by Maren Foster
My cell phone rang and I let it go to voicemail. The young detective from the Evanston Police Department had left a message asking me to stop by. What now? Do they know it was Nate?
On my way home from work I swung by the Police Station and asked for Detective Cowell. I was shown into an interrogation room. He came in and my first thought was that he looked more serious now than when he had interviewed me in the hospital.
“Wynafreda. How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Please sit.” He motioned to a straight-backed chair. “Look, I have some bad news,” he said. “The DNA from your rape kit did not match any DNA in the system, so we still don’t know who did this.”
Phew! “Hmmm,” I sighed and shook my head.
“I understand that this is very difficult. We’ll do our best to determine who did it, but without more information from you or someone at the party, a witness to ID the guy, it’s not going to be an easy case to solve.”
“I understand.” What now?
“I’ll be in contact if we get any breaks.”
“Okay, thank you.” That’s it? What about interviewing witnesses, reviewing video footage? I guess a violent rape is a low priority compared to other violent crimes. If they won’t do anything about it, I will.
“Have a good day,” he said. “Take care.”
“Thank you.”
I walked out of the station and again felt my head spin, watching the hum of everyday life going on around me. It was as if nothing had changed, but for me, nothing would ever be the same.
Monday morning I woke up early, wanting to make up for my tardiness on Friday. The sun was low in the sky and cast a familiar glow around my room. I sat up in bed and the moment I did it hit me again. I leaned over and searched frantically for the waste basket under my desk. I found it, and for about a minute I stared blankly into its dirty bottom. It was made of white plastic and had bits of gum and other sticky trash at the bottom which had attracted dust over the years. Breathe. What the fuck? I didn’t have anything to drink last night. Oh shit! There was one girl in my homeroom in high school who had gotten knocked up and the only thing I remembered about it, besides how cute her kid had been at graduation, was her frequent trips to the bathroom during homeroom. Morning sickness? Shit. I curled up in a ball and closed my eyes.
When I finally tried to sit up, I felt it again. I called my boss and got her voicemail.
“Hi, it’s Freddie. I’m not feeling well this morning, so I won’t be in. If I feel better by noon I will try to make it, but not likely. Will update you later. Thanks.”
I fell back asleep. When I woke up again the sun was high in the sky, which helped rouse me. It was warm in my room even though I could hear the air conditioning running.
Now what? I picked up my phone and Googled “puked in the morning”. All of the results confirmed my worst fear. The top ten results went something like, “How to alleviate morning sickness during pregnancy.” I figured there was only one thing to do. I got up, pulled on shorts and a t-shirt and walked four blocks to the nearest pharmacy. I bought the most expensive pregnancy test on the shelf hoping that accuracy was directly correlated with cost. I figured this wasn’t the time to be cheap.
I went home, drank some water, and read the instructions for the test as I waited and wondered, Am I pregnant with my rapist’s baby? What will I do if I am? I couldn’t watch the test as it developed.
I knew that there were girls in my sorority who had gotten abortions, but they never talked about it. On the other hand none of my friends had ever had a baby. Most of the girls in high school who had suffered from morning sickness had suddenly stopped showing up and then never came back. Their best friends wouldn’t talk, but there were never a shortage of rumors, that they’d been sent away to some private all-girls school after they’d given birth, far away from the boyfriend that had caused the trouble in the first place.
I walked into the bathroom and stared at two very visible parallel pink lines. Holy fuck. Now what? I sat down on the toilet, and held my hand over my abdomen. He hurt me and this is the result? The pain of each of his violations came back and my stomach turned. All of a sudden I felt like I was falling. I turned and vomited into the trash can.
What am I going to do? The thing that is meant to be the most beautiful thing in the world, the result of an act of love, has been corrupted. It was one thing to be raped: it would always be a part of me and I would relive it over and over again, but I had started to believe, or at least hope, that eventually I would be able to move on. They say time heals all. Have “they” been through this?
Trying to move on was one thing, it was another thing entirely to have a part of him living inside me. A thing that could become a person. A person who I may love, but who may also, first and foremost, remind me of a monster. And now it was up to me, alone, to decide whether to end a life to avoid reliving the pain, humiliation, and guilt that someone else had caused.
I went for a long walk trying to clear my head, but all I could think about was whether or not the test was accurate. I waivered back and forth, at times trying to convince myself that I didn’t really feel pregnant and maybe just had a mild flu, all the while, unable to shake the feeling in my gut that I was pregnant. I stopped by a clinic near campus. I have to know. They weren’t busy since it was an early Friday afternoon in late-June. I peed in a cup, answered a few questions about the last time I’d had sex and told the nurse I would wait for the result when she asked.
