Passing a kissing couple now, Catherine looked quickly away. Somehow the sight of them made the books ride a little more heavily upon her hip. At times lately, leaning to lift those books, twinges caught her side in newly strange places.
Clay, too, was often disarmed by the sight of a young man and woman kissing. Striding down The Mall now, he observed an embrace in progress and his thought strayed to Catherine Anderson. Pulling his eyes to the students moving along the sidewalk ahead of him, he thought the girl with the leaf-gold hair could almost be her. He studied her back while it disappeared and reappeared around others who came between them. But it was only his preoccupation with her lately that made him look twice at every blond head in a crowd.
Still, the hair was the right color and the right length. But Clay realized he could easily be mistaken, for he'd never seen her in broad daylight before.
Dammit, Forrester, get her out of your head! That's not her and you know it!
But as he watched the tall form with its straight shoulders, its swayless hips, the books riding against one of them, a queer feeling made his stomach go weightless. He wanted to call her name but knew it couldn't be Catherine. Hadn't he gotten the message loud and clear? She'd run off to Omaha.
Deliberately Clay glanced across the street to free his eyes and mind from delusions. But it was no good. Momentarily he found himself scanning the crowd more intently, seeking out the blue sweater with blond hair trailing down its back. She was gone! Absurd, but a hot flash of panic clutched Clay, making him break into a trot. He caught sight of her once more, farther ahead, and breathed easier, but continued following. Long stride, he thought. Long legs. Could it be? Suddenly the girl crooked an arm and stroked the hair away from her neck as if she were hot. Clay skipped around a group of people, studying the long legs, the erect carriage of her shoulders, remembering her air of haughtiness and defensiveness. She came to a street and hesitated for a passing car, then glanced aside to check traffic before crossing. As she stepped from the curb, her profile was clearly defined for a fraction of a second.
Clay's heart seemed to hit his throat and he broke into a run.
“Catherine?” he called, keeping his eyes riveted on her, shouldering his way, bumping people, mechanically excusing himself, running on. “Catherine?”
She evidently did not hear, only kept walking on, the sound of traffic grown heavier as a bus pulled away from the sidewalk. He was short-winded by the time he caught up with her and swung her around by an elbow. Her books tumbled from her hip and her hair flew across her mouth and stuck to her lipstick.
“Hey, what—” she began, instinctively bending toward the books. But through the veil of hair she looked up to find Clay Forrester glowering down at her, his chest heaving, his mouth open in surprise.
Catherine's heart cracked against the walls of her chest while the sight of him made tremors dance through her stomach.
“Catherine? What are you doing here?” He reached again for her elbow and drew her up. She only stared, trying to conquer the urge to run while her heart palpitated wildly and the books lay forgotten on the sidewalk. “Do you mean you've been here all the time, right here going to school?” he asked in astonishment, still grasping her elbow as if afraid she'd vanish.
Clay could see she was stunned. Her lips parted and the look in her eyes told him she felt cornered and would surely run again. He felt the sweater slipping out of his fingers.
“Catherine, why didn't you call?” Her hair was still stuck to her lipstick. Her breath coming through billowed it out and in. Then she bent to pick up her books while he belatedly leaned to do the same. She plucked them away from his fingers and turned to escape him and the countless complications which he could mean to her.
“Catherine, wait!”
“Leave me alone,” she flung over her shoulder, trying not to look as if she were running from him, running just the same.
“I've got to talk with you.”
She kept half running half walking away, Clay a few steps behind her.
“Why didn't you call?”
“Dammit! How did you find me?”
“Will you stop, for God's sake!”
“I'm late! Leave me alone!”
He kept up with her, stride for stride, very easily now, while Catherine's side started aching and she pressed her free hand against it.
“Didn't you get my message from Bobbi?”
But the blond hair only swung from side to side on that proud neck as she hurried on. Irritated because she refused to stop, he grabbed her arm once again, forcing her to do his bidding. “I'm getting tired of playing Keystone Cops with you! Will you stop!”
The books stayed on her hip this time but she tossed her head belligerently, a yearling colt defying the bridle. She stood there glaring at him while he restrained her. When at last it seemed she wouldn't bolt, he dropped his hand.
“I gave Bobbi the message to have you call me. Did she tell you?”
Instead of answering his question, she berated herself. “This is the one thing I couldn't control, chancing running into you somewhere. I thought this campus was big enough for the two of us. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself that I'm here.”
“And I'd appreciate it if you'd give me the opportunity to explain a few things and work something out with you.”
“We did all the talking we needed the last time we were together. I told you, my plans are made and you don't have to worry about me.”
Curious passers-by eyed them, wondering what they were arguing about.
“Listen, we're making a spectacle here. Will you come with me someplace quiet so we can talk?”
“I said I'm in a hurry.”
“And I'm in a fat lot of trouble! Will you just give me two minutes and stand still?” He'd never seen anyone so defiant in his life. It was more than just his parents' ultimatum driving him now. This had come down to a contest of wills as she strode away up The Mall with him just behind her shoulder again.
“Leave me alone,” she demanded.
“There's nothing I'd like better, but my parents don't see it that way.”
