He threw my hand away, no longer being the gentleman to help me out of my seat. He jumped out of his seat. Threw the napkin he had been twisting and rolling onto the table. He hollered in my face, “IT…IS...NOT…MY...BABY,” and stormed out the front door. The tinkering of the restaurant’s doorbell turned into one single dud. Everyone in the restaurant looked at me. Left in the seat. Head hanging down. Crying uncontrollably. Like a two-year-old needing a nap.
Isabella’s Flutter
* * *
Embossed on the gold sign outside the wooden door were the words, “Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center.” I asked the receptionist if I could speak to Joyce. The petite brunette sitting at the front desk frowned. I explained that I spoke to Joyce early the other morning and she had encouraged me to come to the office. The receptionist explained that Joyce was one of the volunteers who worked the Helpline not in the office.
She politely asked me to have a seat in the very small waiting area. I didn’t think they received many visitors. There were only enough chairs for six people. There were two seats left. One for me and I guess the other was supposed to be for Carlos. She explained that Annie would be my guide through the next step.
I rolled my eyes. Took the paper she gave me to complete and sat in the chair. I did not want to start all over again with someone new. I wanted Joyce. She knew me. Understood me. Helped me.
I finally told Carlos about the faint second line on the pregnancy test. I had to tell him something. He was the only person who could give me money to catch the bus to Geneva. Unfortunately, I had to go by myself because he had to work. If I was pregnant, he was going to need a whole lot of money.
Annie struggled to push the heavy waiting room door open. She held her clipboard and looked over her glasses. “Hernandez,” she inquired.
I popped up like popcorn. Of course she was talking to me. I was the only one left in the waiting room. Everyone else had gone behind the heavy door. Into the abyss. A couple. A mother and daughter, I suspect. Each one walked passed me with their heads hung down. The mother stared at me as if she could see right through the core of my entire sixteen years. I looked away. Sheepish. Ashamed. Perplexed. Frustrated.
I followed Annie down the long hall to a room. I was looking for an examination room similar to the one at the pediatrician’s office. Long, white paper. Small pillow to rest my head. Short table that the nurse pulled out the bottom to make long so my legs would not dangle. I did not see that in the room Annie led me to.
The walls were painted a mint green with inspirational quotes on them. “I can do all things through Christ that strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). “We are more than conquerors through him that loved us” (Romans 8:37).
Water fountains on the end tables. Sounds of water trickling over the rocks reminded me of Richland Creek where Carlos and I would sometimes chill.
Warm. Cozy. Peacefulness surrounded me. Nervousness was inside of me. Alone. I felt all alone. On an island. All by myself.
Annie sat in a huge, brown, leather-like chair. She was a round woman. The chair did not envelop her. My small stature left room for three more people to sit beside me. I needed three more people beside me. Or at least one. Carlos.
Annie looked me in my eyes and held my hands. Comforting. Tears rolled down my face. I held my head down. Embarrassed. She let me have my moment then asked why I was crying.
I opened my mouth. Nothing. No words came out. Not even a mutter. I took a deep breath. Looked at the quotes on the wall. Found strength and opened my mouth again.
“I am scared, I think I am pregnant, I am sixteen years old, My mom nor my dad knows, I can’t carry a baby home.” The words came out in a rush. Strung together like a never ending run-on sentence. More tears. Disdain.
Annie listened. She never cut me off. Never let go of my hands. In between the silence, I heard water trickling. She began to whisper.
“God loves you. You are not alone. I am here for you. We will get through this. Together.”
She grabbed a book from the coffee table. Turned to the page where a yellow tab was sticking up. Read a paragraph. Left the room, promising to return shortly.
Annie returned with her tan, wooden clipboard. A few sheets of paper were affixed. She asked permission to ask me a few questions and informed me that she would be writing my answers on the paper.
“Take your time, Isabella. You only have to answer the questions you feel comfortable answering. I am just trying to get to know you better and see what resources we will be able to provide that will help you along the way.
What is your date of birth?
When was your last period?
How did you hear about us?”
All of the answers that I should know off the top of my head did not readily come to me. I had to think before responding. I did not want to give the wrong answer. No confusion. No confusion for me.
No confusion for Annie. So nervous. So drained. So worried.
I was born in April sixteen years ago. That was easy to remember.
Last period? Last period was a couple of months ago.
Who remembers this stuff anyway? I closed my eyes hoping the date would pop into my mind. Mind all over the place. I came up with a date that was my best guess.
“Are you using any contraceptives?”
“Contraceptives?”
“Yes, contraceptives. What are you doing to prevent pregnancy? Birth control pills? NuvaRing? Mirena?”
I held my head down. Nothing. Nothing but condoms. Rubber balloons.
I expected Annie’s facial expression to show judgment, but there was no sign of that at all.
We had talked about birth control in my fifth-grade sex education class. My pediatrician never talked about it. Mom only brought it up when she would tell me no baby was coming into the house.
Carlos always wore condoms.
“Are you a victim of sexual abuse?”
Weird.
