After
“I’m pregnant.”
There is silence on the line.
“Hello?”
“Yeah.” His voice finally comes, sounding thick.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I wrap my fingers around a strand of hair and pull—a long-standing habit of mine, at once compulsive and pacifying.
“You’re sure?” He asks.
“I’m sure.”
“How sure?”
“Very sure.”
I can sense the anxiety setting in. A thick cotton feeling behind my eyes. A cloudiness that crests and drifts, consuming my sensibilities. Pacing the floor of my studio apartment, I feel the space narrow with each step. The room shrinks and even more so, I sense myself shrinking within it.
There is silence again on the line and I can tell he’s holding his breath. A moment later he exhales, a static rush.
“I’m coming over. Give me twenty.”
We met at a party during winter break. A friend of a friend decided to ring in the New Year with a houseful of strangers, an open bar, and lowered inhibitions aplenty. Their house, a relic of 1970s panache was filled with shag carpeting and avocado-green accents—its retro vibe rounded out by a wood-paneled bar in the basement.
I pretended not to notice him staring from across the room. He was tall, handsome, and lanky, but in a well-proportioned way that his self-confidence could carry. He drank heavily and cursed with unapologetic ease; but his smile, eyes, and laissez-fare stance charmed my inhibitions into submission. We exchanged numbers and shared in a few drags of a joint; a pleasant fog setting in as we staggered out of step to the chorus of Supertramp’s “Goodbye Stranger.” Half a joint and a dozen pilsners later, we slipped away to his vehicle parked out back.
So, it was that our baby was conceived in the backseat of a 1992 Dodge truck—powder blue. The sex only lasted a few minutes, but I suppose that’s all it takes. A few minutes and his body tensed as he grabbed my hair and groaned something indiscernible. I remember how the cab smelt of synthetic pine; the seatbelt digging into the small of my back as he came inside me. Afterward he stroked my hair and mumbled my name. He kept saying how I was such a young thing—young thing, young thing—as though our two-year age difference instead spanned twenty.
I stepped from the truck and leaned against the passenger door. My face turned toward the night sky—a crescent moon anchored in a sea of black—stars as the shimmering tides. From across the snow-covered yard, a countdown commenced, “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .” voices rose and staggered toward the finish. A raucous chorus of cheers and noisemakers erupted, ringing in the New Year and its promise of fresh beginnings.
I glanced back into the cab at his slim form slumped across the threadbare seat; pants unbuckled and limbs awkwardly angled. Shirt pushed up to reveal the tender flesh of his belly and a distinct treasure trail, which tapered off toward his navel—an unconventional outtie. The image of him, passed out, somehow seemed more real and vulnerable than the intimacy we had just shared in.
“Happy New Year.” I whispered to the night air before closing my eyes. I wondered in that moment whether he was anymore a stranger than I was to myself.
I never did cry.
He did. Palms pressed to his face and shoulders hunched inward as I watched stone-faced from across the room—never moving to join him, unwilling to breach the divide since doing so would only implicate me further in his grief. Instead, I stood staring out the window, watching starlings sweep past in tight-winged formations. Listened to voices carrying down the street, horns blasting, and car doors slamming as streams of jersey-clad fans flowed toward the city arena for Sunday night football; a river of red streaming into McMahon Stadium, clashing with the opposing team’s current of green.
“I’m here. I’m here.” He said, again and again, but the words were hollow sounding. The throaty echoes of someone more caring. More present.
“Let’s not pretend.” I said. “Let’s not pretend to be something we aren’t.”
The waiting room is windowless apart from a skylight overhead. I crane my neck and lean back to observe the blue slit of sky. A glimpse of the outside world glinting from on high that makes this space with its butter-toned walls and tan upholstery seem unbearably oppressive.
A moment later the door opens and a young girl enters draped in a blanket and accompanied by a nurse. Her head lowered and face masked by an unruly mass of hair. I can tell by her slight frame and the way the nurse rests a guiding hand upon her shoulder that she is unnervingly young. She sits across from me, tucking her legs into her chest and resting her chin upon her knees in a manner so childlike it makes my stomach turn. The nurse leans in, pats her knee reassuringly, and murmurs something I can’t quite make out. I catch myself staring and quickly glance away to the clipboard balanced upon my knee. I re-read the first line of the questionnaire for what seems to be the hundredth time.
What is your primary form of contraception?
I hesitate a moment before ticking the box marked: none.
My name is called and I glance up to see a nurse in canary-yellow scrubs smiling warmly from the doorway.
“Come with me, please.”
Gathering my things, I follow her through a narrow hallway as she leads me to a room several doors down. The space is dimly lit, its tight quarters lined by potted plants and stacks of hardcover books featuring reassuring titles on recovery.
Abortion: How to Feel Better Afterwards
Life After Abortion
The Healing Choice
The door opens and a woman enters, crossing the room in a self-assured stride that is countered by her notable state of dishevelment. Her clothing is wrinkled and her hair is dyed a virulent red that fades to roots of peppered gray. Without looking up, she drops into her chair, dislodging a stack of manila folders atop her desk, which spill to the floor in a wingspan formation. Cursing, she ducks to scoop them up, and for the first time in weeks, I feel the tightness in my chest lessen.
She introduces herself as the clinic counselor conducting my pre-assessment. Thumbing through my paperwork, she asks questions and jots down notes—all standard procedure she assures me with a gentle smile. She acknowledges each of my answers with a slight nod and comforting murmur, like a professor politely grading a test in the presence of her student.
“And is your partner present today?” She inquires.
“He had to work.” I lie, the words catching in my throat. “It’s difficult for him to get time off. You know, on such short notice . . .” I trail off, recalling how I had booked the appointment nearly three weeks earlier. Remembering our argument from the night before, when he had requested to come. When he had implored me to let him be there. An offer, which I steadfastly refused, it seemed less burdensome somehow to go alone, to tell no one, to explain nothing.
I’m certain my fib is evident; however, she doesn’t seem to catch on. Her expression remains neutral as she nods and scribbles something else down.
