No More Sad Goodbyes

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “It’s good that you’re pregnant,” Madison says. “Now you’ll have your own family again.”

  I like Madison, but she says some really stupid stuff some­times.

  “You think a baby’s going to be a dad to me? Or a grandma?? I don’t want a baby!”

  “Sorry!” she says, sounding more angry than sorry.

  “I wanted an abortion but I couldn’t get one.”

  She rolls her eyes upward, like she can’t believe how stupid I am.

  “It’s not that hard. My sister’s only thirteen and she’s already had two abortions.”

  “I missed the time.”

  “Oh . . . That’s fucked,” Madison says, then she laughs like it’s the funniest thing she could ever possibly have said.

  I miss Danni. I miss having a real friend who I’ve known forever and who knows me, and who can find wittier things to laugh about than just “bitch,” and “shit,” and “fucked.”

  I miss the emails with Jason, too. And I miss real school. All school is here is read and answer questions, read and answer ques­tions. No discussion. No group work. No independent research. And it’s so easy, you hardly even have to think about it. Now that my brain is finally awake, it’s about to die of boredom.

  I miss volleyball, too. And I’d be starting track about now. I know . . . I wouldn’t be running track pregnant, but still . . . it feels like my muscles are getting soft. I don’t like it.

  I miss telling my dreams in the mornings. Yesterday I was sit­ting across from Jessie at breakfast and I said, “I dreamt this horse was . . .”

  “Who gives a fuck about your fucking dreams!” she’d said, picking up her tray and moving to another table.

  Chapter

  11

  In the morning, on our way to class, Miss F. catches up with

  us.

  “Here’s your book,” she says, handing me my copy of Ordinary People.

  I take it, surprised.

  “And your notebook, too. There’s no reason to keep these things from you,” she says, smiling.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” she says, turning around and walking back toward her office.

  “She’s cool,” Madison says. “You’re lucky you got her for a social worker. I’ve got that Bronson bitch. She wouldn’t bend a rule for a free trip to Hawaii. If Miss F. likes you she’ll let some shit slide by.”

  The first thing I do when I get to the classroom is turn to the back compartment of my notebook. The little heart is still there, next to Grams’ hairball. I know it’s dumb, but I’m so happy to have these things back, I feel like crying.

  Twenty minutes into the class period, I tuck my book under my loose sweatshirt and ask to be excused to the restroom. Because I’m pregnant, Ms. Guerra always excuses me.

  In the stall, behind the closed door, I open the cover of Ordinary People and slide my finger inside the book pocket. I feel it. The twenty-dollar bill. I scoot it up to the edge of the pocket, just far enough so I can see that it’s really the money, then I scoot it back down. It doesn’t even make the slightest bulge in the pocket. Even though it’s only twenty dollars, I feel rich.

  The thing about this place is that no one is supposed to have personal money. The points we make for good behavior we can “spend” on treats and things from a little “store” that’s open in the patio in the afternoons.

  But real money is not allowed. Here’s what I think. My dad’s money is none of their business.

  Back in the classroom, I lean close to the desk and slip the book out from under my sweatshirt.

  In the afternoon Ms. Lee takes me back to Planned Parenthood for my weekly visit to the doctor. This time, besides the standard examination, I get a sonogram. It’s weird, the technician smears this gel stuff on my abdomen and then uses something called a trans­ducer to send sound waves into my uterus. The result is a picture of the fetus.

  “Everything looks fine,” the doctor says, showing me the pic­ture. “You’ve got a girl in there.”

  At first, the picture looks kind of creepy to me—sort of like E.T., except not as cute. But then Dr. Singh points out the baby’s eyes, and eyebrows, and that she’s sucking her thumb, and I see that it is no longer just a mass of cells.

  I take the sonogram and put it inside the cover of my Ordinary People.

  When I tell my psychologist, Dr. K., that the sonogram looks like E.T., she asks if I think I’m dehumanizing my baby because I’m afraid of attachment. That’s what she thinks, but she’d never say that straight out. Everything she says is a question, like it’s some kind of rule for psychologists to only talk in questions.

  I go into what is now my private room, even if only for a little while. I fold my pillow to make it thicker and lie down on my side. Ordinary People propped open beside me. I’ve got to have a bed­time story. Tonight’s the night I’m going to tell my dad that I’m pregnant. I’ve waited too long as it is. So, tonight, first the bedtime story, then the serious talk.

  The tragic death Mr. Mosier told me about when he gave me the book turns out to be a seventeen-year-old guy. He drowned, and his brother, Conrad, blames himself. I guess he was sixteen or so when his brother drowned.