I had never experienced sexual abuse, but I squirmed because the question reminded me of my cousin Camila. She was raped on her college campus in Nevada.
I overheard Mom and Aunt Luciana talking about it. At a party. She had a drink, given to her by a friend. Remembered nothing but waking up with no panties on in a dark bedroom that was not her own. Her virginity was taken.
“No…No sexual abuse.”
Annie asked a few more questions before explaining the pregnancy test process. She gave me a form to read over and sign.
I wanted to run out of the room.
I went to the bathroom and followed the procedures given by Annie. I was a pro after taking a test in the grocery store bathroom. This bathroom was larger.
Annie came back to the room with the clipboard in her hands. She placed the clipboard on the end table next to the water fountain. She held my hands. Looked in my eyes and spoke very slowly.
You...are…pregnant.
Tears rolled down my face. She asked permission to hug me. I nodded. She held me in her arms. I rested my head on her shoulders. She rocked me. I cried.
Pregnant? How could I be pregnant? High school junior. Exams. SATs. ACTs. College applications. England. Pregnant. Baby. This was too much.
Carlos would take care of me and the baby. He had graduated high school. He had a job. We could get married. Get an apartment. Raise our baby. Together.
Annie encouraged me to schedule an appointment with a doctor and provided resources that would help me. She invited me back to the Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center for an ultrasound to see how far along I was. I declined to do it while I was there. The news, alone, was too much.
I left Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center with the bus ticket they gave me and a lot on my mind. Dazed. Clueless as to how I arrived back home. Mom was going to kill me.
I laid across my bed, patiently waiting for Carlos to call so I could tell him the news. He was going to be a father. Padre. Daddy.
My eyes darted from one wall to the next, as if the images in my view would
change. I didn’t know what to do. What to think. How to feel. What to say. I tossed and turned. Tried to block it all out of my mind.
Carlos finally called.
There was no need to waste time. No fluffy conversations. Two words. I had been planning for this moment all afternoon.
I’m pregnant.
Heather’s Flutter
* * *
Every day, Mommy asked me if my period started. Every day, I hung my head and shook from left to right.
I could not make eye contact with her. I just knew she would be able to see that I had been sexually active. Not at all my choice. But it did not matter. Sex was sex. I did not want to disappoint her with that news.
Mommy never took time off from work. But the next day she did. There were no questions about my period. She told me to get in the car. No clue where we were going. We had not been in the car together in at least three weeks. She did not want to be bothered with me. Like my very presence in her car tainted the atmosphere.
Three weeks had passed since Robert came into my bedroom to do any of the nasty things he had done for the past two years.
We arrived at a tall, brick building with at least six floors. We walked in. Mommy looked on the wall to see what floor we needed then pushed the elevator button.
I stood beside her. Eyes danced around. Before I could read all of the names on the board, Mommy rushed me toward the elevator door. Where were we going? What was happening? Why were we there?
We walked into a suite on the fourth floor, and it all became clear. We were at the crisis pregnancy center Aunt Helen had recommended. The walking encyclopedia. She was known for trying to help Mommy.
Mommy talked to the lady at the front desk. I sat in the waiting room, perusing pamphlets and magazines from the short, wooden table to my left. Mommy still never said anything to me. Within minutes, a lady came to the waiting room door and called my name.
Mommy placed her hands on my shoulders and gave me a slight push. I remained in my seat while she walked toward the lady.
Mommy and the lady went behind the closed wood-grain door. Two squares at the top. Two rectangles in the middle. Two squares at the bottom. I sat there. I looked left. I looked right. I stared at the door. Then I went back to perusing the pamphlets.
Mommy returned. Nudged me to greet the lady patiently waiting for me. I looked back at Mommy as I walked toward the door. She sat in the burgundy, leather, antique chair with her black pocketbook folded over her arms. She was fidgeting in her seat but never looked up at me.
The lady, a volunteer counselor at the center, gave me a smile. She placed a hand on my shoulder and motioned me toward the nearest room.
She entered the room with me and closed the door behind us. She began talking to me. I could hear her, but I could not make out what she was saying. I had zoned out.
In my mind, I was hoping this would be the day Mommy found out Robert had been molesting me. I wondered how she would handle the news. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her. These thoughts running through my head made me cry.
The counselor moved from sitting in front of me to sitting beside me. She rubbed my back and asked if I wanted to talk about it. I shook my head. No, I didn’t want to talk about what had been happening to me for years. Nobody knew but me, Robert, and Jack.
Was this the right time for Mommy to find out? Would this be the day? Shaking my legs to calm myself. Robert promised he would kill me, Mommy, Dustin, and Aunt Helen if I ever told anyone.
Robert made Mommy happy. She stopped crying when he came into our lives. I did not want to make her cry. I did not want us to die.
I sat in that room. With a stranger. Crying uncontrollably. Holding the secret in. Hoping that it would go away just like my fantasies about Daddy.
The counselor kept staring at me. The wrinkles in her forehead caused her eyebrows to touch. She kept saying, “It’s going to be okay.” She kept rubbing my back as if she didn’t know what else to do. I could not keep it together long enough to help her help me.
