The First Conception_Rise of Eris

by Nesly Clerge

  Patricia scanned the menu. “I think I’ll have a champagne cocktail to start. What about you?”

  “Water’s fine.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “No.”

  “Will it upset you if I have one?”

  I glanced at her then back at my menu. “No.” I felt her eyes watching me.

  The waiter took our orders and disappeared. We sat in companionable silence until he delivered a cup of coffee for Patricia and a cup of tea for me.

  Patricia blew on the steaming liquid in her cup, sipped then said, “Do your parents live here as well?”

  Emotions sprung forth from a well deep within. My eyes filled, my throat constricted. I shook my head and managed to say, “No father. My mother died.”

  “I’m sorry. How long has she been gone.”

  I cleared my throat. “Feels like forever.”

  “And yet, it still feels like yesterday at times, doesn’t it?”

  “So often, it takes my breath away.” Then the unexpected happened—I burst into tears followed by sobs I couldn’t stop. The waiter avoided any banter, put our plates down, and beat it out of there.

  Patricia rested a cool hand on my arm. “How long have you held these emotions in?”

  I searched for a tissue in my purse and came up empty. Patricia dug one from her purse and handed it to me. I pressed the tissue to my eyes then blew my nose.

  “Katherine, some women come to us eager to vent about what’s happened to them. Some are reticent. Perhaps reserved is a more appropriate word. I think we both know which one you are.”

  I nodded and blew my nose again as more tears spilled onto my face.

  Patricia handed me a fresh tissue. “One of our members—Brenda Schwartz—provides pro bono services as a therapist. Technically, she’s a psychiatrist, which means she can assist you, if you’ll let her.”

  My head snapped up. “You think something’s wrong with me?”

  “I think you’re in great pain, pain you’ve internalized for so long, you don’t know how to get beyond it. If you don’t deal with it in a productive manner, it can have long-term detrimental effects on you psychologically, mentally, emotionally, even physically.”

  She took my hand and waited for me to look at her. With my other hand, I dried eyes that refused to stop leaking.

  “What do you say, Katherine? You’ve found every excuse to be near me for weeks but have yet to open up. I can offer support, but Brenda can offer more. She can offer a path that helps you heal and returns your power to you. I promise that you won’t be the first WAM member to turn to her. Will you let me arrange an appointment for you? How’s next Saturday morning?”

  My eyes met hers. Hers pleaded for me to take action. Mine pleaded as well, but I couldn’t pinpoint what for. “Okay.”

  “Good.” She patted my hand. “Let’s eat. Even with your lovely complexion, I can see you’re pale.”

  I loved my mother. She’d shown me care in the only ways she knew how. This was a level of concern and compassion I’d never known and had always craved.

  Patricia handed me another tissue, which I used immediately.

  Finally composed, I started to eat, though mostly toyed with my food. Patricia ate with a heartier appetite, but I could feel her watching me.

  CHAPTER 37

  To say it was awkward to sit across from Brenda Schwartz is an understatement. Most people would have seen the plump, silver-haired woman with gentle green eyes, and felt as though they were visiting with their kindly grandmother. As I’d never had a grandmother, kindly or otherwise, or had engaged the services of someone in Brenda’s profession, I was anything but comforted by her demeanor and soothing voice.

  “Are you comfortable, Katherine?”

  I ceased shifting around on the plush, cushioned sofa. “Yes, thank you.”

  “I don’t doubt your word. However, you look anything but. Is it the setting? Perhaps me? Or is it the idea of confiding in someone you don’t know?”

  I shrugged. “The latter, I suppose.”

  “Some people find it easier to speak about personal matters with a stranger who will never reveal to anyone what’s said. I hope that in time, you’ll come to see this as your very own sanctuary.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Schwartz.”

  “Please, call me Brenda. Maybe a cup of tea will help.”

  “My stomach is a little off. Guess I’m more anxious about this than I thought.”

  “Peppermint it is.”

  She switched on an electric kettle positioned on the credenza behind her desk and dropped a tea bag into each of two mugs. “Do you take sugar? I have honey, if you prefer.”

  “Just the tea is fine.”

  A few silent minutes later, she handed a mug to me and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. I took one sip, felt my stomach revolt, and warmed my hands cupped around the mug.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Katherine. Or would you prefer I ask questions?”

  What is it about these WAM women? The floodgates opened. I sobbed and used half a box of tissues while pouring out the most significant low points of my life. Only, I didn’t give details. Rather, I listed them like bulleted agenda items, using two words or less. I left out the most recent one involving Abigail’s perfidy.

  Brenda put her mug down and slid closer to me. She rested a hand gently on my arm. I leaned against her and wept as though I’d stored tears for decades as opposed to having shed a good measure of them exactly a week ago. In fact, I’d become extraordinarily sensitive recently and didn’t care for it.

  She patted me and said, “That’s it, dear. Get it all out. Tears are cleansing.”