  The part I read tonight is about Conrad going to see a psycholo­gist. It seems like Conrad’s psychologist follows the same “only talk in questions” rule that Dr. K. lives by.

  I slip the sonogram between pages forty-six and forty-seven to mark my place, then get the heart rock from its place at the back of my notebook.

  I turn out the light, grip the rock tightly in my fist, and move over close to the wall, making room for my dad. I wait, very quietly, wanting to feel the weight of his body as he sits beside me at the edge of the bed.

  “Dad? Daddy? I have something to tell you.’’

  “I’m all ears, Kid.”

  “It’s bad,” I say.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  As soon as I tell him, I start crying, just like I know I would have if I’d told him back in . . . back in real life.

  “Well . . . your timing’s off on this one, isn’t it?”

  “It’s already too late for an abortion,” I tell him, crying even harder.

  “Daddy? Do you think I’m an awful person?”

  “I think you’re Awesome Autumn. I think this changes a lot of things for you, but you’ll figure it all out.”

  “It’s a girl.”

  “You’ll be part of the solution.”

  “I miss you so much, Daddy,” I sob, wishing I could feel his arms around me, comforting me.

  “I love you, Autumn. You’re awesome . . .”

  In the morning my eyes are nearly swollen shut from crying and there is a deep indentation in the palm of my hand from where I’ve clutched the heart stone all night long. I feel better, though—relieved that my Dad finally knows, and that he still loves me.

  I’m not crazy even if I do have to see a psychologist. I know he’s dead. But he’s not dead to me.

  I’m on my way to wait for the Teen Moms’ van when Madi­son flashes her Level One badge at the receptionist and we walk through the front door together. I lower my awkward body onto the bench out front and Madison flops down beside me.

  “You’re going back out into the big tough world,” she says. “Re­member, it’s ‘bitch,’ not ‘witch.’ It’s ‘shit,’ not ‘shite.’

  I laugh.

  “I mean it. You’re in the real world now, you’ve got to talk like a grownup!” Madison says, looking as serious as if she’s just given me her very own secret passwords to happiness.

  “Say “’fuck,’” she demands.

  I laugh harder.

  “Come on! Just once! Show me you can do it!”

  “Fuck,” I whisper, half covering my mouth with my hands.

  “Oh, that is the weakest fuck I ever heard,” Madison says. She sighs, “I guess it’s a start, though.”

  A yellow van with Frank Ste
rling Unified School District paint­ed on the side rounds the corner. I stand up and lift my just-released backpack over my shoulder.

  “Laters!” Madison says, waving as she walks back toward the building. “Have fun with all the other big mamas!”

  I get on the van and show my temporary bus pass. “Sit any­where,” the driver says. Like I expected assigned seats?

  There’s only one other girl in the van and she’s looking out the side window like she didn’t even notice me get on. I sit on the op­posite side and stare out the opposite window. A few miles later the van picks up two girls, one with a baby and one who looks like her baby’s due in about five minutes. The one with the baby carries it to the back seat and sits down with it. The other girl eases herself into the seat in front of me. She sits sideways, resting her back against the window, and turns to face me.

  “When’s yours due?’’

  “February 15th.”

  “Really? Mine’s February 2nd.”

  She takes a long look at my belly.

  “You’re not very big for being February 15th, are you?”

  “I don’t know. I feel huge!” I say.

  “But look at me!” she says, rubbing her hands over her belly, laughing. Huge doesn’t begin to describe it. Giganticus?

  “My name’s Madonna, after the singer,” she says.

  “I’m Autumn, after the season.”

  “People just call me Donna.”

  “People just call me Autumn.”

  We both laugh. The girl on the other side turns to stare at us long enough to show she’s not amused, then looks back out the window. The baby in the back starts whimpering, then escalates to a full cry.

  We’re passing rundown houses with wrought iron bars on the windows and doors. There’s a strip mall with graffiti sprayed on the sidewalk and on some of the storefronts. It reminds me of where Jason used to live. I wonder what he’s doing right now. It’s 8:10. He’s probably in class, maybe discussing like how to combat world hunger, or what to do about global warming. Jason loves to come up with big ideas for big problems.

  Danni’s in Peer Communications, maybe hearing an interest­ing discussion. That’s where I would be, if I were still at Hamilton High. If I hadn’t been so stupid. And if I hadn’t lost time in outer space.

  The van pulls into a wide driveway and stops in front of a ce­mented area with a tall flagpole. The American flag hangs from the top, and the California bear flag hangs below it. I walk with Donna through the gate that says Teen Age Pregnancy and Parenting Pro­gram into a small classroom with pregnancy/childbirth/baby care displays lining the walls. There’s a large whiteboard on a wall at the front of the room, and there are six large tables like the kind they had in the study room of the library at Hamilton High.

