Jess sits silently beside me in the waiting room of Planned Parenthood. I turn in my chair, a child who can’t help but look around, can’t help but observe what all is going on, but after a few minutes, I turn back into my chair, slumping into the back. The white walls are filled with posters about condoms and the “morning after” pill, STD testing, and birth-control. Most of these posters are full of women that look as if they haven’t had a breakout or a pregnancy scare in their lives, they’re all shiny hair and glittering eyes, not the bedraggled hair and dead-looking eyes of the women that are sitting around me. The bare wood chest that holds more magazines and a small TV turned to the morning soaps are also posted with notices begging the patrons to turn off their cell phones, leave their purses in their cars, and, for god’s sake, to leave their children at home. I glance at this, feeling a pang in my stomach, and sit forward quickly, biting back a groan. Jess leans forward with me, patting my back, as I grasp my stomach, gritting my teeth against the contractions that the internet has assured me are just my uterus expanding so that I can give birth. I sit back up, glancing around at all of the patrons who are either studiously ignoring me or are staring openly right at me. “That was a bad one.”
A woman, skinny and blonde with fake nails and a Playboy bunny wallet sitting on her lap, leans forward and smile at me. “Honey, I’m sorry, but I’ve been wondering how old you are. I mean, you look so young!” she smiles, as if this was just the supermarket line that we were waiting in. I glance over at Jess who is giving the woman a deathglare, and try to smile through the pain.
“I’m nineteen.”
“Oh, wow! You look so young! Well, I guess that’s a good thing, though. At least when you’re fifty or sixty you won’t look that way.” She chirps, “So, are you here for the pill or the surgery? I mean, I’ve had the surgery before but, luckily, I caught this one early enough that I could just take the pill and go home.” She smiles, as if we’re talking about something trivial: who’s dating who in Hollywood (as if anyone really cares) or how often we’ve seen the newest Ashton Kutcher film. I look at Jess, begging her to save me from this conversation, but at that moment, a nurse comes out to call a group of us back. I hand Jess my jacket and wallet, and wave to her byebyei’mgoingtofollowmr.tambourinemanwhereeverhemaygo.
The room that she leads us into is a small, glorified closet, with whiteasylumwalls and three fold-up chairs set up in front of an old-fashioned TV and VCR player. We file in and take our places on the chairs, watching the nurse walk around, popping a tape into the VCR player, all the while avoiding our eyes. She walks out, closing the door behind her, and we’re left in semi-darkness in the room, the glow of the blue screen of the TV our only light. Then the show really starts.
The video is about the abortion, or “surgery” as they call it. It goes through what happens when the woman gets an abortion, and the exact procedures used in both the surgery and in the pill. Halfway through, as the pretty, petite Asian girl is talking seriously to her doctor about how much it will hurt, I get up trappedanimalinabaglookingforawayout I hold my mouth, feeling like I’m about to throw up everything I have ever eaten since I was born, and glance around futily for a trashcan, something to throw up in. I run to the door that the nurse disappeared into, banging on it like a mad woman until she opens it, and run past her, down the hall, into a small office, then kneel over a trashcan throwing up and retching into it until she taps on my shoulder, hands me a wet paper towel, and grimaces at me not wanting to even look at me. “Sucks doesn’t it?” she asks, helping me up. Then she turns away, “You need to go back and finish the video. I put a trashcan in there, but you can’t leave again.” I nod, weakly, and walk back into the room, greeted by all three pairs of eyes glancing at me, wondering what was wrong with me, why I had to leave.
I sit back down, ignoring them, and stare off into the distance, the trashcan close by my side so that I don’t have to run anymore. There is a solid, thudding beat in my stomach, like I’d just swallowed a bassdrum mybabyhittingtheinsideofmystomachtellingmethatshedoesn’twantmedoingthisidon’tneedtodothisshedoesn’twantmedoingthisnoonewantsmedoingthis. When the movie is over, someone else gets up and walks to the door, knocking on it until the samenursewithcoldhardeyes opens the door, herding us out backintothewaitingroomlikeaherdofcattlelikewe’realljustfatheiferswaitingtobeledaroundlookingaroundwithbigdumbeyes. I flop into the chair beside Jess, feeling tears prick the back of my eyes and poke her in the arm, shaking my head no and pointing to the door. She nods, gets up, helps me up, and walks to the door. “Take me to Lee’s please?” I whisper, slouching in the seat.