“Pity.”
He grabbed the back of her sweater this time, and she nearly walked out of it before realizing why it wasn't coming along with her.
“Give me a time, an anonymous phone number, anything, so I can get in touch with you and I'll leave you alone until then.”
She yanked her sweater free and spun to face him defiantly. “I've already told you, I made one mistake and it was a dilly. But my life isn't ruined as long as I don't consider it ruined. I know where I'm going, what I'm going to do when I get there, and I don't want you involved in any way whatsoever.”
“Are you too proud to take anything from me?”
“You can call it pride if you want. I prefer to call it good sense. I don't want you having any kind of hold over me.”
“Suppose I have the solution to our problems, and it would leave neither of us indebted to the other?”
But she only eyed him acidly. “I've solved my problems. If you still have some, it's not my fault.”
People were looking at them curiously again, and Clay became incensed at her stubborn refusal to listen to reason. Before she knew what was happening, he'd clamped an arm around her waist and propelled her off the sidewalk toward an old, enormous elm. She found herself thrust against it, her ears flanked by both of his palms, which leaned against the bark.
“Something else has come up,” he informed her, his face no more than two inches from hers. “Seems your father's been making trouble.”
She swallowed, pressing her head back, glancing first into his eyes, then aside, afraid of the determination she saw so clearly at this close range.
“I heard about that and I'm sorry,” she conceded. “I really thought he'd give up when I left.”
“For Omaha?” he asked sarcastically.
Her startled eyes flew to his. “How did you learn that?” She noted the remna
nt of a cut above his eyebrow and wondered if her father had put it there. He glowered, holding her prisoner so that all she could see was either his face or a bronze-colored sweater smack in front of her eyes. She stared at the sweater.
“Never mind. Your father is making threats, and those threats could mean the end of my law career. Something's got to be done about it. I find the idea of paying him off as distasteful as you do. Now, can we work on a reasonable alternative?”
Catherine's eyes slid shut; she was unable to think quickly enough. “Listen, I've got to go now, honest. But I'll call you tonight. We can talk about it then.”
Something told him not to trust her, but he couldn't stand there restraining her indefinitely. All he could do was let her go for the time being. He knew he could find out easily where she lived, now that he knew she was a student here. As he watched her walk away he waited to see if she'd turn around to check if he was tailing her. She didn't. She entered Jones Hall and disappeared, and guessing that her patience was probably greater than his, he turned back, heading for the car.
The following day Catherine met Mrs. Tollefson in the office with its patchwork sofa and fern. Thinking Tolly would forge ahead into the subject Catherine most dreaded, Catherine was surprised when instead the matronly woman only chatted about school and asked how Catherine was getting along now that she'd settled into Horizons. When Catherine told her she was attending college on a small study grant and supplementing it by doing typing and sewing, Mrs. Tollefson noted, “You have a lot of ambition, Catherine.”
“Yes, but I'll be the first to admit it's self-serving. I want something better out of life than what I've had.”
Mrs. Tollefson ruminated. “College, then, is your ticket to a better life.”
“Yes, it was going to be my final escape.”
“Was?” Mrs. Tollefson paused. “Why do you speak in the past tense?”
Catherine's eyes opened a little wider. “I didn't do it consciously.”
“But you feel you're being forced to drop out of school?”
A brief, wry laugh escaped Catherine.
“Under the circumstances, who wouldn't?” A gentle expression complemented Tolly's soft voice. “Perhaps we need to talk about that, about where you've come from, where you are, where you're going.”
Catherine sighed, dropped her head back tiredly. “I don't know where I'm going anymore. I did once, but I'm not sure if I'll get there now.”
“You're speaking about this baby as an obstacle.”
“Yes, one I haven't wanted to make decisions about.”
“Perhaps decisions will come easier once we look at all your options.” Mrs. Tollefson's voice would be suited well to the reading of poetry. “I think we need to explore where your baby fits into your plans.”
Oh, God, here it comes. Catherine sank deeper into the cushions of the sofa, wishing it would take her down, down, into its depth forever.
“How far along are you, Catherine?”
“Three months.”
“So you've had some time to think about it already?” The kind woman watched the cords stand out in Catherine's neck as the girl swallowed, and her eyes remained closed.
“Not enough. I—I have trouble thinking about it at all. I keep pushing it to the back of my mind, thinking someone will come along and make the decision for me.”
“But you know that won't happen. You knew that when you came to Horizons. From the moment you chose not to abort, you knew a further decision was in the offing.”
Childlike now, Catherine sat forward, arguing, “But I want them both, college and the baby. I don't want to give up either one!”
“Then let's discuss that angle. Do you think you're strong enough to be a full-time mother and a full-time student?”
For the first time Catherine bridled. “Well, how should I know!” She flung her hands out, then subsided with a sheepish look. “I—I'm sorry.”
Mrs. Tollefson only smiled. “It's okay. It's fine and healthy to be angry. Why shouldn't you be? You just started putting your life on track when along came this major complication. Who wouldn't be angry?”
“Okay, I admit it. I'm—I'm mad!”
“At whom?”
