The Choice

by Robert Whitlow

  “Ms. Ramsey says the doctor in Atlanta will not cost any money.”

  “Oh,” Sandy said, then had an idea. “Does your father have health insurance that pays for you to go to the doctor through his work?”

  Maria opened her backpack and took out a brown leather wallet with the stitching coming loose. She handed Sandy a ragged yellow card.

  “Yes,” Sandy said. “This proves that you have health insurance and can probably see a doctor in Rutland. Atlanta is a long way to travel for prenatal care.”

  “Prenatal care?” Maria asked slowly.

  “A doctor to help until the baby is born.”

  Sandy handed the insurance card back to Maria.

  “Did you show Ms. Ramsey this card?”

  “No, she didn’t ask me for it.”

  “I think you should let Ms. Ramsey see the card and tell her you’d like to see a doctor in Rutland.”

  “Okay.”

  Maria sat silently. Sandy wished she could open the teenage girl’s mind, climb inside, and help her sort out her thoughts.

  “Is there anything else you want to talk to me about?” Sandy asked.

  “Ms. Ramsey says a woman from the police is going to ask me questions. Do I have to talk to the police if I do not want to?”

  Sandy was on shaky ground. She suspected Maria had the right to remain silent, but to do so might not be in the girl’s best interest.

  “Why are you afraid to talk to the police?”

  “I want to stay in school here.”

  The great unspoken threat of illegal immigration status hanging over the heads of many Hispanic students was now out in the open.

  “I see,” Sandy said. “Does your father have a green card?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what are you worried about—”

  Sandy stopped at the realization that Maria’s fear of the police might not be limited to deportation of herself and other family members. Something worse might be lurking in the darkness.

  “The police probably can’t make you talk to them,” Sandy said slowly. “But it might be good if you do.”

  Maria covered her face with her hands for a moment.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “When does Ms. Ramsey want you to talk to the police?”

  “I don’t know. Please tell her I can’t do it.”

  “Let me see if I can find out some answers for you.”

  Maria brightened a little bit. She glanced around the room.

  “Can I stay here until the end of school?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in your sixth-period class?”

  “Yes, but I cannot think about my schoolwork right now.”

  Sandy didn’t have the heart to make the girl walk in late to class and then waste her time staring out the window.

  “Okay, but just this once. You can’t do this again.”

  “Thank you.” Maria smiled shyly. “I feel happy and safe when I am in your room.”

  Sandy gave her a kind look. “I like to be with you too.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sandy spent much of her late-afternoon walk with Nelson praying for and thinking about Maria. The girl was still on Sandy’s mind later when she pulled into Ben and Betsy’s driveway.

  Her brother and his wife may not have bought a house on Millionaires’ Row, but the residence they purchased was far from a shanty. The large brick home was on a cul-de-sac in the middle of a tract of land that fanned out behind the house for more than five hundred feet. A wooded area was filled with wildlife: squirrels, raccoons, owls, pileated woodpeckers, and deer. When Sandy spent the night, she enjoyed getting up early in the morning to drink coffee in the sunroom as deer grazed at the edge of the woods.

  Sandy, Ben, and Jack Lincoln dutifully trudged through life with a strong sense of perfectionism inherited from their mother. Betsy married into the Lincoln family but didn’t adopt the same attitude toward life. Wisps of her brown hair were often out of place, and it wasn’t uncommon for a guest to have to move a partially read magazine or section of the newspaper from a chair before sitting down. The casual clutter of the house made Sandy’s mother’s jaw clench when she came to visit. Betsy didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, to care.

  Sandy rang the doorbell. Within seconds she heard the deep-throated bark of Ben’s dog, Ginger, a female Rottweiler with a huge head. Ben opened the door. He resembled their father in the prime of life before old age zapped his vitality.

  “Come in so Ginger can sniff you,” Ben said. “You could have brought Nelson.”

  Sandy entered the foyer. The dog sneezed on her foot.

  “The last time I brought Nelson for a play date he was traumatized for the next twenty-four hours,” she said. “Ginger can knock him over with one paw and hold him down on the floor while eating a bowl of dog food.”

  Finished with her inspection of Sandy, Ginger trotted over to a huge plaid dog bed and lay down. Her mouth opened in a massive yawn.

  “Betsy is in the kitchen,” Ben said.

  Sandy followed Ben through a wood-paneled den and into a large formal dining room. The shiny table in the dining room was covered with piles of used clothes.

  “What’s going on?” Sandy asked.

  “Those are going to Mexico. Betsy is sorting through everything that’s been donated. There are bags of shoes in the garage. A group from the church is going to take everything when they leave on a mission trip in a couple of weeks.”

  Ben and Betsy attended a large nondenominational church. Sandy occasionally visited the church, especially when her nephews were in a play or music program.

  The kitchen was beyond the dining room. Betsy, wearing an aqua-colored cotton top that was partially tucked into her jeans, stood at the stove with her back to them. She was barefoot. Her toenails were painted bright red.

  “Sandy, help!” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I feel like I’m making stone soup and no one has brought anything except the stone and a handful of turnips.”

