Sarah's Choice

by Rebecca St. James

  “Wait.” Sarah felt her collar. “I left my scarf.”

  “Yeah, you did.” Megan grimaced. “It’s in the waiting room. I thought we were finally going to be rid of that thing.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll meet you out front.”

  Even after the elevator doors sighed shut, Sarah stood there for a minute. Megan was right: she did have to pull it together. That was how she always confronted things—head-on, considering the facts, looking at the consequences, weighing the positives and negatives. But at the moment all she could see was the positive proclaimed with a single word on a stick.

  When she was certain she could cross the hall without getting lost in her own bewilderment, she slipped into the waiting room and found Dad’s scarf behind a chair. Five bucks said Megan had stuffed it there on purpose.

  Sarah wrapped it automatically around her neck and paused, fingering a woebegone thread. The smell was there, but no whisper came—nothing saying, SJ, try this—do this—

  And maybe that was a good thing. She already had enough words wrestling in her head, not the least of which was the yes she’d given to “Is this based on religious grounds?” And the “I can’t have an abortion.” And the “It’s a horrible operation.” None of that had come from any factual part of herself. And all of it threatened to get her in a half nelson and take her down right here in the hallway.

  Which was probably why she didn’t see the elderly woman until she almost plowed into her.

  “I’m so sorry—”

  Sarah steadied the old lady’s arm, and with another muttered apology headed for the elevator.

  “Sarah.”

  She stopped and turned. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Do I know you?”

  She studied the woman’s face as she moved toward Sarah as if it hurt to walk. This had to be someone from her mother’s church. She’d stopped really looking at any of them since she couldn’t do it without wanting to pluck out their nose hairs. Still, somewhere beneath the wrinkles in the tissue of this lady’s skin was something familiar.

  “I have something for you,” the woman said.

  She held out what appeared to be a Christmas card, sans envelope. That was familiar.

  Catfish, what—are you having me followed? You would stoop to this to get the rent?

  By then the woman was so close Sarah could see the fading shine in her brown eyes. She pressed the card into Sarah’s hand with a trembling touch.

  “Three visions,” she said, voice high as if age had stolen her lower range. “The Lord will give you three visions.”

  Sarah looked down at the card now flattened into her palm. There was nothing there about the rent. Just a pen-and-ink drawing of the Holy Family with the three wise men gazing off into the distance. The inside was blank.

  “Ma’am, I think you have—”

  The wrong person died on her lips. The old woman was gone.

  Sarah sagged against the wall. Okay. Get a grip. It was just a sweet old lady, suffering from dementia, who got away from her caretaker and was handing out Christmas cards and promising people visions from the Lord.

  Except . . . she had known Sarah’s name.

  Sarah pushed the card into her coat pocket and took off for the elevator. The woman could have heard them call it out over the waiting room speaker—but she hadn’t been in there then, and they’d read off “Ms. Collins.”

  Forget it. Just forget it. Sarah mashed the elevator button. She couldn’t be trusted with anything that went through her head right now.

  Megan had the car warm when Sarah climbed in. Her eyes, however, were below zero as she glared through the windshield.

  “What?” Sarah said.

  “The ubiquitous protestors. No wonder they have bullet-proof glass at the reception desk.”

  Sarah followed Megan’s chilling gaze to the line of people on the sidewalk in puffy down jackets, scarves up to their noses, holding up signs that read, “It isn’t a choice, it’s a life,” and “Don’t stop a beating heart.” They were the least of Sarah’s worries.

  But not, apparently, of Megan’s.

  “Why don’t you get a life, you judgmental hypocrites?” She put a gloved finger on the window control.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah said. “Megan—don’t.”

  Megan jerked her chin up and squealed the Beemer away from the curb. Sarah clutched the seat, more from shock than fear of imminent death. Megan Hollister did not lose her cool.

  “What was that about?” Sarah said when they were too far away for Megan to change her mind and hurl some epithet out the window that would land them both in court.