A puzzled expression curled Catherine's blond eyebrows. “At whom?” But Mrs. Tollefson only sat patiently, waiting for Catherine to come up with the answer. “At—at me?” Catherine asked skeptically in a tiny voice.
“And?”
“And . . .” Catherine swallowed. It was extremely hard to say. “And the baby's father.”
“Anybody else?”
“Who else is there?”
It grew quiet for a long moment, then the older woman suggested, “The baby?”
“The baby?” Catherine looked aghast. “It's not his fault!”
“Of course it's not. But I thought you might be angry with him just the same, maybe for making you think about giving up school, or at the very least, for slowing you down.”
“I'm not that kind of person.”
“Maybe not now, but if your child prevents you from completing your college education, what then?”
“You're assuming I can't do both?” Catherine was growing frustrated while Mrs. Tollefson remained calm, unflappable.
“Not at all. I'm being realistic though. I'm saying it will be tough. Eighty percent of the women who become pregnant before age seventeen never complete high school. That statistic goes up with college-age women who must handle heavy tuition costs.”
“There are day-care centers,” Catherine noted defensively.
“Which don't accept a child until he is toilet-trained. Did you know that?”
“You're really laying it on heavy, aren't you?” Catherine accused.
“These are facts,” continued the counselor. “And since you're not the kind to go man-hunting as a solution to your problem, shall we explore another option?”
“Say it,” Catherine challenged tightly.
“Adoption.”
To Catherine the word was as depressing as a funeral dirge, yet Mrs. Tollefson went on. “We should explore it as a very reasonable, very available answer to your dilemma. As hard as it may be for you to consider adoption—and I can see how it upsets you by the expression on your face—it may be the best route for you and the child in the long run.” Mrs. Tollefson's voice droned on, relating the success of adopted children until Catherine jumped to her feet and turned her back.
“I don't want to hear it!” She clutched one hand with the other. “It's so—so cold-blooded! Childless couples! Adoptive parents! Those terms are—” She swung again to face Mrs. Tollefson. “Don't you understand? It would be like feeding my baby to the vultures!”
Even as she said it, Catherine knew her exclamation was unjust. But guilt and fear were strong within her. At last she turned away and said in a small voice, “I'm sorry.”
“You're reacting naturally. I expected it all.” The understanding woman allowed Catherine to regain composure, but it was her responsibility to delineate all choices clearly; thus, she went on.
Catherine again listened to the facts—adopted children tend to develop to their fullest potential; adopted children are as well- or better-adjusted as many children who live with their birthparents; child abuse is almost nonexistent in adoptive families; parents who adopt are generally in an above-average income bracket; the adopted child runs a better chance of graduating from college than if parented by an unwed mother.
A great vise seemed to tighten, thread by thread, at Catherine's temples. She dropped to the sofa, her head falling back as an overwhelming weariness pervaded her.
“You're telling me to give it up,” she said to a shimmering reflection on the ceiling.
Mrs. Tollefson let the old guilt-laden term pass for the moment. “No . . . no, I'm not. I'm here to help you decide what is best for your welfare, and ultimately, for the child's. If I fail to make you aware of all eventualities, of all avenues open to you, and of all that may close, I am not do
ing my job thoroughly.”
“How much time would I have to decide?” The question was a near whisper.
“Catherine, we try not to work with time limits here, which sounds ironic when each young woman is here for a limited time. But no decision should be made till the baby is born and you've regained your equilibrium.”
Catherine considered this, then her concerns came tumbling out in an emotional potpourri. “Would that really happen? Would I resent the baby because he slowed me down? I only want to make a decent life for him so he won't have to live in the kind of home I had to live in. I set out to get a college education to make sure of that, only to find out, if I pursue it, I may defeat my purpose. I know what you said is true, and it would be hard. But a baby should have love, and I don't think anybody could love it as much as a real mother. Even if money is a problem, it seems like copping out to give the baby away because of the expense.”
“Catherine.” Mrs. Tollefson leaned forward, caring deeply, her face showing it. “You continue to use the term give away, as if you own the child and are rejecting him. Instead, think of adoption as perhaps a better alternative to parenting the child yourself.”
Catherine's large blue eyes seemed to stare right through the woman before her. Finally she blinked and asked, “Have you ever seen anyone make it? With a baby, I mean?”
“All the way through college? Single parent? No, not that I can remember, but that's not to say you can't be the first.”
“I could get . . .” She thought of Clay Forrester's offer of money. “No, I couldn't.” Then she sighed. “It almost makes me look stupid for passing up an abortion, doesn't it?”
“No, not at all,” the kind voice reassured.
Again Catherine sighed, blinked slowly and turned her eyes to the blue sky beyond the window. Her voice took on a rather dreamlike quality. “You know,” she mused, “there's no feeling there yet. I mean the baby hasn't moved or anything. Sometimes I find it hard to believe it's in there, like maybe somebody's just pulling this big joke on me.” She paused, then almost whispered, “Freshman hazing . . .” But when she looked at Tolly again, there was true sadness in her face, and the realization that this was no hazing at all. “If I'm already feeling so protective when there's not even any evidence of life yet, what will I feel when he moves and kicks and rolls around?”
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