I stared at a copy of a celebrity gossip magazine in the waiting room but my mind kept wandering back; Could I really end a life? That goes against everything I believe in. How could I live with myself knowing that I ended an innocent life? But I began to imagine giving birth to his child, and using my body to nourish and nurture his child after what he did to me. I was disgusted. I can’t do it. I can’t have his baby.
“Wynafreda Laurent!” A woman called from an open door. “Follow me”.
Oh God, that must mean yes.
She led me back to an exam room and told me to sit down. She examined the paper in her hand again and compared it to the clipboard with my check-in form.
“Your test is positive,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.
I shook my head.
“Would you like information about your options?” she asked, handing me a stack of pamphlets.
“No thank you. I don’t have a choice. I know what has to be done.”
“We have a counselor who you can see to discuss your options and make a follow-up appointment.”
She handed me a business card with a woman’s name printed above the title MATERNITY ADVOCATE.
I flipped through the pamphlets.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today?” she asked and I got the hint. I got up and shoved the pamphlets into my purse.
“No,” I said. “Thank you.” I walked back out to the waiting room, made an appointment to see the Maternity Advocate on Monday morning, and headed home.
I put my purse down in the living room, went to the kitchen, and took Vi’s cognac out of the freezer. I poured a generous shot and threw it back. The burn of the alcohol was a welcome distraction. I poured another. The second was less surprising and went down a little easier. Like all young women, I knew that pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink alcohol, on top of a long list of other dos and don’ts. It’s okay, I told myself as I tried to numb my pain, I can’t keep you. I held my hand over my womb and began to cry. Stop! You have to be strong and figure out how to get through this. I took a few deep breaths. This isn’t my fault. This isn’t my fault. I shouldn’t be punished for his sin.
I checked my make-up and then walked next door. Adam and Colin were watching an old superhero movie. There were empty beer cans on the coffee table and Adam had a can in his hand. I sidled up next to him, took the beer out of his hand, tilted my head back and took a long sip. I laid my head against his chest and felt my breathing sync up with
his. I nearly fell asleep when the ping of a new text message woke me up.
The text was from Ali: “Dinner’s ready.”
Dinner was on the table when I walked in.
“How was your day?” Vi asked.
“Fine. How was yours?”
“Good. Did you go to work?” she asked.
“No, I wasn’t feeling very well this morning, but I feel better now.”
“You didn’t go to work because you didn’t feel good, but you put on make-up?” Ali asked critically.
“Yes. I went for a walk once I started to feel better to get out of the house and I needed to run an errand.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Sorry, I’m not part of your silent resistance,” I said.
“How far would you go to please a man?” she asked.
“Stop it,” Vi barked. Vi rarely got involved in our quarrels anymore, and very rarely stood up for me when she did. I caught her eye and smiled. Her timing was impeccable. I can’t let them know what happened. They’d be so disappointed in me, and so angry. They would want me to press charges and then the whole world would know what an idiot I was to fall for his bullshit.
“So, I was thinking that this summer we could spend a week together up in Door County, just the three of us,” Vi said.
“When is it not ‘just the three of us’?” I asked.
“I know, isn’t it great!” she said. “I thought it would be nice to get away from the city. Spend some time hiking, swimming, enjoying nature.”
“Shouldn’t you be looking for a man to do those things with?” I asked. “Or a woman, whatever floats your boat.”
“I will date when, and if I choose to do so,” Vi said, and got up from the table with her plate and empty wine glass.
“Why do you have to be so rude?” Ali asked.
“Me?”
“Yes,” she said. “Are you drunk?”
“No. I just feel a little weak still.”
“You smell like cheap beer,” she said and got up from the table, following Vi to the kitchen.
Thursday morning rolled around and I went to see the Maternity Advocate, who looked to be in her mid to late 30s. She recounted her own experience of having an abortion a decade before, and then showed me pictures of her two young kids. She asked me about my age, occupation, life goals, and what I had heard about abortions. I told her that I did want to have a family when the time was right, but this time it wasn’t right.
Then she asked about the father.
“I don’t know him,” I said.
She stared at me. “What do you mean you don’t know him?”
“I was raped. By a stranger.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m clearly not keeping the child of a monster regardless of the options available, so can we please just get on with this?” My voice quivered.
