Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
NOVEMBER 1996
Our apartment was nice. It was in a safe Charlottesville neighborhood with a good high school. My mom got a job at a bakery down the street and they were even letting her add a few of her own recipes to the menu. The hours were long, but we were both used to that. This job had fewer complications. No unpredictable schedule or ultimatums from scary men. She seemed happy, testing out recipes and settling into our new home, as if this new life was something she’d dreamed of.
And yet I was terrified all the time. I looked down at my stomach, still oddly flat, and wondered when I would start to show. I wondered if I would be able to finish my senior-year classes. I wondered what Grant was doing at that exact moment and if he thought about me as much as I thought about him.
I wondered if I made the right choice that day at the clinic.
I was led back to a small room for the procedure. I remember slipping on the paper gown, lying on the table, and staring up. Someone had tucked pictures of flowers into the ceiling tile squares. I suppose they thought women lying on their backs would enjoy the distraction of pictures rather than counting the water stains. But I stared at those photographs of flowers, especially the roses that Kay loved so much, and I started to question my decision.
Then they turned on the ultrasound that was required before each abortion and I heard the whirling sound of the ocean followed by the repetitive pulse of a heart. I looked at the screen and saw the flickering beat inside me, prompting me to sit upright. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I can’t.”
I came out of the clinic, expecting to see that same man waiting, seeking proof that I’d completed my end of the bargain. But instead, the only person waiting for me was my mother. I told her that I didn’t have the abortion. She pulled me into a tight hug. “This may not have been your plan, baby girl, but we will figure this out. Murphy women are resilient.”
My plan had been to become something more than my mother. All of the judgment that consumed my youth erased by the humbling realization that I’d be lucky to one day be as strong as her.
For a while, I expected Richard to call and demand his money back. But he never did. Maybe the fact that I went to the clinic was enough. Maybe the clinic kept the confidentiality obligations they promised. Although I knew Grant’s father could find a way around those rules if he really cared. My best guess was that I didn’t matter enough for Richard to follow up. I was out of his son’s life and that was his ultimate goal.
But the money mattered to me. Because when I got an early acceptance letter to University of Virginia along with a tuition scholarship, I knew that money would cover the rest. I kept it in a bank account, ready to return it if Richard demanded, but hoping he stayed away because that meant I could go to college.
We hadn’t done much decorating in the apartment, but the first thing I did was hang the ultrasound picture on the fridge. I touched it each morning as I took my vitamins and drank a glass of milk. I plopped at the kitchen table, gathering the materials that I’d avoided reading for long enough.
My mother slid a warm sticky bun in front of me, dripping with brown-sugar syrup and pecans. A pregnant daughter made for an excellent taste-tester. I took a huge bite and gave her a thumbs-up as I reached for a napkin. “There’s something different.”
“Different good or different bad?” she asked genuinely.
“Definitely good. What’s the flavor in the syrup?”
“I mixed honey in the brown sugar and added orange blossom. What do you think?”
“Best yet.”
“Okay. Adding these to the list, then. How’s the reading going?” My mother wasn’t one to push, but I knew she was eager to discuss the topic I consistently avoided.
I walked to the sink to wash away my sticky fingers and delay my response.
“Have you made a decision?” she asked.
“I’ve made some elimination decisions.”
My mother sighed. “What does that mean?”
“It means some of these adoption agencies feel kind of self-righteous. They’re worse than the women at Grandma’s church and I don’t want to have anything to do with them.”
“That’s fair.”
“But there are good ones too,” I said quietly. “I’m reading through those now. The sooner I make a choice, the better.”
“You don’t have to rush this decision, Tess,” my mother said gently.
I shook my head. “If I sign with an agency and select a family, they cover all the medical expenses. We don’t have health insurance. I need to make a choice.”
“We already talked about this. We’re not going to let money make these decisions.” She reached for my hand and stared into my eyes. “ You make these decisions.”