  Sandy joined her at the stove. There was a wonderful aroma rising from the pot.

  “It smells great. Is that a chicken stock?”

  “Yes, but taste it.”

  Betsy handed a spoon to Sandy, who took a sip and licked her lips.

  “Add a few twists of white pepper and a dash or two of Tabasco sauce. It’s a good base; it just needs some kick.”

  “You do it,” Betsy said, stepping away from the stove. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

  Sandy knew her way around Betsy’s kitchen. She found the ingredients in a cupboard, added them to the pot, and stirred.

  “Try it now,” she said to Betsy, who was brewing iced tea.

  Betsy dipped her spoon in the pot and lifted it to her lips. A smile creased her face, making her green eyes shine.

  “That’s sublime. We’ll eat as soon as the corn bread comes out of the oven.”

  Betsy was from south Alabama and made the best corn bread on the planet. She baked it in miniature pans that yielded a dainty loaf for each person. Her corn bread was fluffy with a hint of sweetness. Mayonnaise was one of her secret ingredients.

  “That’s why I invited you over,” Ben said to Sandy from a chair in the breakfast nook where he was reading the local paper. “It’s the only way I’m guaranteed corn bread for supper.”

  “You get it every time the boys come home,” Betsy said.

  “Which isn’t enough,” Ben answered.

  “What do you hear from them?” Sandy asked.

  “Mark gets up at six every morning to beat the worst of Atlanta rush-hour traffic on his way to work,” Betsy said. “Robbie has trouble getting out of bed in time for a ten o’clock class.”

  “His time will come,” Ben said.

  They ate in the breakfast nook. Sandy’s youngest brother, Jack, lived in Chicago with his wife and two teenage daughters. Sandy and Ben had always been close, and since Sandy didn’t have a husband, Ben had slipped into the role of trusted male adv
iser. Betsy didn’t seem to mind sharing her husband with his older sister.

  “The pepper and Tabasco really helped the soup,” Betsy said after she ate a couple of bites.

  “But the corn bread is what makes the meal,” Ben said, cutting his second loaf in two. “Baby, you’re the reason God gave us cornmeal to eat.”

  “Speaking of babies, a pregnant student sought me out yesterday,” Sandy said before swallowing a spoonful of soup.

  “How old is she?” Betsy asked.

  “Barely sixteen. She’s from a Hispanic family and won’t identify the father of the child. Her mother was murdered in Mexico when she was just a little girl.”

  “How horrible! What are you going to do to help her?”

  “I’m not sure. And I’m concerned she might not get the best advice from one of the counselors at the school. I took her to the woman and got the feeling she wanted to cut me out of the loop.”

  “Take it up with Dr. Vale,” Ben said.

  Sandy shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. When he spoke to the faculty at the beginning of the year, he made it clear that the counselors are the ones to help students with serious personal problems. But this student has legal issues too. The police want to talk to her about the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy. She doesn’t want to say anything, and I’m not sure that’s what she ought to do. Do you think she should talk to an attorney?”

  Ben spread a thick pat of butter on a piece of corn bread.

  “Any lawyer would say yes,” he said, “but that’s self-serving. You could take her in to see Ralph Hartness.”

  “He writes wills,” Betsy interjected. “What would he know about pregnant teenage girls?”

  Ben took a bite of corn bread and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

  “I’ve met a sharp young lawyer in Tryon. I wrote a life insurance policy for him several years ago when he was in the district attorney’s office. Since then, he’s gone out on his own and seems to be doing well. He’s increased the amount of his insurance twice since he first took it out.”

  “Does he have a specialty?” Sandy asked.

  “I’m not sure, but he goes to court, and somebody as young as he is should still remember how to do research. Betsy’s right. Ralph Hartness probably never cracks a law book.”

  “I like the idea of meeting with someone who isn’t in Rutland,” Sandy said. “But I’m not sure how I’ll get the girl to Tryon.”

  “In your car,” Ben said, dipping his spoon in his soup bowl.

  “And don’t worry about getting in trouble with the school administration,” Betsy added. “You’ve been at the school forever, and everyone in Rutland thinks you’re fantastic. I don’t think Dr. Vale would cross you.”

  Sandy laughed. “I wish that were true, but the key to survival in the school system is learning how to not rock the boat. I teach my English classes, work hard with the cheerleaders, and tutor a few Spanish-speaking students. In those areas I’m bulletproof. Step outside of my bubble, and I could get my hand slapped, or worse.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take you on in a fight,” Ben said. “Do you remember the time you almost broke my arm when we were arm wrestling?”

  “That story gets taller every time you tell it,” Sandy replied with a smile. “What’s the name of the lawyer in Tryon? My student needs an answer fast.”

  “Jeremy Lane. If you like, I could call him for you tomorrow.”

  “What would you tell him?”

  “Just some background about you and your student. That way he could decide before you get in your car and drive to Tryon whether he may be able to help.”

  “Let him do it,” Betsy said. “If it weren’t for you, Ben wouldn’t know his right foot from his left.”

  “I would have figured it out eventually,” Ben protested.

  “But the color coding helped,” Sandy said. “Remember?”

