Summer Dance

by Nan Rossiter

  “Is he new?” I asked, frowning. “Because I haven’t seen him before.” In a school as small as St. Clement we all knew one another—after all, we’d been going to school together since we were in kindergarten.

  Lizzy nodded. “He just moved here.” She frowned and then remembered I’d been out with a cold. “That’s what happens when you’re out sick—you miss all the excitement.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Don’t waste your time, Sal. The snobs already have their claws out.”

  “That figures,” I said, knowing exactly to whom Lizzy was referring.

  She looked at me. “Seriously, Sal,” she said, “you can do so much better.”

  I shrugged. “He’s cute.”

  “He’s a jock,” she said dismissively, as if athletic boys weren’t worth our time or consideration.

  I rolled my eyes. If there was one thing Lizzy did that drove me crazy, it was label people. I don’t think she even knew she did it. Jocks, nerds, snobs, and preppies—no one was above judgment. One time, after she’d neatly pigeonholed everyone in our class, I’d asked her which category I fell in, and without skipping a beat, she grinned and said, friend. I laughed, relieved, but still worried—after all, when you have a friend who talks about other people, and you know you have some of the same traits as those people, you can’t help but wonder if your friend says stuff about you when you’re not around.

  To this day, she still does it, although not as much. I like to think my years of reminding her “Judge not, that ye be not judged” have rubbed off. As we’ve grown older, the categories have changed too. Now, with a shake of her salt and pepper head, she tags people as conservative, liberal, lush, bitch, loser—or the ultimate condemnation—total loser. In spite of this flaw (and sin, I affectionately remind), I thank God every day for my sweet, annoying, fun-loving, philosophical, wise, solemn friend. I cannot remember a time when Lizzy wasn’t in my life. I will always contend that she is the sister my parents never gave me; she is my ally and my confidante; and I truly believe, without her, I wouldn’t have survived the storms that have rumbled my way. I also have to admit that, ninety-nine percent of the time, she’s right about people. She was definitely right about Drew—not only was he a jock, he was a total loser. Unfortunately, I had to find that out for myself.

  When I came around the corner of the building, Mrs. McAllister’s old Buick was puffing exhaust from its rusty tailpipe and Lizzy was running back into the school.

  “I’m over here,” I called.

  She turned around. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been all through the school.” Then she saw Drew emerge from the shadows, too, and frowned. “What were you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said, shivering as I walked past her. I got into the backseat and made sure my skirt was tucked under me—I didn’t want to leave any evidence on Mrs. McAllister’s light blue fabric.

  “Is that Drew McIntyre?” Mrs. McAllister asked, squinting through the swirl of smoke she’d just exhaled and nodding to the figure who was standing under the streetlamp, unlocking his car.

  “It is,” Lizzy confirmed, sliding into the front and glaring back at me.

  Mrs. McAllister looked in her rearview mirror and tamped the ashes of her cigarette into her overflowing ashtray. “You girls know better than to let a boy take you behind the building,” she said casually. It was more of a statement than a question, so I pretended not to hear her; then it took all I had not to let the tears welling up in my eyes breach the dam of my lower lids. I stared out the window, clenched my jaw, and watched the blurry taillights of Drew’s car as he pulled out of the parking lot.

  When I’d turned sixteen, I’d stopped staying at Lizzy’s house after school—although I probably needed more supervision at this point in my life than I had when I was little. Mrs. McAllister, who’d recently taken a job at the new Stop & Shop, was working longer hours and picking us up later, too, so now, after she picked us up, she just dropped me off at home.

  “Thank you for the ride,” I said, climbing out. “See you tomorrow, Lizzy,” I added, waving as if nothing had happened.

  While I fumbled with my key, they waited for me to turn on the light—the signal that I was all set. Then I opened the door, waved one last time, and slid down the inside of the door with tears streaming down my cheeks. How had I let it happen?

  Chapter 3

  After that day, there was no turning back, and even though I was riddled with guilt, I never tried to stop it. On more than one occasion, Drew picked me up right after Mrs. McAllister dropped me off and we drove down to the river. Drew always tried to convince me to let him come inside instead, but I refused. What if my father comes home?

  “I love you so much, Sal,” he murmured, leaning across me to recline my seat.

  “Drew, we can’t keep doing this,” I protested. “I’m going to get pregnant.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, pulling a small square package out of his pocket. “Put it on for me, Sal.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong.”

  He kissed me softly. “How can it be wrong,” he whispered, “when it feels so right?”

  “It just is,” I said, slowly relenting and kissing him back. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him—he was sweet and handsome and all the girls in school—all except Lizzy—would kill to be where I was and I didn’t want to lose him.

  “You’re crazy,” Lizzy whispered in the library one day when I finally admitted what was going on. “You, of all people. You’ve lived your whole life with the goal of getting into heaven so you can see your mom again, and now you’re going to let it all go . . . for what? For him?”

  “I’ll just go to confession,” I countered, even though my faith was on pretty shaky ground. I was sure God would see right through my insincere repentance, but I didn’t care. I’d be intimate with Drew again in a heartbeat.

