by Tawni Waters
I’m about to say New York when it occurs to me that’s not where I’m going anymore. Mom was sure she wanted to keep me in Omaha. Maybe I’ll be sure about my decision in Omaha too. In my memory, I hear Mom’s lecture about the highway of diamonds. “You take the next step in front of you, the one that shines.” I’m not sure if Omaha shines, exactly, but it feels more right than New York. And I’m not exactly in a hurry to end this road trip anyway. There is nothing waiting for me in LA except Mercy, some flies, and an ex-best friend/baby daddy who now hates me.
“Omaha or bust,” I say, and I start my bike.
• • •
The winds do not come sweeping down the plains in Oklahoma. I don’t care what the song says. What happens is the air hangs thick and damp, engulfing your already overheated body like a wet blanket. It smothers you, even when you are on a motorcycle, and the air should be rushing and free and wild. Nothing in Oklahoma is rushing and free and wild. I thought I hated Texas, but I hate Oklahoma more. Little clouds of bugs loom everywhere, ready to make a snack of your flesh if you stop to pee. The scenery is green, but it’s the kind of endless, menacing green that seems to conceal secrets. Snakes. Biting insects. Dead bodies. Every few miles, some billboard tells me about Jesus or abortion. In Oklahoma, these two things seem to go hand in hand. I’m not a Jesus freak, but I do know a thing or two about the guy, thanks to that Bible-obsessed English teacher. I can tell you definitively that Jesus was a pretty hip dude. I could totally be down with him if I felt like the religion that bears his name had even one thing to do with his teachings. He was big on loving your enemies, feeding the poor, and not judging. He never once mentioned abortion. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t even a thing in his day.
But the Oklahoma version of Jesus is all about abortion. One sign reminds me that Jesus died for my sins. The next reminds me that abortion stops a beating heart. As if I didn’t already know that. As if I didn’t already understand that weight of the decision hanging over my head. I wonder what would happen to this baby inside me if I decided to keep it. What kind of life could I give it? Would it go around hungry, lonely, wearing hand-me-down jeans to day care while its mom slaved away at some fast-food restaurant? Would it cry on Christmas because its friends got Xboxes, and all it got was a lousy T-shirt? My mom did a great job raising me alone, but like I’ve said, it wasn’t easy. Also, she was twenty-two. Not eighteen. I’m not old enough to legally drink, but I still have to figure out what to do with a baby. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Mom used to tell me that life wasn’t fair, but I had no idea how true that was.
I pass a campground and wish that Dean was still on the motorcycle behind me. What would he have said if I told him I was pregnant in a less catastrophic way? Something right. Something beautiful. Something perfect. Then we would have curled up in a sleeping bag under the stars. He would have rested his thick fingers on my belly and whispered to me. I try to imagine his words. What would they be? I can’t for the life of me conjure the sentence that would make all of this less apocalyptic.
I realize I’m crying again. I notice bits of trash nestled in the grass beside the road. The whole world seems tainted. Dirty. I want to barf. Which may be morning sickness in the afternoon. Or it may be the fact that I’m about to have a panic attack. I pull over at a rest stop, walk to a bench, and yank out my phone. Breathing deeply, trying to calm my roiling stomach, I scroll through the numbers. When I come to the M’s, I stop on Mom and stare at the word, along with the little octopus emoji beside it.
Mom always ended her texts to me with random emojis. She thought they were so cute—the tiny monkeys, elephants, and cows. She’d write I love you, kid and punctuate it with a fried shrimp. She declared once that life was immeasurably better for humans in the 21st century because we had the capacity to punctuate our sentences with eggplants. So the octopus by her name in my phone was a tribute to her weirdness, her sweetness, her innocence, her capacity to believe that all it took to make the world a better place was a pixelated cartoon squash.
I hit Mom’s number and listen to it ring. In the weeks after her death, I did this fifty times a day, so I could hear her voice say, “Hi, this is Mary. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back. Have a kick-ass day!” I haven’t called the number in months though, mostly because the sound of Mom’s voice started making me feel like my brain was spinning out of control, like I might fall off the edge of sanity and never come back. This time, Mom’s voice doesn’t come on the other end. Instead, I get a prerecorded message. “The customer you are calling is unavailable. Please try again later.”