  “Yes,” Ben responded dutifully, “blue is left and red is right.”

  It was Spirit Week at the school, and the hallways were decorated with banners and posters. Based on her years of seniority as a teacher, Sandy didn’t have homeroom responsibilities. There was a knock on the doorframe. It was Carol Ramsey.

  “Come in,” Sandy said.

  “Good morning,” Carol replied. “I noticed Maria Alverez sitting in your classroom yesterday afternoon. Didn’t she have a class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did she come to see you?”

  Sandy couldn’t dodge a direct question.

  “She mentioned that you took her to the health department and wanted her to see an ob-gyn in Atlanta. Did you know she’s covered by her father’s health insurance policy at work?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, she showed me the card.”

  “What did you say to her?” Carol asked.

  “I mostly listened.”

  Carol nodded. “Please keep it that way. I don’t want her to receive inconsistent advice.”

  “I’m not trying to do your job,” Sandy replied evenly. “I have plenty of responsibilities of my own.”

  “I’m sure you do. The police department is going to send out a bilingual female officer to talk to Maria sometime this week. I haven’t scheduled an appointment with the clinic in Atlanta.”

  “But why go all the way to Atlanta for prenatal care?” Sandy couldn’t resist expressing her opinion. “Won’t one of the local ob-gyn doctors accept her as a patient? As a juvenile, she should qualify for Medicaid if the pregnancy isn’t covered on her father’s health insurance at work.”

  Carol looked directly at Sandy.

  “The doctor in Atlanta is on the staff of a women’s health clinic. I think Maria should know about all her options.”

  “An abortion clinic?” Sandy felt the blood drain from her face.

  “Is one of at least three options Maria should consider. The women’s health clinic provides information about resources available for single women who want to raise a child, abortion for those who aren’t ready for motherhood, and adoption.”

  “Are you going to tell her father about this?”

  “It’s not necessary at this point. The parental notification requirement isn’t triggered until a woman decides to exercise her reproductive rights. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. The clinic is a well-respected facility that meets all the state regulatory requirements.”

  Sandy didn’t like the way Carol was lecturing her. The bell rang, signaling the end of homeroom. In a minute students would start streaming into the classroom.

  “Don’t forget your commitment to let me do my job,” Carol said. “That means keeping your interaction with Maria inside the proper boundaries. I have Dr. Vale’s full support.”

  Sandy wanted to ask if Carol had told Dr. Vale she was going to transport a sixteen-year-old student to an abortion clinic in Atlanta without her parent’s consent.

  Carol left the room. Sandy stared after her, but her mind was filled with the image of Maria, confused and dazed, sitting in a chair as a group of people bombarded her with advice and recommendations that included the death of her unborn baby.

  That evening Sandy warmed up a bowl of Betsy’s soup. It tasted even better the second day. Her cell phone rang. It was Ben.

  “I talked with Jeremy Lane,” Ben said. “He said he’d be glad to meet with you and your student. It turns out his mother helps teenage girls who are pregnant, so he’s sympathetic.”

  Sandy told Ben about her conversation with Carol Ramsey.

  “That hacks me off,” Ben said with an edge in his voice. “You know a lot more than—”

  “I’m not trying to get you on my side,” Sandy interrupted. “I know you support me, but I haven’t had a chance to think through what I should do, and I didn’t see Maria today at school.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “The trailer park off Haggler Road.”

  “That’s a rough place. Don’t walk around out there in th
e dark calling her name.”

  “I won’t. I’ll wait to see if she’s at school tomorrow.”

  “Good. I’ll send you a text with Jeremy Lane’s contact information.”

  Sandy spent a troubled night thinking about Maria. It especially bothered her that the Hispanic girl lacked a supportive family surrounding her. There was no Aunt Linda willing to take her into her home or a wise adoption caseworker like Mrs. Longwell to guide her. Sandy had no idea about Maria’s religious or cultural views concerning adoption or abortion. After an hour of tossing and turning, Sandy fell asleep to restless dreams.

  When she arrived at school in the morning, she poured herself a cup of coffee in the faculty lounge and headed down the hallway to her classroom. When she turned the corner near her room, she saw Maria leaning against a locker by her door. Sandy hurried toward her.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Maria shook her head. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes wrinkled.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  Sandy unlocked the door. There was no way she was going to turn the girl away. As soon as they were inside, Sandy closed the door and locked it. Maria sat down in a chair opposite Sandy’s desk.

  “What happened?” Sandy asked.

  “The police came to our trailer last night. They took my father and the other men to the jail. I ran over to Rosalita’s and stayed with her.”

  “Why did they arrest your father?”

  “I don’t know. He showed them his green card, but it did not help. If he does not go to work, he will lose his job.”

  Sandy thought about Carol’s comment that a criminal violation may have occurred. She leaned forward.

  “The police may be asking all the men in the house questions to see which one made you pregnant.”

  Maria looked puzzled, so Sandy switched to Spanish.

  “Yes, I understand. But why would they take away my father?”

  A small wave of relief washed over Sandy. She explained in Spanish why Maria’s father had also been arrested. Maria’s face paled. She stood up and began to speak rapidly.