  “I can’t stand people thinking they can judge me.”

  Sarah blinked. “They were way more likely to be judging me.”

  “Whatever. I’ll get over it. Just give me a minute.”

  Megan clenched her jaw and fell into a silence that suddenly felt frightening. For the first time since Sarah had gotten into Megan’s car that morning, no one was telling her what to do.

  Because no one could.

  Sarah tried to straighten her shoulders but they were too heavy, as if something were pressing down on them.

  You cannot panic. You. Can. Not.

  Think it through, SJ.

  There it was—the whisper.

  There’s always a way to make a good choice.

  Then she had no choice but to reach it.

  Chapter Ten

  It promised to be a sweet deal.

  Matt moved his uncle’s Tahoe right after lunch and sneaked the keys back into Clay’s coat pocket in his office while he was out at a supervisors meeting. The only person who got wise to him was Cherie. How she knew his every move when she never left her cubicle all day, who knew? But there was no way she’d out him. He could hear her snickering when he slipped back into his own cubicle and started the countdown ’til quitting time.

  At six on the nose Clay poked his head into Matt’s doorway and said, “You headed out?” Uncle Clay was nothing if not predictable.

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “And listen, I want to ask you some questions about the biz world.”

  “The biz world.” Clay’s face was deadpan. “Should I be encouraged by this or just wait for the punch line?”

  “I’m totally serious.”

  Matt managed an all-biz look, but also took his time straightening a couple of files and grabbing his coat, just to prolong the now almost snorting from Cherie.

  “See you tomorrow,” Matt said to her as he followed Uncle Clay past her door.

  “If you still have a job, Evans,” she said.

  It was Clay’s turn to snicker. “The jury’s still out on that, Cherie.”

  Once they were in the elevator, Matt pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it to camera mode. This would be too priceless not to catch it on film. Sarah was gonna love it, and with any luck it would take her mind off her stomach. He still hadn’t decided whether not hearing from her after her doctor’s appointment was good news or bad. He was counting on good.

  “So . . . do you have a question?” Clay said. “Or should I just launch into the lecture I’ve been trying to give you for the last two years?”

  Matt frowned at the elevator floor. “Here’s the thing: how do you know who to trust in this business?”

  “Simple. You trust no one. Keep your guard up—”

  “Okay.”

  “Because the minute you let it down? Bam. They’ve got you by the short hairs.” Clay gave Matt’s face a full appraisal. “If you’re serious about this, why don’t we go to the Grille after work one day this week when we have more time to talk?”

  “We’re on.”

  Matt would have felt bad for letting the poor guy think he was finally getting through—if this wasn’t so flippin’ perfect.

  The doors swished open and Clay took off out of the elevator and through the parking garage at his usual It’s Miller Time pace. Miller Time, nothin’. Aunt Jerri was waiting at home with anothe
r four hours’ worth of stuff for him to do. Matt felt himself grin. And it was only going to get worse in about seven months.

  All the more reason to keep his uncle laughing. Which should start in about ten seconds . . .

  Clay stood in front of his customary next-to-the-column parking place, which at the moment was empty.

  Matt furrowed his brow, the look of concern he’d practiced in the mirror several times that afternoon. “Dude, where’s your car?”

  “I thought it was right here. I must’ve moved it after lunch.”

  “You went out to lunch? Without me?”

  “Yeah. It’s part of my live-to-be-a-ripe-old-age plan.”

  Matt licked his lips and watched Clay peer around the column. “I thought you were at a ripe old age.”

  “Where the devil is it—”

  Camera ready . . .

  “What the—”

  Clay turned slowly to face Matt, the deluxe stroller Wes had snagged from his brother’s garage in plain view behind him. Snap.

  Priceless.

  “Very funny,” Clay said.

  Matt’s next guffaw echoed through the garage. “Not as funny as the look on your face.”

  But both the look and the laughter faded, and Matt found himself blinking at a weary expression he’d never seen his uncle wear.

