Forever . . .

by Judy Blume

  “Famished . . .”

  “Then lunch it is. Kath, want to join us?”

  “Oh, thanks . . . but I’m meeting my grandparents.”

  “Of course . . . Erica did tell me that . . . how are they?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Good . . . send them my love, will you?”

  “I will. And thanks a lot for the show. I really enjoyed it.”

  Outside, I grabbed a cab and gave the driver the address of Basil’s. It’s my grandparents’ favorite restaurant—a very small East Side place where Basil, the owner, will fix special dishes for his regular customers, like Grandpa, who’s on a low sodium diet.

  They were waiting for me in a booth, in the back, where they like to sit. Grandpa looked pale. I kissed him on the cheek, then hugged Grandma. She was wearing a big yellow felt hat. “Hey . . . I like that,” I told her.

  “It hides my hair,” she said. “Whenever I need a shampoo I wear it.”

  Basil took our order himself and when I asked him about the special of the day, Chicken Kiev, he whipped out his pencil and drew a picture of it for me, right on the tablecloth, all the time explaining exactly how it’s prepared. After that I felt I had to order it.

  “So . . .” Grandma said, when Basil had finished with us, “let me get a good look at you.” She narrowed her eyes and inspected me. I tried to keep a straight face. Finally she said, “Wonderful . . . glowing . . .”

  “Oh, Grandma . . . people don’t really glow . . . that’s such a silly expression.”

  “What do you mean people don’t really glow? Of course they do. Don’t be embarrassed . . . it’s very becoming.” She looked across the table at Grandpa. “Doesn’t she glow, Ivan?”

  “To me, Katherine always glows,” Grandpa said slowly.

  “It must be love,” Grandma said.

  I could tell I was blushing, even though I didn’t want to.

  Grandpa raised his water glass. “To love . . .” he said.

  Grandma clinked her glass against his. “To love . . .”

  After dessert, Grandma and I went to the Ladies’ Room. I thought about telling her that I have a 3:00 appointment at the Margaret Sanger Clinic. I knew she’d be pleased. But I decided against it because I want it to be my own experience, one I don’t have to share with anyone, except Michael.

  We said goodbye to Basil and went outside. It had turned very warm, like a beautiful spring day.

  “Whew . . .” Grandma said, unbuttoning her coat. “I’m going back to the office for an hour. I have some work to finish . . .”

  I checked my watch. “Well . . . I guess I’ll be taking off now. I have a lot of shopping to do.” I kissed them both goodbye. “Thanks for lunch.” Grandpa hugged me extra hard.

  I watched as Grandma helped him into a cab, then I started walking. There’s something about walking in New York that really appeals to me, especially on a bright sunny day. I took off my jacket and hung it over my arm. I felt like smiling at everyone on the street even though I know you shouldn’t do that in New York. It could lead to big trouble.

  15

  I got to the clinic at 2:45. I went inside and gave my name to the receptionist. There were seven other people in my group session, including two young couples. First we had a general discussion with a physician and a social worker. They explained all the methods of birth control. You could ask questions if you wanted. I didn’t.

  Next came a private session called Personal Counseling—just me and a social worker. She was young and very pretty with long hair, tied back, and tinted glasses. Her name was Linda Kolker. I wondered if she was sexually experienced and decided she must be or else she wouldn’t have the job.

  We talked about the weather and my family for a minute and then she asked me my reason for coming to the clinic.

  I told her, “I think it’s my responsibility to make sure I don’t get pregnant.”

  She nodded and said, “Do you have one special boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you discussed this with him?”

  “Not really.”

  “How do you think he’ll feel about it?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be very happy. He approves of birth control.”

  “But coming here was all your idea?”

  “Yes . . . absolutely.”

  “Good. Some of the questions I have to ask you are rather personal, Katherine . . . so that we can determine what method of birth control will be best for you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Have you already had sexual intercourse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been using a birth control device?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “A rubber . . . that is, a condom.”

  “Combined with foam or by itself?”

  “By itself.”

  “And you find that method unacceptable?”

  “Well . . . it’s hard for me to say because we just did it one time.”

  “Oh . . . I see . . .”

  Now I nodded.

  “But you plan to have intercourse regularly?”

  “Yes.”

  “About how often?”

  “How often?” I repeated.

  “Yes . . . how often do you plan to have intercourse?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know exactly.”

  “Would you say weekends and holidays or every day or once a month or a few times a year?”

  “I guess on weekends mainly.”

  “Do you think you’ll know in advance or will it be a spontaneous decision?”

  “I guess I’ll know in advance.”

  “Okay . . . so much for that. I’ll need a little medical history now. How old were you when you began to menstruate?”

  “Almost fourteen.”

  “And are your periods regular?”

  “Sort of . . . I get it every four to five weeks.”

  “And how long does each period last?”

  “About five days.”

  “Any bleeding in between periods?”

  “No.”

  “Vaginal discharge?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Color?”