  “Are you at least being careful?”

  “Most of the time.”

  Lizzy’s eyes grew wide. “Most of the time?”

  “It’s a sin to use birth control too,” I said dismissively. “You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t.”

  “You’ll be damned if you get pregnant!” she hissed.

  I rolled my eyes. What else could I do? She was right, of course, but I didn’t want to hear it. I felt like I’d been disappointing myself my whole life. How could a person live completely without sin? It was impossible, and yet I was consumed with the effort. I had finally reached a point where I didn’t even feel like trying. Life was a struggle with little joy. The feeling of well-being was so elusive and no amount of prayer made it less so. After my mom died, I’d watched my dad grow old, the years slipping by; he never seemed happy again. He got up every morning, ate a bowl of cold cereal or a piece of toast, and drank a cup of black coffee; he dropped Lizzy and me off at school, went to his accounting job in Boston, and when he came home, we ate one of five alternating dinners: chicken potpie, Swanson frozen dinners—Salisbury steak for him, macaroni and cheese for me—hamburgers fried in a pan, fish sticks, spaghetti, or, on rare occasions, pizza. Afterward, he washed the dishes, and while I dried, we talked briefly about our day. Then he watched the news (we’d finally gotten a small black-and-white TV) or read the paper while I did homework. The next day, he (we) did it all over again. He never dated or went out with friends. He never read the Bible or went to church (I went to mass and confession with Lizzy every week). He didn’t drink or enjoy fine food, and we never went on a vacation. I had no idea how he would react if he found out about Drew. In my whole life, he’d never raised his voice or his hand to me—probably because I was always trying to be good—but this was different. All he knew about Drew was that he was one of my classmates. He had no idea what was going on after school, and when I tried to imagine his reaction, I saw his tired face shadowed with disappointment—which would be worse than if he raised his voice.

  Lizzy and I began ou
r senior year with high hopes—she was on track to be valedictorian, and although colleges all over New England were sending her letters, she had her heart set on our very own Lawrence Memorial Hospital School of Nursing. I was interested in becoming a teacher, and maybe even a writer someday. I was not far behind Lizzy in class rank—our school may have been small, but we were competitive—and although I was applying to several schools in New England, I was praying I’d get into Boston College. Sister Mary Agnes had said it was a really good school, and if I went there I could save money by commuting with my dad.

  In late March, acceptance letters started to trickle in. Lizzy had already been accepted to Lawrence, so she didn’t even open her letters; if it came in a large envelope—and all of them did—she knew she’d gotten in. The white and maroon envelope from Boston College was last to come for me, and along with it, a generous scholarship. For the first time in my life, I felt truly happy. My life was finally coming together—I had a boyfriend I loved, and who loved me, and now, I had a future full of hope and promise.

  One month later, I missed my period. “What the heck?” I muttered anxiously every time I went to the bathroom.

  “I warned you,” Lizzy said. “If you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”

  “Is that all you’ve got?” I asked in dismay.

  “What more do you want?”

  “I don’t know, how about some friendly reassurance or consolation?”

  She searched my eyes. “The only way you’re going to know for sure is if you go to the doctor . . . or wait.”

  Neither was feasible. There was no way I could go to my doctor, and I didn’t want to wait—I was terrified and I wanted to know now! All I could think was that everything I was hoping for—going to college and teaching and writing—was being taken from me. And it was all because of my own foolishness. “Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me,” I said sullenly.

  Lizzy didn’t reply. She didn’t have to—I could see it in her eyes. It was as if I’d taken the words right out of her mother’s mouth.

  “It’ll be okay, Sal,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure with applications and waiting to hear. You’re probably just late.”

  Chapter 4

  “This cannot be happening,” Drew said angrily. “We used protection.”

  “Not every time.”

  “Well, you can’t go through with it.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, staring out the window. “It’ll ruin everything. I have a full scholarship and my future is riding on it.”

  “I have plans too.”

  “C’mon, Sal,” he said, his voice growing softer. “We don’t have to go through with this. Joe knows a doctor. . . .”

  “I’m not having an abortion,” I said. “I’m not heaping another sin on top of everything else I’ve done.”

  He stared out the window. “I’m not ready to be a father. Please think about it, Sal. No one will ever know and we can just get on with our lives.”

  “God will know.”

  “Yeah, and after we go to confession, He’ll forgive us.”

  “It’s not that simple, Drew, and besides, if we go to confession, the priest will know, so you can’t say ‘no one will know.’ ”

  Drew shook his head. “Sally, please. Just say you’ll think about it. If we end this now, you’ll be able to go to Boston like you want and I’ll be able to go to Villanova . . . and we can still be friends.”

  I looked up in surprise. “Is that what you want—to be friends? I thought you loved me. I thought you wanted to get married.”

  “I do want to get married,” he said, stroking my cheek. “Just not yet. In fact, I thought we might take a break while we’re in college. You know, see other people—make sure we’re making the right decision. Even though I know you’re the one.” But the way he said it made me think he was just trying to get me to cooperate. Unfortunately, it was too late—for the first time, I was seeing right through him.