I’m curled up on Lee’s bed, staring out of the picture window that is across from his bed, the one that always drives me crazy because it gets so bright first thing in the morning, in fetal position under his quilt. He sits, ashen faced, in his desk chair, his best friend Mika and Jess both sharing the beanbag chair that I bought him for his birthday last year. The sky outside is overcast and gloomy, reflecting my mood, as I stare into the clouds. We’ve been in almost-total silence since I got here, wrapped up in Jess’ sweatshirt, her standing behind me to make sure that I didn’t fall and passout of something.
“So…you couldn’t do it?” he asks, breaking the silence. Jess makes a harsh, hissing sound through her teeth and even Mika looks up quickly, shooting him A Look. He glares at them, “I wasn’t saying that she should have, I was just asking a question. Jeez, guys!”
I roll off of the bed, “No, I couldn’t do it. I can’t. I don’t know what we’re going to do, but I can’t have that done.”
I’m laying in Lee’s bed, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his breath hot in my ear as he blows out all of the badness, all of the nightmares and the shit that he has dealt with today, breathing in a peace that comes with sleep and the feeling that you can do anything that your heart desires when you are asleep. I sigh, watching the darkness out of his window, staring at the passing car lights that come off of the highway until I see spots before my eyes. I can’t sleep, my stomach is upset as usual (why in the world do they call it “morning sickness” when it goes on all damn day is what I want to know. You can tell that phrase was thought up by a man.) and I keep getting up, slipping carefully out of the embrace that Lee has locked me into, and walking back and forth, pacing the floor in the effort to make me sleepy. Suddenly, there is a sharp pain between my legs, it hurtsithurtsithurts like a knife is being shoved up into my uterus and twisted around. I let out a soft gasp and fall to my knees, pushing my face into the carpet and biting my lips. Then, suddenly, it’s gone. I rub my stomach in small circles, “Damnit, why can’t you not do that?” I whisper, feeling the soft beat against the inside of my belly (or maybe I’m imagining it, I’m sure that it wouldn’t surprise anyone if I was.) I crawl over to the desk, helping myself up by pulling on the side of the chair and hauling myself up slowly inchbyinch, then plop down onto the leather seat, leaning back against the wood and exhaling. I sit, staring out the window, until I notice a pad and a pen laying on top of the desk, and then notice that I’m staring at them. I pick up the pen, clicking it and pressing it into the paper, hard enough to leave an indention leaving a mark without leaving a mark at all. Then I started writing.
The next night, I am back in my bed, alone. I lay on my side, picking the paint that had dried onto my nails off, scraping my arms with my nails to get the stubborn oil paints that I loved so much off of my skin, leaving only the vague stains of reds and yellows and blacks that are the most often-used paints on my palette. My phone is still buried somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my bag, flung over the post at the end of my bed but I’m too lazy to get it. Lee is off somewhere having “guy time” with a group of his friends and I learned long ago that any conversations we had during or after “guy time” were never good and would only make one of us pissed at the other the next morning. I get up, pulling out the painting that I had finished two nights ago and had replaced in the studio with the one that I just finished. looking around, I decide that the place right above my bed would be the best for my painting of a traditional Hindu protection charm. I’m standing on the flat, soft mattress of my bed with pushpins hanging out of my mouth when I feel another sharp pain, as sharp and painful as the first time, that brings me to my knees. I’m gasping for breath, and finally catch it, feeling cold fear that feeling of somethingwickedthiswaycomes grabbing into my heart with its sharp fangs and taking a hold that can’t be broken. Deciding that my painting can wait until morning, I pull it off the one thumbtack that I have it up by and set it onto my computer chair, slowly laying on my back and sliding my jeans off, then curling up under the covers and drifting off to the (somewhat) comforting sounds of Garbage playing out of my iPod sitting on the edge of my desk where I set it when I came home.