  “Y’know,” Clay said, “I really didn’t need this today.”

  Matt felt a faint sting somewhere, but he said, “Yeah, you did. I mean, c’mon, ever since Aunt Jerri told you there’s another kid coming you’ve been walking around like Eeyore.”

  “Who?”

  Matt grinned. “You definitely need to brush up on your Winnie-the-Pooh.”

  Clay’s lips twitched. “And I hired you why?”

  “Because you love me.”

  But again, the expected comeback didn’t come back. Uncle Clay tilted his chin and looked at Matt as if he’d just noticed a mole growing on the end of his nose.

  “Did you ever think that maybe this job isn’t . . .”

  He stopped.

  “Isn’t paying me enough?” Matt wiggled his eyebrows. “You thinking that too?”

  Clay closed his eyes. “What I’m thinking is that I don’t know where you got that stroller, but it’s a nice one. I’m keeping it. We got rid of all our baby paraphernalia after Peter was born.”

  “Isn’t Peter in middle school?”

  “Shut up.”

  Clay shook his head and Matt saw the wit reappear in his eyes.

  “Ya gotta admit this was classic,” Matt said.

  “Yeah. Classic Matt.”

  Matt raised both hands over his head. He’d scored. Even if Wes’s brother would eventually go looking for his baby stroller.

  Okay, so it hadn’t gone as slick as he’d hoped. Matt sorted that out on his way to the Fourth Street Grille to meet Sarah. In spite of the smokin’ pic he’d gotten of Clay with the stroller in the background, his uncle obviously hadn’t appreciated the true hilarity of the thing. He could practically hear his father saying: Nobody thinks you’re as funny as you do.

  Nah. That wasn’t it. The idea of being a father again must have thrown Clay farther than Matt realized. That was it.

  He snagged the last parking space behind the Grille, next to Sarah’s wreck, which he was surprised had made it. That day’s spitting snow had thickened to a full-fledged storm, and the roads were like waxed glass. The minute she got that first promotion paycheck, he was going to talk her into at least getting new tires before she sailed the thing off an overpass. No wonder she’d stressed herself into an ulcer or something.

  He had gotten Uncle Clay to lighten up a little with the stroller bit. Hopefully it would do the same for her. With some mild editing.

  It didn’t hurt that the Grille was one of Sar’s favorite places. They’d gone there on their first date, if you didn’t count their original rendezvous over out-of-a-machine cappuccinos in the break room at Carson the day they met. The Grille was always crammed with people their age, grabbing beers or burgers after a day of trying to make it and convincing themselves things would get better. A hockey game on the TV above the bar and Sarah across the table in a back booth—who wouldn’t believe things were already better?

  Sarah was in their usual spot, staring at a ginger ale. That didn’t bode well for a decent report on the stomach thing. But he couldn’t read anything in her face, which left him with a blank slate to draw on. First some laughs, then the diagnosis.

  He kissed her cheek, making sure to get a little maddening snow on her hair, and hung his coat on the hook. Her arms were folded like she was freezing, which meant she probably hadn’t been waiting that long, but an apology still made a nice segue.

  “Sorry I’m late, Sar, but when I tell you why you’re gonna love it.” He slid into the booth. “Okay, so I told Uncle Clay I wanted to talk to him about the business world, so we walk to the parking garage together and he’s, like, holding forth about”—Matt slipped into Uncle Clay—“never trust anyone because once you let your guard down, bam, they’ve got you.” Matt’s shoulders shook. “By this time we’re in the garage and he’s going, ‘Where’s my car?’ ”

  He paused but Sarah just stared at him, two lines etched between her eyebrows like ditto marks. He went on.

  “And he looks, and there’s a baby stroller parked in his space instead of his car. The look on his face . . .” Matt sobered deliberately. “It was classic.”

  The look on Sarah’s, however, was not. The lines deepened.

  “That was meant to be funny?”

  “Yeah. It was very funny.”