I end the call. Mom’s message is gone. It’s more than I can handle. I can try again later, but it won’t change the result. Mom’s voice is never coming back.
Burying my face in my hands, I stifle the scream rising in my throat. Mom’s voice may be gone, but my own voice is begging to be heard, and if I don’t let it out, I’m going to lose it. I have to talk to someone. Anyone. Who? Dean? No way. I’m not ready for the level of groveling that would be required for a conversation with him. And even if I did grovel, who says he would forgive me and let me speak long enough to reveal that the baby really is his? More than likely, he’d tell me to fuck off as soon as I said hello. More trauma is exactly the thing I do not need.
I scroll through my contacts again. The list is short, so it doesn’t take long. Mercy. I tap her name, and the phone starts to ring. I’ve been texting her every night, but it’s all been quick, easy stuff. Lies, actually. Today was great! and I’m having the time of my life!
Just when I think Mercy isn’t going to answer, she does. “Hey, kid.” Her voice is happy. “What’s up? How’s the trip going?”
I consider continuing the charade by faking my way through a normal conversation about motels, campgrounds, and bad road trip food, but I can’t lie anymore. “Mercy,” I whisper. Even to me, my voice sounds shattered.
“What is it? Harley, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not even a little bit.”
And I spill it. Everything. Dean leaving. The pregnancy. The fact that I came very freaking close to driving my motorcycle off the road on purpose. When I’m done, Mercy’s quiet. If she’s using her waiting trick, it’s really not going to work this time, because I have nothing left to say.
“Harley, you need to come back to LA,” she finally says. “We’ll get you to a doctor.” She doesn’t reprimand me for the unprotected sex, for my cruelty to Dean, for my almost-suicide attempt. The only thing she seems to care about is me being okay. Like Mom would have.
“Come home, kid,” Mercy begs. And for the first time since Mom died, I feel like I might still have a place to call my own in this world. Still, I can’t go there. Not now. Not until I figure my shit out.
“Mercy, I love you, but I can’t do that. Not yet.” I know I have to finish what I started. I have to get Mom’s ashes back to New York.
“Why not?” Mercy asks. “I’m worried about you.” Her voice breaks. “I can’t lose you too.”
Suddenly, it hits me how much Mom’s death has affected Mercy. She’s been trying to stay steady for me, but underneath the facade, she’s crushed, like I am. If I had driven my motorcycle off the road, she probably never would have been happy again. It occurs to me that my life, my choices, affect more than just me. “I won’t die,” I say. “I promise.” I mean it.
“You almost killed yourself.”
“I did, but I won’t again.” I remember Mom dancing around the kitchen with her glass of wine, pretending to be happy, and I wonder suddenly how much pain she was dragging around. How often did she make herself strong for me? If she could do it, I can do it. I’m going to make the right choice for me, for this baby in my belly, for Mercy, for Mom, for everyone. I’m going to be bigger than just me. “I’m going to figure this shit out,” I say. “I’m going to get back on track.”
�
�Maybe you should call Dean,” Mercy suggests. “You could explain what happened, how scared and upset you were when you said the baby wasn’t his.”
I think she’s right, but I can’t. Not right now.
“I’m not ready for that,” I say.
“All right, kid.” Mercy still sounds worried. “Will you at least see a doctor? I can find a Planned Parenthood for you.”
And she does. It’s in Kansas City, which I will have to drive through to get to Omaha. I’m glad it’s not in Oklahoma. I hope there won’t be protestors standing outside the clinic, waiting to call me a murderer and press pictures of dead fetuses into my hands. I’m 100 percent sure that if there are, I will fall apart right there on the sidewalk. Just explode like a human time bomb and seep into the cracks in the cement.
If I had to handle one more bit of cruelty, I’m pretty sure I would die.