After a period of time, she stood to leave. My crying slowed. She promised to be back shortly. My heart raced. Was she going to bring Mommy back to the room to help me stop crying?
I sat there in silence. Rolling my thumbs around each other, constantly looking at the door. Listening to the clock on the wall. Tick tock.
All the things Robert had done to me ran through my head. I wanted to be free from it all. Robert did not have to kill me, Mommy, Dustin, or Aunt Helen. I could just kill myself. Save him the trouble.
After a few minutes, my counselor returned with a cup of water. I needed it. My throat was dry. Pasty dry. I kept moving my tongue around in my mouth hoping the saliva would quench my thirst.
There was too much going through my mind. Too many tears had been shed. The water helped me get it together. I felt much better. Time alone and a drink of water was the key.
I wanted to get the pregnancy test over. I took a deep breath, clinched my hands, stood up straight as an arrow, and walked toward the bathroom my counselor directed me to.
I replayed the instructions for taking the pregnancy test in my head. I ran water in the sink. I eased my pants down. Screwed the blue lid off the plastic cup. Placed it under my bottom as close to my vagina as I could get it.
I waited. Waited. And waited. Pee trickled into the cup. More and more pee flowed. I had a cup of pee so they could do the fucking pregnancy test. How the hell was this happening to me? SHIT.
The counselor was waiting outside the door. She told me to leave the cup on the back of the toilet for a nurse to retrieve.
When I opened the bathroom door, she smiled and asked if I was okay. I nodded my head. She walked me back to the counseling room, returning to the same questions she initially tried to ask before I started crying.
I looked at her. Tears welled up in my eyes. One dropped and stained my pink t-shirt but the avalanche did not come as it had before.
A peace came over me. I knew this was the moment I could speak my truth. No more hiding. The pregnancy test was going to reveal the truth.
I told the counselor everything. Begged her to call the police because Robert said he would kill us. Told her about the one night he brought a knife to my bedroom and laid it on the end table.
I heard the metal cling against the base of the lamp. I stared at it the entire time he was on top of me. Forcing his penis into my vagina as I slightly closed my legs to create a barrier.
As I shared those stories with my counselor, I was relieved. She understood me. I think. I did not know if she had experienced this herself or had heard stories like mine before. She did not flinch. The more I told her, the more she gazed into my brown eyes. Giving me her undivided attention. Attention I had never experienced from a woman before.
After I opened my heart, my counselor told me about how much God loved me. She said, although I may have felt alone during those tumultuous times, He was right there and had never left me alone.
Someone tapped on the counseling room door and handed my counselor a piece of paper. The counselor asked if I was ready to find out the results of the pregnancy test. I closed my eyes. Paused for a moment then nodded my head.
I already knew. Robert never wore condoms. I had missed my period. I was at a crisis pregnancy center. Of course I was pregnant.
The counselor sat beside me. “Heather, you…are…pregnant.”
I sat there. Dazed. My eyes welled up again. Tears rolled down my cheek. Another one dropped to my neck. I stared at the wall, listening to the tick tock of the clock. I was so out of it, I did not realize my counselor had left the room. I was motionless.
A baby? Not under these circumstances. What would I tell Mommy? What would Robert do to us? Was my counselor calling the police?
I really wanted to talk to Jack. I knew he would help me process all of this. He was always there to lend an ear.
I opened the door to the room and looked around to see if my counselor was nearby. She cam
e around the corner, and I asked for Mommy. I needed to talk to her while others were around. On the ride home was not ideal.
I waited for her to join me. What would I say? Would she believe me? Robert was too nice. She would not believe me. I had hoped that Robert would one day realize how he was hurting me and Mommy.
Mommy entered the room with a frown on her face, clutching her black pocketbook to her stomach. I stood. “Mommy, I am pregnant.” I whispered the words. I could not say them any louder than that.
She smacked me. My eyes were already puffy from all of the tears I had shed. The sting I felt from Mommy’s hand hitting my face was unbearable. I held my stinging face.
“What are you going to do with a baby? What were you thinking about having sex with no protection? What were you thinking having sex at all? I told you to leave that boy alone. You both should be ashamed of yourselves.” Mommy’s questions came at me like a machine gun, rapid and steady.
“IT’S ROBERT’S BABY,” I blurted out. She smacked the other side of my face. Told me to never say that again. I held both hands up to my face and yelled again. “IT’S ROBERT’S BABY! HE RAPED ME!”
…and
the
journey
continues…
Metamorphosis
They say I’m having a baby.
That is not the news I expected to hear today.
I will persevere through every test
Despite the many obstacles in my way.
I am more than a conqueror;
No matter what statistics or society may say.
In all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. Romans 8:37 (KJV)
Section IV
The Butterfly
The butterfly emerges from the chrysalis, not quite ready to fly. Even you are not immediately ready to spread your wings after you emerge from a situation. Yes, you have gone through the infant, ugly, and hidden stages but, like the butterfly, you need time to rest and process it all.
The Metamorphic Journey Page 4