  “Just clear.”

  “That’s normal . . . any severe cramping?”

  “No . . . just some low back pain the first day . . . nothing bad.”

  “How about your mother . . . is she in good health?”

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  “Does she take birth control pills?”

  “No . . . she uses a diaphragm.”

  “Quite a good method if it’s used properly.”

  “I’d rather take the Pill.”

  “Yes . . . it has esthetic advantages but it’s not the answer for everyone.” I guess I must have looked unhappy when she said that because she added, “We’ll see what the doctor has to say . . . okay? The whole idea of coming here is to find the birth control device which best suits the individual.”

  I nodded again.

  “Now then . . . I need your written consent for the gonorrhea culture . . .” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “It’s simple and painless.”

  “But I can’t possibly have gonorrhea,” I told her.

  “There’s always a possibility . . . and it’s often difficult for the woman to tell . . .”

  “But Michael . . . besides . . .”

  “Look . . . it only takes a few seconds and it’s so much safer to be sure . . .”

  “All right,” I said, deciding it was easier to agree. I signed my name. I tried not to think of Michael and that girl on the beach in Maine.

  “Good,” she said, standing up. She held out her hand and I shook it. “I’ll see you after your physical, Katherine.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And thank you.”

  My physical consisted of weight and blood pressure, a routine breast exam, with the doctor explaining how I should check my breasts each month, then my first pelvic examination. I tried t
o act as if I was used to it, but I didn’t fool the doctor, who said, “Try to relax, Katherine. This isn’t going to hurt.” And it didn’t either, but it was uncomfortable for a minute, like when he pushed with one hand from inside and with the other from outside.

  Then he slipped this cold thing into my vagina and explained, “This is a vaginal speculum. It holds the walls of the vagina open so that the inside is easily seen. Would you like to see your cervix?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “I think it’s a good idea to become familiar with your body.”

  He held a mirror between my legs and I looked down while he explained what I was seeing. It reminded me of the time that Erica taught me how to use tampons. I had to hold a mirror between my legs then too, to find the right hole.

  “That’s interesting,” I told the doctor.

  “Yes . . . the human body never ceases to amaze me.” He took the mirror away and I lay back on the table.

  “I’m almost done now, Katherine . . . just a Pap smear . . . there,” he said, passing a long Q-tip kind of thing to his assistant. “And the gonorrhea culture . . . okay . . . that does it.” He took off his rubber glove. “Now . . . do you have any preference concerning birth control devices?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “I’d like to try the Pill.”

  “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t . . . you’re in excellent health . . . get dressed now and Ms. Kolker will see you back in her office.”

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “Oh, it was nothing,” I told her.

  “Here’s your prescription.” She passed it across her desk, then gave me a two-month supply of pills with instructions, making sure I understood every detail. We also discussed possible side-effects, in which case I am to call the clinic immediately.

  I took a taxi to Penn Station and caught the 5:17 train. I couldn’t wait to tell Michael my news.

  But when I got home my mother said, “Michael called . . . he’s got the flu.”

  16

  Two days later I came down with the same bug. My temperature went up to 104°. I could barely swallow, my head hurt something awful and I was so weak and dizzy I couldn’t make it to the bathroom by myself. The doctor prescribed aspirin, bed rest and plenty to drink.

  I felt like I was dying.

  Mom and Dad took turns staying home from work to take care of me. My father is a super nurse. He concocts delicious fruit drinks in the blender, knows just when you need a cold compress on your head, and loves to play gin rummy.

  I stayed in bed for four days. Jamie wasn’t allowed anywhere near me but every night she stood in my doorway and told me about her day. On Thursday I got up for an hour and walked around. I’d lost five pounds and had no strength. That night I called Michael.

  “Hi . . . how are you?” he asked.

  “I’m a lot better . . . I walked around for a while today and tomorrow I’m getting out of bed for good.”

  “Don’t be surprised if you feel like jumping back in . . .” He coughed.

  “You don’t sound so good . . . can’t you take something for that?

  “Yeah . . . I’ve got a whole mess of stuff.”

  “I miss you,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t if you could see me . . . I look like a creature from the green lagoon.”

  “I don’t look so good myself. Are you going back to school tomorrow?”

  “No . . . not till Monday.”

  “Can you come over this weekend?”

  “I hope so . . . I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know.”

  “Okay . . . and take it easy.”

  “You too.” He coughed again.

  On Sunday afternoon he was well enough to drive over for a short visit. I begged Mom to let me wash my hair but she wouldn’t. So I tucked it up inside a beach hat, remembering that’s what Grandma does. I know I looked awful but so did he. He had dark circles under his eyes.

  “What’s with the hat?” he asked.

  “It’s hiding my hair . . . I don’t want you to see it this way.”

  “You think it’d make a difference?”

  “It might.”

  “You look tired.”

  “And you look green,” I said, starting to laugh.

