Chapter Eleven
HOW OLD DO YOU HAVE TO BE TO GET AN ABORTION? CAN YOUR PARENTS FIND OUT WHEN YOU’VE HAD ONE? AND WHERE DO YOU GO TO GET ONE?
This is the email I received this morning from Sammy, the bird patron. My heart sinks when I read it. Is Sammy a pregnant minor?
I begin to research the answer. I pause after a moment of typing. Why would there be an age restriction? There’s no way the rule is, “You have to be at least twelve years old to have an abortion,” right? That would be atrocious. It’s not like riding a roller coaster or buying tobacco.
I rub my eyes, and the pressure triggers a visual response on the back of my eyelids. I see flashes of color and light. I’m not thinking straight. I really hope Sammy isn’t a pregnant child. What a hideous thought. This poor little bird-obsessed kid.
I hope these questions are for a school project. Or maybe Sammy is just curious. I read it over again.
Can your parents find out when you’ve had one… where do you go…
My heart sinks again.
Juice drips from the tangerine I’m peeling. I’m sitting outside on the picnic table. It’s well past six, but it’s still light out.
I had an abortion when I was twenty-three.
I got pregnant near the end of my relationship with Ben.
It was a shock. I was on birth control. I missed some days, though.
It was exam season. I was busy and stressed.
I forgot to take a pill one night, then took it the next day.
There were other days when I took the pills at irregular times.
I wasn’t the best at staying on top of it, to say the least.
I put a tangerine slice in my mouth.
After feeling sick for several days, I decided to take a pregnancy test. I was in a Walmart bathroom. The test was positive, so I took two more. They all said I was pregnant.
There’s a seed in the tangerine. I spit it across the grass.
The next day I went to a clinic where I was given two forms of medicine.
Mifepristone and misoprostol. Mifepristone blocks progesterone, a hormone needed to maintain a pregnancy.
The next day, I took the misoprostol. I had to put four little pills between my cheek and gums. That gave me contractions.
It was painful. I took the painkillers they’d prescribed.
For the most part, it felt like having an intense period.
I told Ben I was sick and sat in the bathtub for a day.
I continued to bleed for about three days.
I pretended my period came early, and then I thought about all the things I’d been pretending.
I’d thought I wanted what Ben wanted, but I didn’t. I dreaded the idea of him touching me, let alone the prospect of us getting married. I was on one side of a wall—aching, bleeding into our bathtub—and he was on the other side, playing video games, oblivious.
The woman I cheated on him with came to mind.
I remembered her breath in my ear. The amber scent of her skin.
I thought of the conversation we had that night: her voice, her opinions, and how she saw the world.
I remembered looking into her face, and the recognition I saw in her eyes.
I thought of all women and all men. I tried to picture myself as an elderly woman taking care of my elderly husband, and I felt sick.
I then imagined myself as an old woman, holding another old woman’s hand.
While I sat in that gross, murky bathwater, I felt myself split in two. I was no longer the person I knew myself to be. I understood the world differently. I felt both older and new.
I’ve shared Sammy’s email with Mordecai to ask for his opinion about how best to handle it.
“Is there anything I should do besides answer?” I ask. “I need to help this kid.”
He’s furrowing his brow, reading the email for a third time.
“So, this person’s sent us several emails in the past, right?” he asks.
“Yes, but the previous emails were completely unrelated to this one. All their other questions were about birds.”
He tilts his head. “When did they start sending us those bird requests?”
I think for a moment. “I got the first one when I returned to work. I think it was on my first day back, actually. Why? What are you thinking?”
He hums. “I think it’s strange for this person to email us this question. They could google the answer.”
I squint at him. “Okay. Yes, but that’s the case with a lot of reference questions, though, isn’t it?”
“This is more urgent. This is a time-sensitive problem, and there are so many resources for someone in this situation. Something about it just isn’t making sense.”
I frown. “I guess. But what’s your point? They did send it to us, so—”
“I have an inkling that this is from one of the protestors,” he says. “I think they’re fishing to see how we respond to questions like this. They want to make us out to be abortion-loving, porn-obsessed perverts. They’re probably trying to concoct some story for Liberty Lately.”
“What?” I say, shocked. “That can’t be it. Could it? This person has been sending us bird requests for weeks. Why would they ask us all those questions? What would be the point of that?”
“I don’t know.” He rubs his jaw. “Maybe they thought we’d let our guard down.”