Nine
In Kansas City, there are no protestors. In fact, the clinic is utterly unremarkable. It’s small and painted pale green, seemingly deserted but for a few cars parked outside. Still, I’m nervous as I dismount. What will happen to me in there? Will they pressure me to have an abortion, as the pro-lifers at the protests Mom and I attended shouted they would? Will there be menacing machines and sharp objects? Will I leave feeling disgraced, burdened, and broken forever?
I step into the lobby, and a gush of air greets me, cooling my overheated body. I’m grateful.
“Hello,” a pretty woman says from behind the counter. “May I help you?”
Here goes. “Uh, yeah, sure,” I say. “I have an appointment.”
She looks down at the calendar on her desk. “Juliet Young?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “But you can call me Harley.”
“Harley it is.” She presses a clipboard full of papers into my hand. “Just fill these out, and Dr. Scapple will see you soon.”
Dr. Scapple. Shit. Once, I heard of a dentist named Dr. Hurt. Why didn’t he change his name? I thought. Dr. Scapple for a gynecologist is almost as bad. Immediately, my overactive imagination is barraged with a litany of scary metal instruments.
“Scalpel, like the knife used in surgeries?” I ask.
She laughs. “No, S-C-A-P-P-L-E, like an apple with ‘sc’ at the beginning.”
“Still,” I say. “He might want to think about changing his name.”
“Dr. Scapple is a she.” The woman smiles. “And I’ll pass along your recommendation.”
Shit. Why did I automatically think my doctor was a man? How unfeminist of me. Mom would be so disappointed.
I sit down in an overstuffed brown chair and fill out the paperwork.
Name. Date. Medical history.
What brings you in today?
That question makes me dizzy. I pause, then write pregnant. And voilà, it’s a new level of real. I’m a pregnant girl sitting in a Planned Parenthood waiting room. Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, I’m a walking after-school special.
After I turn in the paperwork, a nurse comes out and invites me to follow her. I watch her gray ponytail bounce as she leads me to a scale.
“Let’s get your weight,” she says, smiling.
Nervously, I step on. Some girls are terrified of gaining weight. My fears run the other direction. I’m as skinny as a noodle. I can never gain weight, even when I try. People always say I’m lucky, but I don’t feel lucky. Just scrawny and ugly. I wish I could be curvy and beautiful like Amy, who looked like Jessica Rabbit might look if she were actually human. I guess if I want to be a silver-lining kind of girl, I can feel good about this pregnancy because it will undoubtedly make me gain weight.
“One hundred eighteen pounds,” says the nurse. “You’re a little underweight.” She probably thinks I’m anorexic. Most people do.
“I know,” I say defensively. “And no, I don’t have an eating disorder.” Maybe it’s overkill, but I want to stop the “you know, we have some good counselors” lecture before it starts.
“I didn’t say you did.” She smiles reassuringly and leads me to an exam room, where she hands me a dressing gown and a plastic cup. “Please put this on. And we will need a urine sample. Just leave it on the back of the toilet.”
“Kay,” I say, feeling awkward. I remind myself she does this every day. I can’t imagine having a job where I’d have to handle other people’s bodily fluids as a matter of course. I don the gown, which is wildly flattering (not), and go to the bathroom.
As I sit on the toilet, I think about what this means. I know they want the pee because they are going to do a pregnancy test, a real one. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve held out hope that the last test was defective. I mean, how accurate can a stick shoplifted from a convenience store in Bumfuck, Nowhere, really be? But this? This is the real deal. If they say I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant.
I manage not to pee on my hand this time (I’m a fast learner) and leave the creepily warm cup on the back of the toilet. Then I go sit on the exam table and wait for Dr. Scapple and her instruments of torture. I peruse the various posters on the wall. One shows me the intricacies of my reproductive system. Another boasts fetuses in various stages of growth. I figure if I were pregnant, I would be about ten weeks pregnant. (Do you like the way I said “if I were”? I’m an eternal optimist.) According to the poster, my baby is about the size of a kumquat and looks like an alien with flippers.
Dr. Scapple enters the room. About five feet tall and pretty, she is not at all what I expected. Her black hair hangs almost to her waist. Her eyes shine. “They tell me you like to be called Harley,” she says, beaming. I like her immediately. You must understand how rare this is. I like no one immediately. Hell, I like no one.