  I sniffed, hiccuped, and said between sobs, “Lacrimation inspired by emotions involving the limbic system contain protein-based hormones such as prolactin, adrenocorticotropic, and Leu-enkephalin. The parasympathetic aspect of the autonomic nervous system controls the lacrimal glands via the neurotransmitter acetylcholine through the nicotinic and muscarinic receptors.”

  Brenda paused her patting then said, “And it feels good to release those chemicals, doesn’t it?”

  “‘Behold the sea … And, in my mathematic ebb and flow, giving a hint of that which changes not.’”

  “Where’s that from?”

  “A poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

  “What brought that to mind?”

  “Lately, I’m inexplicably releasing an ocean of salt water. Drops of what will never change.”

  “You’re right that our past can never change. But we can change how we allow it to influence us. Are you willing to do that?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to. The last thing I want to become is a frequent weeper.”

  “Shall we start down that road now? Together?”

  I sat up, blew my nose and nodded. “I prefer to go sequentially.”

  “Whatever feels right to you.”

  “It may take more than one session.”

  Her lips formed a small smile. “Yes, it may, and I’m here for you.”

  That set me off again. This time, however, I regained control within a minute or so.

  All this time, I’d imagined I’d coped quite well with my emotions. I had no idea I could feel the level of sadness and rage that spewed from me.

  I didn’t make it past age twelve in the time we had left, and I departed feeling like a soggy strand of spaghetti.

  Yet, surprisingly, I looked forward to the next session. And to the day when I’d feel cleansed.

  That shouldn’t take more than a century or two.

  CHAPTER 38

  Still on my knees, I pressed the handle down on the toilet. Wobbly-legged, I went to the lavatory and rinsed my mouth, splashed my face with cold water, brushed my teeth, and then returned to my side of the dorm room.

  Jenni kept her head lowered over her textbook as I passed her at her desk. “If you give that virus to me, I’m going to be seriously pissed off. In fact, none of us appreciate that you’ve come to class
three days with it. If you think you’ll affect your competition by making us all sick, forget it.”

  “I have no competition. Therefore, I have no need to affect or infect, as it were, anyone.”

  She slammed her book closed. “Always so damn smug.” Jenni scooped up her books and said, “I’m getting out of here, as far away from you as possible.”

  “You know what they say about letting the door hit you.”

  I understood their fears. I was advanced enough in my studies and grasp of the information to pass the upcoming exam no matter how I felt. They were not.

  However, I did not appreciate this intruder into my system. Some small infectious agent had chosen my living cells in which to replicate, using me as its host organism. How long had it waited inside me as a virion, an independent particle looking for a buffet, before penetrating my cells and well-being?

  I grabbed my notebook and pen and began to sketch the DNA or RNA genetic material encapsulated in the capsid protein coat surrounded by lipids.

  What kind of virus causes a person to vomit upon waking, feel better as the day progresses, only to expel the stomach’s contents again the next morning?

  I literally felt the blood drain from my face.

  No.

  Please, no.

  I checked my calendar. Nine weeks since I’d last menstruated.

  In a quaking flash, I was out of my pajamas, into street clothes, and out the door. I jogged to the elevator and pushed the button repeatedly. Too slow. I took the stairs, shoved open the door that led to fresh air and sunlight that failed to refresh or warm me, and speed-walked the several blocks to the large chain drugstore.

  My hands trembled as I read the backs of each box, finally selecting one. The man at the register said nothing, but one of his eyebrows arched when he looked at my purchase and gave a quick glance at me.

  I jogged to the dorm, into my bathroom, and tore open the box. Read the instructions—it took three times to focus. Did what was required. And waited. And checked the results.

  Oh God.

  Like all vertebrates in existence, we spin into our lives in the womb as a spiral. The spiral’s eye represents its center of gravity from which it seeks and finds its balance. Balance in motion.

  As a child blissfully alone at home for an hour, I’d filled the kitchen sink with water then removed the plug and watched the water begin its spiral down the drain. I’d dropped a toothpick I’d gotten from the school cafeteria into the water and stared mesmerized as the speed of the toothpick’s motion changed but its orientation remained unchanged. It pointed in the same direction at all times, just as the planets stay true to their axes.

  Jakob Bernoulli referred to this as the “change without change”.

  Only, this was one huge change, and a reality that knocked me off balance.

  For several moments, I didn’t know in which direction of orientation I should point.

  Then I did.

  CHAPTER 39

  After screaming into my pillow for a half hour, and a good cry about being twenty-two, pregnant, and alone, I picked up the phone to call Abigail for two specific reasons: To ream her for being an integral contributor to my condition and to get Clyde’s full name, if she even knew it, so I could look him up and tell him what he’d done. I dialed her area code and the first three digits of her number then remembered he’d given me his card.

  I dumped the contents of my purse onto my bed. The forgotten card was there. Clyde Morgan, Insurance Agent. What a farce.

  His office phone number was listed, so I returned to my bed, where my phone was, dialed his number, and waited to be connected.

  “Clyde Morgan speaking.”

  “This is Katherine. Do you remember me?”

  He altered his professional tone to one I’m sure he imagined to be suggestive. “Maybe you could give me a few hints.”