  “I told you, didn’t I?” He laughed with me until he started to cough. “Want a coughdrop?” he asked, popping one into his mouth.

  “Thanks.”

  We sat in the den, holding hands, listening to music and talking.

  I waited until my birthday, the following Friday, to tell Michael about the Pill. He had planned a special celebration. First we went to see Candide at the Paper Mill Playhouse and then we stopped at Mario’s for a spaghetti supper. When we were just about through Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black jewelry box. “Happy birthday,” he said, pushing it across the table.

  “For me?” I never know how to act when I get a present. I’m always embarrassed. “What is it?”

  “Open the box.”

  “Okay . . .” I opened it slowly. Inside was a small silver disk, with Katherine engraved across it, on a slender silver chain. “Oh, Michael . . . it’s just beautiful.”

  “Turn it over,” he told me.

  I did, and on the other side it said, Forever . . . Michael. Right away I knew I was going to cry. I bit my lip and tried to hold back the tears but nothing worked.

  Michael called for the check while I hid my face behind a napkin. “I guess I should have waited till we were alone,” he said.

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Hey, Kath . . . come on . . . cut it out, will you . . .”

  I nodded to show I was trying.

  “It was supposed to make you happy . . . not sad.”

  “I’m not sad,” I said in a squeaky voice.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Michael paid the check, steered me through the restaurant, and led me to the car.

  When we were inside he fastened the chain around my neck and kissed me. I looked down at the silver disk, touched it and said, “In my whole life nothing will ever mean more to me.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  We kissed again and then I whispered in his ear, “I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”

  “My birthday’s still a month away.”

  “I know . . . this is a different kind of surprise.”

  “Oh, yeah . . . tell me . . .”

  “You have to guess.”

  “At least give me a hint.”

  “Okay . . . it’s something I’ve got.”

  “VD?” he asked.

  I swatted him over the head with my pocketbook. “Not unless you gave it to me!”

  “No chance.”

  “Then guess again.”

  “I’m no good at guessing games.”

  “Oh . . . all right,” I said, opening my pocketbook. I took out a package of pills and held them up for him to see.

  At first he didn’t seem to understand but then this slow smile spread across his face and he said, “The Pill?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re taking the Pill?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Since when?”

  “I got them the day you got sick.”

  “But where . . . how . . .”

  “I went to Planned Parenthood in New York.”

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah . . . a lot.”

  I’d promised my parents we’d come home early, since according to them, I was still recuperating from the flu. They’d had friends in for dinner and everyone was still there when we got back, so Michael and I had no chance to be alone. We kissed goodnight on the front porch.

  “Are Sharon and Ike away for the weekend?” I asked.

  “No . . .”

  “Oh . . . that’s too bad.” I put my arms around his waist and looked up at him.

  “Don’t worry,” Mich
ael said, “I’ll think of something.”

  “Not your house,” I told him the next night when he called for me, “I couldn’t . . .”

  “Why not? My mother and father won’t be home before 12:00.”

  I checked my watch. It was 7:30. “I don’t know . . .” I said. “I feel funny about going to your house.”

  “Look,” he said, “we don’t have to do anything . . . we can just go there and talk.”

  “I think I’ve heard that before!”

  Michael’s house is red brick with white shutters. It’s near the company where his father works. As soon as he unlocked the front door Tasha jumped on me. “Hi, Tasha . . .” I patted her head.

  “Down girl,” Michael said, and Tasha obeyed. “Come on . . .” He took my hand and showed me around. Everything was very neat. Their furniture was big, heavy and dark and the drapes were drawn in the living and dining rooms.

  The kitchen was brighter, with yellow wallpaper, and hanging plants. A note was attached to the refrigerator with a magnetic flower. It said, M—soup in refrig. Heat, don’t boil.

  “Want to see my room?” Michael asked.

  “As long as I’m here I might as well,” I laughed.

  He led me upstairs, down a long hallway, to a room with cluttered bookcases and an unmade bed.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m supposed to make it every day but sometimes I forget.”

  “How can anybody forget to make a bed?”

  “It’s easy.” He turned on some music while I walked around inspecting all the things on his shelves. He had lots of paperbacks, some team pennants, a picture of a chimpanzee dressed in jeans—his family must be very big on monkeys, I thought—and a cartoon showing a little boy, spelling out f-u-c-k with his alphabet soup.

  I held up a camp trophy. “Congratulations,” I said, “. . . Most Improved Swimmer . . . wow!”

  “Yeah . . . that was the year I got brave enough to jump into the deep water.” We both laughed while Tasha curled up in the corner, under a chair.

  “Can I look in your closet?” I asked.

  “Sure . . . help yourself,” Michael said and he began to straighten his bed.

  I opened the closet. The floor was piled high with shoes, sports equipment and, I think, dirty laundry.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” he said.

  “I’m not looking for anything special. I want to see everything . . . I want to know you inside out. So far I’ve only discovered you’re a slob.”