My phone is ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Deargodwhoseideawasittoputaringtonefullofscreamingpeopleontomyphone?Theyshouldbekilled,theyshouldbeshot,theyshouldnotbeallowedtosurvivedeargodcanwekillthemcan’twekillthemallrightnow?Oh,waitthatwasmeitwasmybrightideatorecordabunchofusdrunkandscreamingatthephoneandputitasaringtonewhoseringtoneisthat?whoseringtoneisthat?ishouldrememberwhoseringtonethatisi’mtheonewhosetitishouldrememberishouldrememberican’trememberican’trememberohshitican’tremember. I sit bolt-upright in the bed, eyes wide open and dive for the bag at the end of my bed, almost taking a nosedive straight off the edge into the carpet and dig frantically for my phone. It continues screeching at me, almost monotonously, making me feel a little bit crazy but all the more desperate to find it. Finally I grab it, punching the “talk” button and gasping, feeling the edge of the bed cut into my stomach and the baby screaming in protest. “Hello? Hello? Baby, are you still there?”
The speech is so badly slurred that it sounds like something not even human. I listen carefully, trying to make sense of what he is saying, but can’t. finally there is the sound of a scuffle, the clunk of a phone being dropped onto the floor, and the swearing of someone trying to find a dark phone on the dark floor of a dark bar. Finally: “Hey! Hey, Lil, you still there?” Mika’s voice is still slightly slurred but at least it doesn’t sound like some alien gibberish out of a Stephen King movie.
“Hey, Me, yeah, I’m still here. What’s wrong?”
“Um…we got a little situation here. Are you at home?” There is a distinct retching noise in the background and I can hear Mika groan, “Dude! Not the seats! I just got these seatcovers! Shit!” there’s a muffled noise in the back that sounds like a very drunken apology followed by more retching. “Lil, you gotta take care of him. He’s already barfed in my car, like, three times, and if he throws up in the house my mom’s gonna kill both of us.” I groan and he makes an odd barking I’m-trying-not-to-laugh-because-it’s-not-funny-but-it-still-is noise. “Just think of it as practice for the baby.”
“Oh, great, I’m just caring for an almost-twenty-year-old baby.” I roll my eyes. “Ok, Me, just bring him over. But don’t ring the doorbell; Mom’s asleep and will kill me if she gets woken up. I’ll be in the living room so I’ll see y’all pull up.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the living room holding a cup of coffee and nibbling on the plate of toast that I should be saving for Lee (but, Damnit, this pregnancy makes you hungry. All. The. Fucking. Time.) waiting for Mika to bring him in. finally, I see the lights on the front of his car pulling up in the driveway, flashing twice, and then shutting off. Quietly, I get up and open the door, ushering them both inside. Under Lee’s sweatshirt, I’m hugging myself, upset at him for doing this to Mika and me. Mika is trying to support Lee (who has six inches and about thirty pounds on him) and is stumbling to the couch as if they are both drunk. He lays Lee out, pulling the blanket draped over the back on top of him and I walk slowly over, pulling the trashcan that I had brought down from my bathroom in front of the couch and positioning Lee’s head so that he wouldn’t have to move very far to get to it. Standing up, I smile at Mika, who is standing by the door, clearly uncomfortable with this whole situation. “Thanks for bringing him home, Me.”
“No prob, Lil. If you need anything else just let me know.”
The next morning, when Lee opens his eyes, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning up against the fireplace reading 101 Names for Your Baby. “So, I’m thinking Cecillia Marie if it’s a girl and Aiden Conrad if it’s a boy. What do you think?” he stares at me, dumbfounded, his red eyes rimmed and drooping into his face like an old basset hound, his mouth hanging open. I nod to the table. “I brought you coffee and toast. Eat something and drink some coffee, ok? I need to go get dressed.” I get up, walking over and kissing him lightly on the top of his head and heading up the stairs.
Everyone says that pregnancy is the best you will ever look. Your hair gets glossy and always looks good, your skin is glowing and your chest is full. When you put all of these things, on top of a prominent belly, onto an anorexic-looking girl, the result is always comical. Since I’m so small now, there is really no way to hide what is going on. Pulling on my t-shirt, I stand sideways, looking in the mirror, and groan. “Shit! This was the absolute last shirt that I had that actually fit!” Lee, laying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling, laughs at me. I tear the shirt off, throwing it at him. “It’s not funny, Damnit! Not one of my bras fits anymore.” I turn to face him, showing him, “See? My boobs are spilling out of the damn top of it and over the sides! Jesus Christ, I’m not even four months pregnant; how much worse is it going to get when I get into the later time?”
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