  “We met about six weeks ago, in what you called a No-Tell Motel. You, Jared, and Abigail. Does that trigger your memory?”

  “Oh, yeah. Melt-in-your-mouth chocolate girl. You melted in my mouth a few times. So you finally called. I thought maybe you’d lost my card. Baby, say the word. I’m ready and willing to—”

  “Ding-ding-ding. You just said the magic word. Ten points for Clyde.”

  “Whatever the magic word is, I’m ready to say it again so you open up to me.”

  “Open up to this—I’m pregnant.”

  Clyde went silent for a millisecond then barked, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

  “Everything. It’s yours, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do—nothing. It isn’t mine. No way in hell am I going to let you stick this on me.”

  “You’re the only one who’s ever—”

  “Don’t give me that crap. Imagine my surprise when, after all your friend’s carrying on about you being a virgin, there was no cherry to pop. As a gentleman, I kept your secret.”

  “Buster.”

  “Lose my card, bitch, and the brat. And if you even think about calling my wife, you’ll regret it.”

  He slammed the phone down. I cradled the receiver to my chest until the annoying sound the phone company uses reminded me to hang up.

  Buster had done more damage than I’d realized.

  There was only one thing to do.

  I called Abigail.

  CHAPTER 40

  “I swear,” Abigail said, “I didn’t think it could happen the first time. Well, it was three times, actually. Clyde’s a fast recharger.” She sighed loudly into the phone. “What are you going to do?”

  I shook my head at the enormity of Abigail’s ignorance about physiology. Then another awful thought occurred to me. “You’re certain Jared didn’t—”

  “I’m certain. He fingered you while he went down on you, but that’s all. We’d agreed ahead of time who was going to do who.”

  I was past caring about her grammar. “I can’t tell you how disgusting hearing this is to me.”

  “It’s all a matter of perspective. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “If I abort my child, will I be able to live with myself? That’s an answer that remains unknown until the moment after it’s done, when it’s too late to change my mind. If I surrender my child for adoption, how will it feel to wonder how she or he is doing or how much she or he might resent me? And if I keep my child, how will it affect completing school and my career?”

  “You keep calling it ‘my child’. How can you make the right decision if you keep doing that?”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Whatever you decide, I’ll help you in whatever way I can.”

  “That’s generous, considering it was you who—”

  “You don’t need to rub it in. I never meant for this to happen.”

  “I’ll get back to you once I know what I’m going to do.”

  “Hey, K. I’d really appreciate it if you don’t tell you-know-who how you got this way.”

  “Lucky for you, that’s the last thing I’d want to do. Hubby-Buns will remain in his bubble of ignorant bliss.”

  Right until the moment it pops.

  What I did was schedule an appointment with Dean Broward.

  He lowered his glasses to almost the tip of his nose. “I’d heard you’ve been unwell. Virus all gone?”

  “The effects linger.”

  “It must be one heck of a strain.”

  “That’s an understatement, sir.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I thought perhaps, with your influence, I might be tested separately. I’d like to take my boards early.”

  “School too dull for you?”

  I shifted forward in the chair. “It isn’t that, sir, but I am eager to move further along and at a faster pace. As fast as can be arranged.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Barnes. That’s not possible.” He held up a hand when I started to interrupt. “There are protocols
, and protocols must be followed. How advanced you may be can’t alter this. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  That was that. I thanked him and left. As I walked back to the dorm, I considered my options.

  I still had no clue as to which decision I should make.

  CHAPTER 41

  My test-tube crashed to the floor and splintered. Fortunately, it was still empty, so it was only a matter of cleaning up glass shards. Jenni and several others snickered.

  I’d dropped the tube as a result of a cramp. My initial thought was food poisoning. My second was that I was about to miscarry.

  I grabbed my purse, walked to the professor’s desk, and explained I wasn’t feeling well. He excused me from the class and I left with one hand resting protectively over my relatively still-flat abdomen.

  The infirmary should have been my destination, but I wasn’t ready to face that. Fear of word getting out, especially to Jenni, prevented me. Besides, it was only the one cramp, and that could have been caused by something completely unrelated.

  It was at the halfway point between the building and my dorm that I realized, whatever it took, I’d keep my child. Plans began to form in my mind about how I might reduce my classes and get a part-time job so I could afford a sitter. I made a mental note to find out what Stanford’s arrangements were for students with children. Perhaps they’d provide housing and sitter care. No way would I subject my child to Jenni and her snide comments. No reason to be concerned about that, I reminded myself. I was nearly a hundred percent certain it was against policy for me to live in the dorm with a child.

  These thoughts had a liberating effect. I was going to be a mother. Mother to a daughter who’d be protected and cherished. It would be another six to eight weeks before an ultrasound could confirm gender, about the same time I should feel the first flutter.

  My baby had to be a girl.

  Had to be.

  I changed course and headed for the library to look up girls’ names on the computer. After an hour or so, I’d decided on her first and middle names—Caitlin, which is Gaelic for pure, like Katherine, but this time I’d keep her that way, and Deirdre, also Gaelic, which means raging. Caitlin Deirdre Barnes. Pure and strong. And protected.