The Mothers(4)

In the empty Fat Charlie’s, Nadia drowned her fries in a pool of ketchup until they were limp and soggy. Of course she was sure. She wouldn’t have worried him if she weren’t already sure. For days, she’d willed herself to bleed, begging for a drop, a trickle even, but instead, she only saw the perfect whiteness of her panties. So that morning, she rode the bus to the free pregnancy center outside of town, a squat gray building in the middle of a strip mall. In the lobby, a row of fake plants nearly blocked the receptionist, who pointed Nadia to the waiting area. She joined a handful of black girls who barely glanced up at her as she sat between a chubby girl popping purple gum and a girl in overall shorts who played Tetris on her phone. A fat white counselor named Dolores led Nadia to the back, where they squeezed inside a cubicle so cramped, their knees touched.

“Now, do you have a reason to think you might be pregnant?” Dolores asked.

She wore a lumpy gray sweater covered in cotton sheep and spoke like a kindergarten teacher, smiling, her sentences ending in a gentle lilt. She must’ve thought Nadia was an idiot—another black girl too dumb to insist on a condom. But they had used condoms, at least most times, and Nadia felt stupid for how comfortable she had felt with their mostly safe sex. She was supposed to be the smart one. She was supposed to understand that it only took one mistake and her future could be ripped away from her. She had known pregnant girls. She had seen them waddling around school in tight tank tops and sweatshirts that hugged their bellies. She never saw the boys who had gotten them that way—their names were enshrouded in mystery, as wispy as rumor itself—but she could never unsee the girls, big and blooming in front of her. Of all people, she should have known better. She was her mother’s mistake.

Across the booth, Luke hunched over the table, flexing his fingers like he used to when he was on the sidelines at a game. Her freshman year, she’d spent more time watching Luke than watching the team on the field. What would those hands feel like touching her?

“I thought you were hungry,” he said.

She tossed another fry onto the pile. She hadn’t eaten anything all day—her mouth felt salty, the way it did before she puked. She slipped out of her flip-flops, resting her bare feet against his thigh.

“I feel like shit,” she said.

“Want something different?”

“I don’t know.”

He pushed away from the table. “Let me get you something else—”

“I can’t keep it,” she said.

Luke stopped, halfway out his seat.

“What?” he said.

“I can’t keep a baby,” she said. “I can’t be someone’s fucking mother, I’m going to college and my dad is gonna—”

She couldn’t bring herself to say out loud what she wanted—the word abortion felt ugly and mechanical—but Luke understood, didn’t he? He’d been the first person she told when she received her acceptance e-mail from the University of Michigan—he’d swept her into a hug before she even finished her sentence, nearly crushing her in his arms. He had to understand that she couldn’t pass this up, her one chance to leave home, to leave her silent father whose smile hadn’t even reached his eyes when she showed him the e-mail, but who she knew would be happier with her gone, without her there to remind him of what he’d lost. She couldn’t let this baby nail her life in place when she’d just been given a chance to escape.

If Luke understood, he didn’t say so. He didn’t say anything at first, sinking back into the booth, his body suddenly slow and heavy. In that moment, he looked even older to her, his stubbled face tired and haggard. He reached for her bare feet and cradled them in his lap.

“Okay,” he said, then softer, “okay. Tell me what to do.”

He didn’t try to change her mind. She appreciated that, although part of her had hoped he might do something old-fashioned and romantic, like offer to marry her. She never would’ve agreed but it would’ve been nice if he’d tried. Instead, he asked how much money she needed. She felt stupid—she hadn’t even thought of something as practical as paying for the surgery—but he promised he’d come up with the cash. When he handed her the envelope the next day, she asked him not to wait with her at the clinic. He rubbed the back of her neck.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Just pick me up after.”

She’d feel worse if she had an audience. Vulnerable. Luke had seen her naked—he had slipped inside her own body—but somehow, his seeing her afraid was an intimacy she could not bear.

—

THE MORNING OF HER APPOINTMENT, Nadia rode the bus to the abortion clinic downtown. She had driven past it dozens of times—an unremarkable tan building, slunk in the shadows of a Bank of America—but she had never imagined what it might look like inside. As the bus wound its way toward the beach, she stared out the window, envisioning sterile white walls, sharp tools on trays, fat receptionists in baggy sweaters herding crying girls into waiting rooms. Instead, the lobby was open and bright, the walls painted a creamy color that had some fancy name like taupe or ochre, and on the oak tables, beside stacks of magazines, there were blue vases filled with seashells. In a chair farthest from the door, Nadia pretended to read a National Geographic. Next to her, a redhead mumbled as she struggled with a crossword puzzle; her boyfriend slumped beside her, staring at his cell phone. He was the only man in the room, so maybe the redhead felt superior—more loved—since her boyfriend had joined her, even though he didn’t seem like a good boyfriend, even though he wasn’t even talking to her or holding her hand, like Luke would have done. Across the room, a black girl sniffled into her jean jacket sleeve. Her mother, a heavy woman with a purple rose tattooed on her arm, sat beside her, arms folded across her chest. She looked angry or maybe just worried. The girl looked fourteen, and the louder she sniffled, the harder everyone tried not to look at her.