“Yeah, Harley is good,” I say, taking her extended hand.
“And you knew when you came in that you were pregnant?” Her voice is gentle.
I nod. So the test was positive.
Dr. Scapple must guess that this isn’t a happy situation for me because her eyes go soft. “Tough, huh?” she asks. When I went to see the doctor for chlamydia, she pursed her lips as she examined me and lectured me about using protection. I felt judged. But Dr. Scapple makes me want to put my head on her shoulder and cry. Blinking back tears, I nod.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m going to do everything I can to help you, Harley, okay? First, I’ll examine you, make sure you’re healthy, and then, we’ll talk about your options. I know this is scary, but remember, you have lots of choices. You aren’t trapped.”
As Dr. Scapple examines me, she talks good-naturedly about her two dogs and three cats. She almost makes me forget that the jaws of life are shoved up my hoo-hoo. Almost. Finally, she finishes. “Everything looks good,” she says, removing her latex gloves. “Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll go to my office and talk about your options.”
I’m dizzy. It’s real. I’m pregnant. Shouldn’t I be in Mexico eating a worm from a tequila bottle or something? Not that I want to be. I mean, I’ve never been one of those girls who longs to sit on a beach slamming margaritas and flashing her boobs. But that sort of frivolity, idiotic as it may be, is infinitely preferable to going to a doctor’s office to talk about my “options.”
Dr. Scapple’s office is cozy, decorated with bright colors. Pictures of the two dogs and three cats sit on her desk. A child’s drawing—a sun and some flowers with a bunch of smiling stick figures—is taped to the wall. I wonder if Dr. Scapple has a kid. Seems like she would’ve mentioned it. Maybe not though. Maybe bringing up kids while examining pregnant hoo-hoos is bad medical form. I don’t know. This whole routine is new to me.
Across the desk, Dr. Scapple takes off her glasses and scoots in her chair. “So before I begin, why don’t you tell me a little about what’s going on with you, Harley.”
“Well, apparently I’m pregnant,” I say, feeling foolish. Where should I start? With th
e pregnancy test? With Dean? With Mom’s death? With my own birth?
She nods and smiles kindly. “That has to be overwhelming.”
“Pretty much.” I look at the kid’s drawing. One of the people looks like Dr. Scapple, long, black Crayola pigtails.
“Is the father involved?” she asks.
“No.” Instantly, I feel sorry because I’m making Dean look bad. “He would be if he could be,” I add hastily. “But I don’t want him to be right now.”
“I understand,” she says. “Sometimes, it’s best to figure out what you’re doing before you involve other people. How about your parents?”
“I don’t know my dad,” I say. “And my mom is dead.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Dr. Scapple says, sounding genuinely sympathetic. “Is the loss recent?”
Damn it. I’m going to cry. “Yeah. About six months ago.” I fight back tears.
Dr. Scapple reaches across the desk and grabs my hand. “You have a lot on your plate,” she says.
“I thought picking a college was going to be my biggest challenge this year,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. I start crying. “Damn.” I swipe at my face. “I think these pregnancy hormones are getting to me.”
“Maybe,” says Dr. Scapple. “Or maybe you’re just having a really hard time. Anyone would be overwhelmed in your situation. It’s okay to cry.”
So I do. Man, I mean, I turn on the waterworks. Dr. Scapple keeps holding my hand while she tells me about my options. Keeping the baby. Putting it up for adoption. And getting an abortion. These are my choices. I pretty much knew that before I came here. But after sitting with Dr. Scapple for an hour, I feel way less alone. She gives me brochures full of information. Midwives in California. Adoption agencies. As I’m standing to leave, she hands me her card. “Call me if you need anything,” she says. “Anything at all.”
I pull away from the clinic. The sky seems brighter, tinged with hope, like the sky in the Old West paintings I see on the walls of every old place around here. There are always plains and grazing buffalo and a sun that is much more than a natural phenomenon exploding behind red cliffs, promising a life better than this one, a world where good things happen every day, a place where light transforms shadows to sparkle.
