what will happen if I let this continue.

  TWENTY-SIX

  JULY 2

  The billboards continue to zip by out the window.

  “I had to face the protesters again when I left, but otherwise, the experience wasn’t too bad.” I turn to look at Bea, who wipes away a tear. Everything that has happened in this car, everything I’ve told her, is so beyond her comprehension. Not that I’m some expert. But up to this point, the biggest problem she and I have ever had to face is what monologue to use for our auditions. I give her knee a gentle squeeze and turn back around. I start to think about this pregnant girl in my school, Gina Silvestri. She’d walk through the hallways, her book bag pulling her shoulder down, her top pulled tight over her bulging stomach. But her shirts were never long enough, so you could see the naked bottom of her baby bump.

  “Do you remember Gina Silvestri?” I ask Annabelle.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I do,” Bea says. “I had English lit with her. She sat way in the back and hardly ever raised her hand.”

  “She had a baby last winter. Guys treated her like shit when she was pregnant, asking her what she was going to do now that she couldn’t go to college, and how did it feel to have the rest of your life ruined at sixteen; they were even calling her ‘baby mama.’ She’d pretend like she didn’t hear them, but her face would turn bright red. Sometimes she looked like she was going to cry. Some people didn’t look at her or talk to her. It was like her pregnancy would rub off on them if they did.”

  “I hate that school.” Annabelle turns the radio knob until she lands on a station.

  “I felt sorry for her,” Bea says.

  “Not everyone made fun of her, but no one defended her. Not even the teachers—they let it all happen.”

  Annabelle makes a face. “It’s, like, why bother helping someone who decided to make the world’s worst choice—the choice to get knocked up and display it for all the world to see? There’s no way to win. You’re a monster if you get an abortion, a slut if you had sex, a moron if you decide to keep the baby. God, she must have been so lonely.”

  “The boys, the ones who called her Juno—I know for a fact that they’d all done it. But who are the ones who get shamed? Not them.”

  “I know,” Annabelle says.

  “I should have defended her,” I say. I lean my head against the dirty window. It’s cold from the AC, and I can feel the road vibrating through the glass.

  “You didn’t know her, Camille,” Bea says. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t defend her, either.”

  “Still,” I say. I decide then and there that I won’t let a bunch of assholes bully a girl like Gina again. I imagine me in Annabelle’s Wendy shirt, stomping up to the boys and getting right in their faces, not caring if they’re embarrassed or humiliated, or whatever. I won’t care if they decide to take their revenge on me either because after what’s happened this summer, I can take it. And what’s more, I won’t give a single fuck.

  “Did she keep the baby or put it up for adoption?” Annabelle asks.

  “She kept it,” Bea says. “A girl. Her family moved away right after.”

  “What do you think it feels like to be pregnant?” I ask Annabelle. “I mean, not when it’s early. Like … later, when you can feel the baby kick and all that?”

  “Awful,” Annabelle says. “I don’t want to have kids. I bet it feels like your body’s been hijacked.”

  “I bet it feels magical,” Bea says. “To think you can make another person inside your own body. I can’t wait to have kids. I’ll have a doze
n if I can afford it.”

  “How about you, Camille?” Annabelle looks at me. “Do you think you’ll have children someday?”

  I don’t reply right away because I don’t have an answer. “I’m not sure,” I finally say. “I suppose I should know, especially now, but I just don’t.”

  * * *

  We only stop for bathroom breaks and to grab coffee and Sprite and Dunkaroos when we see them. After exactly ten hours driving, we force Annabelle to stop at our motel. We have dinner at the restaurant across the street, and then fall into bed, exhausted.

  We wake up as soon as the sun rises, still groggy with sleep. We use the shower and have the free breakfast in the lobby—cornflakes in foam cups and cold bagels with a square of fake cream cheese on top. We chase it all down with tiny cups of orange juice. Bea watches while Annabelle gets her three morning coffees in.

  We’re halfway to the car when Annabelle’s phone rings. She pulls it out of her pocket, looks at it, and stops in her tracks. The bag filled with our lunch—granola bars, sodas, and cheese sticks—drops from her hand.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She ignores me and answers her phone. “Hello? Yes, this is her. Okay. Um…” She glances at us. “Hold on.” Annabelle hands me the keys and walks away, leaving the bag on the ground. I pick it up and walk to Buzzi.

  “What do you think is going on?” Bea asks.

  I shrug.

  Annabelle stares at a field filled with several oil derricks, their tops pumping up and down. She nods and walks back and forth along the field in a tight line, scrubbing at her eyes. A minute later, she hangs up and sits on the dusty ground cross-legged. Her shoulders are shaking. I can hear her crying.

  I start to walk over to her, but then I stop. Bea looks at me, concerned.

  “She’s crying,” I say. “I don’t know what to do.”