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe you’re saying that,” I whispered, tears stinging in my eyes. I looked out the window, feeling utterly alone.

  “I don’t mean forever, Sal,” Drew said softly. “Just a break. I’m sure we’ll get back together.”

  I bit my lip and then looked him straight in the eye. “I am not having an abortion. I will have this baby on my own if I have to.”

  He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, making me jump. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  “I’m not doing anything to you,” I said. “We’ve done this together. We’ve created a new life, and I’m just as terrified as you are. I’m just as disappointed that our dreams will have to be put on hold, but our baby deserves dreams and a future, too, and I truly believe, if your parents knew, they’d agree.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” he said angrily.

  * * *

  Drew was right—his parents were livid. They couldn’t believe I’d duped their only son into marriage by getting pregnant, and to make things worse, he let them believe it. They told him I had humiliated him—and them—and they offered no assistance except to say he could keep the old car they’d passed on to him.

  My father, on the other hand, took the news better than anyone. Although he was concerned and disappointed that I’d have to put off college, he seemed almost happy at the prospect of being a grandpa.

  Soon after graduation, Drew and I were married in a quiet midweek ceremony. There was no fanfare, no flowing white gown or dashing black tux, no festive reception or sunny honeymoon. Everything about it was discreet—as if discretion was a lesson we both needed to learn.

  My father cleaned out the cramped, dusty apartment above our garage he’d been using for storage and helped Drew find a job at the accounting firm where he worked, but when he offered to carpool, Drew declined. He preferred to drive himself—it was his time to think. But as the weeks dragged by, I realized he really meant it was his time for freedom, especially since he came home long after I’d gone to bed.

  The first two months of our fragile marriage were rocky at best, but halfway through the third month we hit rock bottom. It was a hot morning in early August and I was standing at my register at Stop & Shop where Mrs. McAllister had gotten Lizzy and me jobs, when I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. I clutched my belly, crying out in pain, and Lizzy looked over from her register. “What’s the matter, Sally?” she shouted, but I couldn’t even speak, and afterward, all I could remember was feeling white-hot pain, as if someone was stabbing me, and then seeing the blur of Lizzy’s blood red uniform jacket floating above me.

  When I finally came to, I was lying in a hospital bed.

  “Hey, kiddo,” my dad said softly.

  “Hey,” I replied weakly.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Not so good.”

  “You just missed Lizzy,” he said. “She’s been here all afternoon. She said she’d come back tomorrow.”

  I nodded and then noticed the look in my dad’s eyes. “What’s the matter?” I asked, frowning. All I could remember was the excruciating pain—which had been dulled by a heavy dose of medicine.

  He bit his lip. “You lost the baby, Sal.”

  “I did?” Tears sprang to my eyes as I ran my hands over my abdomen. “Why?”

  “It just happens sometimes,” he said softly. “Your mom had two miscarriages before she had you.”

  “She did?”

  He nodded.

  “Does Drew know?”

  My father shook his head. “I don’t know where he is.”

  Tears streamed down the sides of my cheeks and trickled into my ears. “Why do bad things keep happening to me?” I whispered.

  My dad sat on the edge of the bed. “Everyone has things happen, Sal—it’s not just you. It’s part of life. It may feel like the end of the world, but it’s not. This will pass, like all things, and your bod
y . . . and your heart will heal.”

  I looked out the window, tears still streaming down my cheeks. “I already loved it, Dad,” I whispered. “I couldn’t wait for it to come. Nothing else mattered.”

  “I know,” he said, gently pushing back my hair. “I know just how you feel.”

  He cleared his throat and looked away and I sensed there was more. “What?”

  He swallowed. “The doctor said there’s a chance you won’t be able to have children.”

  Fresh tears welled up in my eyes and I clenched my fists. How could this be? Obviously, I’d brought it all on myself. God was punishing me, and my sentence was lifelong. I had callously committed one sin after another, and now, God was unleashing His fury on His selfish, wayward child. Everything that was happening to me was exactly what had been drilled into my head all through school: My sin—compounded by weeks of skipping confession and Communion—was finally being answered with punishment.

  “God is punishing me,” I whispered.

  “What?” my dad asked, frowning.

  “For everything I’ve done.”

  “That’s not how He works, Sal.”

  “How do you know? You don’t even go to church.”

  “I may not go to church, but it doesn’t mean I don’t believe.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said tearfully.

  “It’s okay, Sally,” he said earnestly, squeezing my hand. “Life’s a journey, kiddo,” he said softly. “We all make mistakes. Hopefully, we learn and move on . . . and God forgives us.”

  I nodded, although I wasn’t convinced. At the tender age of eighteen, I’d already made a mess of my life and there was no way God was going to forgive me.

  When Drew finally showed up, he made a veiled attempt at being sympathetic, but it seemed more like he was hiding his glee . . . and then it hit me—if I was no longer pregnant, he must think he’s free. It was only August; maybe he was hoping he could still go to college.

  “You can try,” I said wearily when he finally got up the courage to ask. I was tired of trying to make things work. Besides, if I let him go, maybe he’d stop acting like a caged animal . . . and maybe he’d come home ready to be married.