“I like this place,” I said, pushing the brochure for an adoption agency in northern Virginia across the table. “It isn’t affiliated with a church. The people look nice. No abortion is murder propaganda. No helping the whores vibes.”
My mother’s eyes rolled upward as she swatted the air. “Tess, stop. I hate it when you talk like that.”
“That’s how a lot of these places make me feel.”
“Then don’t pick those places.”
“They also gave me this.” I handed my mother a binder. On each page was a picture of a happy couple. It was the same story again and again. They were very in love. They were very good people, with good jobs and good homes. They just needed a baby to make their lives complete.
My mother started flipping through the binder. I wondered what she thought. Could she see something about these people that I couldn’t—the couple that was actually on the brink of divorce, the couple that fought so loudly the neighbors called the police, the couple with the controlling husband and the alcoholic wife. Because I knew those couples existed, but I didn’t know how to pick a family for my child when all I got to see were the shopping mall photo studio versions.
“It’s a big decision,” my mother said.
I wanted to scream, “No shit!” but I nodded instead.
My mother closed the binder. “You could keep the baby. It won’t be easy. But that is one of the choices too, Tess.”
I shook my head. “I know you did it, but I can’t. I don’t want to. It’s not the life I want for the baby—for me.”
I didn’t mean to hurt my mother with my words, but I could tell I did. Instead of telling me that, she said, “I understand.”
I knew I was lucky—to have a mother who understood my desire for more.
My hand rested on my stomach. “I’m going to start showing. It’s one thing to be the new girl at school. It’s another thing to be the new, pregnant girl.”
My mother walked across the room and rifled through a box. She came back to the kitchen table with a photo album and started flipping through it. I pushed away the brochures and the binder and inched my chair closer to my mother’s.
She stopped turning pages at a picture of her at about my age. Her hair was teased high, and she had on ridiculous blue eye shadow. She was wearing a plaid shirt and flared jeans.
She pointed to herself and said, “I was seven months pregnant then.”
“Really?” My eyes narrowed in on the photo. The shirt was oversized. There was a fullness to her face and her legs looked slightly bigger than normal, but otherwise she looked like a typical teenager.
“Lucky genes,” she said. “Grandma was the same way. I didn’t really show until the last month, and even then, it wasn’t bad.”
“So maybe the other kids at school won’t know?” I asked.
“Maybe. My guess is a few bulky sweaters and some baggy jeans and you’ll be able to cover it up. If you want.”
“That makes me feel better. It’s stupid to worry about, I know. But it’s hard feeling so alone and different.”
“You are not alone. I am here.”
I leaned my head on my mother’s shoulder, grateful for her support, but yearning for Grant’s presence. It was almost as if she could read my thoughts.
“Have you heard from him?”
“No. Nothing.” I didn’t want to cry, but all of a sudden, I was sobbing. I could try blaming it on the pregnancy hormones, but I knew that wasn’t the reason.
“You don’t want to tell him? Maybe he should know that you kept the baby.”
“I’m not keeping the baby,” I said between choked sobs. “I’m giving it up for adoption.”
“I know. I just meant that you didn’t go through with the abortion. Do you think it would change things between the two of you?”
My mother asked the question that ran on repeat through my brain.
“Probably,” I answered honestly. “He thought he was right. He couldn’t understand my choice. If he knew I changed my mind, maybe he’d love me again. But I’m not sure I want that kind of love.”
“What kind of love is that?” my mother asked.
“The kind with conditions.”
“All love has conditions,” my mother said, wrapping her arms around me. “All love has limits. Not all love gets tested the way yours and Grant’s did. Love is not like those books you read.”
I’d never seen my mother go on more than a handful of dates. I dismissed her perspective on love and romance readily, not realizing that maybe there was more to her story than what she showed her teenage daughter.
“If he really loves me, he’ll come for me,” I said naively. But of course he never did.