  Nothing.

  “Okay, you had to be there.”

  “What if you were in Clay’s position? Would that joke be funny to you?”

  “Well, first of all”—Matt made an attempt to laugh—“I would never be in Clay’s position.”

  Sarah’s pause was interminable. She leaned back and closed her eyes and breathed until Matt’s grin sank into his chest. Okay, so it was an ulcer. Or worse.

  “Sar?” he said. “What?”

  She opened her eyes and spoke in a voice so low Matt almost had to crawl across the table to hear.

  “Guess what?” she said. “You are in his position.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’m pregnant. We’re pregnant. Seven weeks.”

  Matt had to hand it to her, if this was a joke, it was a good one. He felt like he’d been knocked against a wall.

  “Say something, Matt!”

  His mouth was paralyzed. She’d gone from inaudible to full-out explosion in a matter of seconds. This was no joke, and all he could get out was the disbelief that had frozen his brain.

  “Are you sure?”

  “What?” Sarah’s voice was strangled. “What kind of question is that? Of course I’m sure!”

  “You can’t exactly spring this on me and expect a coherent response. I mean—”

  “Then let me be coherent. There are only a couple of options, Matt.” Sarah’s fingers were tight, as if she wanted to claw her face. Or his. “I don’t know how to say this except—you can give me one of two things: a wedding ring or a ride to the clinic.”

  “The clinic?”

  Matt knew he was grasping at the unraveled strings of whatever was barely holding her together, but what else was there to grab onto? He sure couldn’t hold Sarah at this point. She was turning into someone else right in front of him.

  “Just give me a minute, okay? This wasn’t part of the plan, so—”

  “What plan?” she said. “I didn’t know there was a plan.”

  “Look—I can see us together permanently, but not yet. I didn’t think we were ready. You’ve got to give me a chance for this to sink in.”

  There was no chance in the clawed fingers and the choked-back voice and the tears she was fighting like a she-lion. In a year and a half he had never seen her this close to crying.

  “Well, ready or not, we’re there,” she said.
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  Before he could say anything else pointless, Sarah jerked herself out of the booth and wove through the happy-hour crowd toward the exit.

  Matt followed, blindly avoiding a collision with a tray of drinks and elbowing indignant ribs to get to her. By the time he reached the parking lot, she was almost to her Toyota. She didn’t stop when he called to her.

  “Sar, come on—”

  “Leave me alone, Matt.” She yanked the car door open, cracking ice and sending it flying in jagged directions. “Just leave. Me. Alone.”

  The words were almost lost in the sobs, but not their meaning. Matt stood helplessly as she slammed the door and cranked the weary engine to a start. Snow soaked his shirt and plastered the back of his neck but he couldn’t move, even when she’d chugged the car out of the lot.

  He told himself it probably wouldn’t have mattered what he’d said, even if he could have thought of anything different. He should have seen she was wrecked when he sat down. He should’ve been able to fix it. He’d always been able to fix it with Sarah.

  Bottom line, his father would be saying right now, you screw it up, you fix it.

  Matt closed his eyes and let the thick flakes catch on his eyebrows. It wasn’t okay. At all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah didn’t even check for Catfish when she half-ran from the car up to her apartment, the snow biting at her face like frozen fangs. All the more reason not to cry anymore. New tears would only turn to ice trails on her cheeks.

  Inside she leaned against the door, eyes closed, and let everything that was too much melt away.

  Too much arguing.

  Too much waffling.

  Too much . . . feeling.

  When she’d thawed enough to pull off her scarf, she folded it with the deliberation of a flag at a funeral and pressed it hard against the kitchen counter top. The whispers she counted on were silent.

  Sarah shook off her coat and hooked it on the overloaded peg. She had to get a grip on this. She couldn’t make a decision based on how she felt at any given moment because that changed every time she blinked her eyes. Only one thing was clear, at least in this blink-of-an-eye: she couldn’t count on Matt to help her decide. It was up to her.