I look at the email and wonder if he’s right. Would they really go to these lengths for a weird long con? I frown at the words on my screen. How old do you have to be… Part of me hopes he’s right. I hope weirdos are just harassing me, and there’s no actual pregnant kid.
I ask, “What should we do?”
He says, “I have no idea.”
I stare at my monitor. I already know what I have to do.
I exhale.
DEAR SAMMY,
THERE ARE NO AGE RESTRICTIONS IN OUR AREA TO GET AN ABORTION. THERE IS NO REQUIREMENT FOR PARENTAL CONSENT, AND HEALTH CARE PROVIDERS AIM TO MAKE SURE PATIENTS RECEIVE CONFIDENTIAL TREATMENT.
NOTE: IN CASES WHERE A DOCTOR DEEMS A PATIENT UNDER THE AGE OF SIXTEEN INCAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING THE NATURE OF THEIR MEDICAL TREATMENT, THEY MIGHT DISCUSS PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT; HOWEVER, MINORS HAVE THE RIGHT TO PRIVACY REGARDING THEIR HEALTH CARE.
I HAVE ATTACHED A LIST OF LOCAL CLINICS IN THE AREA THAT PROVIDE ABORTION SERVICES. MANY HOSPITALS ALSO PROVIDE ABORTION SERVICES. PLANNED PARENTHOOD, WHOSE WEBSITE AND CONTACT INFORMATION I’VE ALSO ATTACHED, IS AN EXCELLENT RESOURCE FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.
IF YOU NEED ANY MORE ASSISTANCE, PLEASE LET US KNOW.
“I didn’t tell anyone I had an abortion, including Ben,” I tell Dr. Jeong.
I brought this up because I couldn’t stop thinking about Sammy. I also thought maybe discussing it might help me come to terms with the choices I’ve made.
“Why did you keep that to yourself?” she asks.
“I knew Ben wouldn’t want me to get an abortion,” I say. “He’d be upset, maybe even angry, if I suggested it. I knew it wouldn’t feel like an option anymore if I told him, so I didn’t.”
“Have you told others about it since?”
“Yes. I’ve told Joy,” I say. “I’ve told friends also. I mention it to people. It’s not a secret.”
“And how do you feel about the abortion now?”
“I feel good about it. I’ve always felt good about it, though. Immediately after taking the medicine, I felt intense relief. I thought I’d feel sad, maybe I’d cry and wonder how I could have gone through with it. But I didn’t feel any regret at all.”
I remember sitting in the Walmart bathroom, looking at the positive tests.
I knew if I told Ben, he would want to marry me.
It wouldn’t be ideal to be pregnant before the wedding, but we would have figured it out.
I’d be done with my master’s degree by the time the baby was born.
My mom would be upset at first, but then happy, maybe even relieved.
I looked at the test and realized I could become the person I always thought I wanted to be.
Everything I thought I wanted would come true.
I say, “I think that pregnancy is what helped me realize that Ben and I needed to break up, actually.”
“Why is that?” she asks.
“I remember feeling something inside me resist. I looked at the positive pregnancy tests like they were cursed. The idea of going through with it felt wrong. I had this deep sense that it wasn’t right.”
It was around this time that I felt extreme clarity, like my brain abruptly finished developing, the smoke dissipated, and I was lucid for the first time in my life. I felt like someone who’d been in a trance, waking up.
I say, “I realized the prospect of really having a baby, really getting married to Ben, really committing myself to the life I’d been working toward felt grim. It helped me realize I was gay.”
Rather than attempt to introduce Kyle to Lou and Toulouse face-to-face again, I’ve taken a step back.
I’ve carefully carried him inside the house and shut him behind the door to our bedroom.
I’ve directed Lou and Toulouse to the other side of the door, so they can sniff at each other with a barrier between them.
I’ve placed treats and cans of salmon paté on both sides of the door in an attempt to make the interaction more pleasant.
I’m now standing with my arms crossed outside the room, observing Lou and Toulouse.
I am a cat bouncer. I watch them sniff at the crack beneath the door.
After several hearty whiffs, they both leave their mouths open slightly.
They look comically shocked, but I know this is called the flehmen response.
Cats do this to draw scents deeper into this organ they have in their mouths that helps them process and analyze pheromones.
I hear a low, guttural moan from Kyle on the other side.
Toulouse starts hissing. Lou is swatting at the door.
“You’re okay,” I say serenely, in a vain attempt to calm them down.
There’s a loud bang on the door. Kyle is thrashing himself against it, like an angry man in a cage.
I’m in bed looking at the ceiling. It’s smooth. Secure.