A Different Blue(70)

I didn't know what to say. Congratulations seemed completely the wrong word, considering I had

been counseled about abortion services over the phone when I had made my appointment. But I

didn't sense mockery. This was obviously just the response that was standard, or safe . . . I

supposed.

[page]“I see you have talked to..” She looked down at her clipboard, “Uh, Sheila . . . about

your options?”

Sheila was the girl on the phone when I had called for an appointment. She was nice. I had been

grateful to have someone to talk to. I wished Sheila were the one with me now. This nurse was so

. . . dry with her canned congratulations. I needed to think.

“Is Sheila here?”

“Uhhhh . . . no,” the nurse said, clearly befuddled by my question. Then she sighed. “You

will need to schedule another appointment for your procedure if that is what you decide to do.”

“Can I just have my pee please?” I interrupted, suddenly desperate, wanting to leave.

“Wh-what?”

“I just need, I mean, I don't want my pee sitting in there with my name on it. Can I have it

please?”

The nurse stared at me like I was crazy. Then she tried to reassure me. “Everything is

completely confidential. You understand that, right?”

“I want to go now. Will you please give me my pee?”

The nurse stood and opened the door, her eyes darting back and forth like she was looking for

something to taser me with.

“And there is no such thing as completely confidential!” I pushed out of the little room,

purse in hand, on a mission to find my labeled sample. I suddenly felt as if my life had

narrowed to that label, to my name on a white sticker, pressed to a pee sample. I was crossing

the Rubicon. This was it. And that label was all I could think about.

The nurse seemed shaken but didn't argue with me. She handed me my sample, and her hands

trembled. I took it and ran, like a thief at a convenience store, hoping nobody could identify

me, knowing the likelihood of getting away free was slim to none, knowing my problem had just

gotten ten times worse. Yet, like the thief, I felt amped on adrenaline, buzzed at the decision

I'd made. Euphoric with the power I had to flush my life right down the tubes . . . or protect a

life, whichever way you looked at it. Speaking of flushing, I still gripped the urine sample

close to my chest. I set it on the dashboard in my truck and stared at my name under the dim

dome light.

Blue Echohawk. Date: March 29, 2012. Time: 5:30 pm. Beyond the interior of my truck, it was dark

already. In Vegas in the winter, the sun set around five o'clock. It was fully dark now. I

looked at my name again. I thought of Cheryl's words to me that awful day when drowning had

seemed to be a more palatable alterative than living without Jimmy.

“He didn't even know your name. He said you just kept saying Blue, Blue, Blue. So that's what

he called you. It kinda stuck, I guess.”

Blue Echohawk was not my name. Not really. Maybe I had been named Brittney or Jessica or

Heather. Maybe Ashley or Kate or Chrissy, God forbid. 'I'm nobody. Who are you?' The poem

taunted me. It suddenly bothered me that I could have a child, and that child would not know her

mother's name either. The cycle would continue. I pulled the sticky label from the sample and

stuck it on my shirt, needing to declare who I was, if just for my own piece of mind. Then I