“When was the start of your last period?” she asked.
I studied the calendar on my cell phone trying to remember. “It must have been around June 22nd.”
She counted weeks on a paper calendar. “That’s about ten, so you’re too far along for a medication-induced abortion. You’d have to have a surgical abortion. We can do those here in the clinic. I’ll have to confirm with the doctor, but if she agrees, we can schedule you to have the procedure.”
“Okay.”
She explained the intricacies of the in-clinic procedure, as she started calling it when she noticed that the word abortion made me uncomfortable.
“I want you to understand that you would remain awake throughout the procedure. You’ll get an anesthetic, so you won’t feel much, but you will be awake. Okay?”
Doesn’t she get it…I have no choice. “Yeah, fine. I just want to get it over with, as soon as possible.”
“I understand. If the doctor agrees then you’ll get a call from our scheduler.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I left the clinic and turned to walk home. About a block from the clinic I passed a young woman pushing a baby stroller. I told myself not to look, but as she got closer I couldn’t help myself. I stared at the little baby swaddled in a bright pink blanket. The woman made eye contact and smiled proudly. Oh my God. How can I go through with this?
I paced around the house. Maybe I should have gone in to work after the clinic. It would have given me something else to think about.
A few hours later a woman from the clinic called. “Our first available is next Friday at ten a.m.” she said.
I’ll have to take the day off work. “Okay,” I said.
“We recommend that you bring someone with you for support.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I can’t bring someone with me because I can’t tell anyone what happened. I thought about telling Adam but then worried that he might not believe me, or worse, he might believe me but think it was my fault. No, I can’t tell anyone. I’ll just have to get through this alone.
Friday, August 3, 2012
I thought about it nearly all day, every day, and dreamt about it at night in the few moments that I actually slept. I woke up early Friday morning and laid in bed, waiting for the existential debate and paralyzing emotions that had consumed me for the past two days to start again, but there was nothing. I have no choice, I thought. It’s my only option for survival. The incongruent images of a beautiful baby that would need me, and the horror of raising his child were gone. For the first time since it happened I felt numb. I felt nothing. I got up and put on an old pair of dance pants and a hoodie. They had warned me that I may continue to bleed after the procedure and that I should stock up on thick maxi pads. I had bought the fattest pads I could find at the drug store and threw two into my purse.
A nurse called my name and I was taken back to a sterile exam room. She took my vitals and handed me a paper gown.
I sat on the table, shivering.
“I am going to do an ultrasound and then I will put in the IV. You’ll start to feel a little drowsy and it will also reduce any pain you may experience,” she said.
She pulled the ultrasound machine over to the table and pulled the paper gown back. Once she had the image up she asked if I wanted to see it.
“No,” I said. I have no choice.
She put the machine away and hung a bag of fluid on a rack. I never liked needles and began to tremble. She spoke softly and tried to soothe me. She asked about school, what I was studying, and how my finals had gone. I felt the needle as it was forced into my vein. She covered it with tape and advised me to close my eyes and relax, as she placed a heating pad on my stomach. I tried to relax but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He must pay for this; for everything he’s put me through. How? I can’t sue him. I declined an investigation. How can I use everything I know about him to my advantage? How can I con him into giving me his money? Women get alimony in a divorce. What if I married him and then got a divorce. That’s crazy! It would never work!
Another young woman came in. She told me that she would stay with me throughout the procedure to ensure that I was okay, and that I could ask her anything I wanted because she’d been through this same procedure herself. My fear and anxiety began to melt away. The drugs are working.
An older woman in a white coat came in with the nurse. They asked me to move toward the end of the table and put my feet in the cold metal stirrups. The doctor warned me before inserting the cold metal speculum. I felt a sharp pinch. How many times do I have to be violated because of him?
She pulled a machine on a cart over to the side of the bed. It had multiple tubes hanging from it and looked like a vacuum cleaner from the 80s.
Despite the sedative and the local anesthetic I began to feel the pain that I had been warned about. I had never had bad cramps during my period, and for the first time I actually felt genuinely bad for Ali and all of the other women I knew who complained of bad cramps. The vacuum pulled at my insides. I looked around at the other women in the room and then back at the machine. I knew t
hey were there for support, but I was suddenly embarrassed. This is the kind of thing that no one is supposed to know about and here they are, witnesses to my shame. I imagined my insides being sucked out and moving through the tubes. My unborn child being sucked into the vacuum. I felt sick. It was as if the young nurse read my mine.