  A very tall, very large woman with bright red lipstick and jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail calls out to me from across the room.

  “You must be Autumn! Right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  She gives me a quick smile and walks across the room to meet me.

  “I’m Brenda Miller. Just call me Brenda. We’re all on a first name basis here.

  “You’ve got enrollment papers for me?”

  I dig the envelope out of my backpack and hand it to Brenda. A woman carrying a load of papers comes in through a side door.

  “Hey, Lupe. Come meet our new student,” Brenda booms out.

  The woman stacks her papers neatly on a back shelf, next to a row of computers, and comes over to where we’re standing.

  “I’m Lupe Mendoza,” she says, extending her hand to me.

  “Autumn,” I say, giving her the kind of firm handshake my dad taught me to do.

  “Welcome to TAPP. I think you’ll like it here,” she says. Her voice is as soft as Brenda’s is loud. She’s about a foot shorter and probably a hundred pounds lighter. She’s wearing beige pants and a beige blouse.

  By now the room is buzzing with the chatter of fifteen or so girls. I’m guessing maybe twelve of the girls are in various stages of preg­nancy and the other three already have babies.

  “Lupe. would you get a journal for Autumn and help her get started with the morning’s writing?” Brenda asks.

  “Sure. Let’s sit over there.” Lupe says, pointing to an empty table near the back wall.

  Lupe brings me a three-ringed notebook with dividers.

  “This is the journal you’ll keep for your baby,” she says. “That’s the first thing we do every morning.”

  Lupe tells me that only Brenda reads the journals and she keeps

  everything she reads confidential. The only exceptions to confiden­tiality are if we write that we’re in any kind of danger, or that we’re putting ourselves or someone else at risk. We’re supposed to write at least a page every day, and we write directly to our babies. Pens, not pencils, are to be used, so the writing will last for a long time.

  “Students usually like to decorate their journals,” Lupe says. “Some of them are just beautiful! They’ll be such a treasure to the babies when they’re older.”

  I glance around the room.

  The girls are seated three or four to a table, with their journals open in front of them. The only sound now is of pens on paper and an occasional sniff or sigh.

  “I’ll leave you to do your writing, then I’ll come back and show you how to set up the notebook sections,” Lupe says. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Yes,” I say, bringing out my old notebook and getting a pen from the front zipper bag.

  “Don’t worry about the dividers for now. Just put the day and the date at the top and start out with ‘Dear Baby,’” Lupe says, plac­ing the opened journal in front of me before she walks away.

  I read what’s on the whiteboard.

  Write to your baby about one hope you have for him/her. Ex­plain fully.

  At the top of the paper I write “Tuesday, November 13.” I drop down two lines and write “Dear Baby.” Then I stare at the page and doodle in the margins, then finally write:

  I’m supposed to tell you about one hope I have for you, but I didn’t even think you were a baby until I saw your pic­ture yesterday, so it’s not like I’ve got hopes.

  When the fifteen minutes of writing time is over, Lupe comes back with labels for the notebook dividers.

  One says “Dear Baby, From Mom to You.” One says, “Your Physical Development,” and another is “My Plan for Baby and Me.” There’s a label for “Your Family History,” and one for “Ran­dom Thoughts and Images.”

  Lupe’s showing me which labels go where when Brenda comes over. “If you can help Brittany with her math, I’ll go over Autumn’s credit evaluation with her,” she says.

  “Sure,” Lupe says. “We can finish setting up her journal later.”

  Brenda sits down next to me and puts my transcript and a chart that lists the requirements for high school graduation in front of me. Most of my requirements are checked off.

  “You only need to complete English, American Government,

  and Economics to get your diploma, a total of eighteen credits.”

  “What about Spanish IV?” I ask.

  “I see that you were taking Spanish IV at your previous school, but it’s not a graduation requirement. Neither is Peer Communica­tions or Art or Physical Education.”

  “But don’t I need those other classes to qualify for my scholar­ship?”

  The phone rings and Lupe answers it.

  “Superintendent’s office,” she says to Brenda.

  Brenda groans.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says, getting up. “You might want to check your requirement assessment to be sure I’ve included every­thing.”

  I sit staring at my transcript—the record of my whole high school life to now. Except for Spanish II, and Chemistry, I’ve got all A’s and B’s—mostly A’s. There’s the art class that I loved so much it made me want to be an artist, at least until I realized I had zero talent. And ther
e’s Peer Communications, which was an awesome class. If it hadn’t been for PC, I probably would never even have heard of Planned Parenthood, or known about birth control, or how to arrange for an abortion. Not that knowing all that stuff did any good. But it could have.

  There’s English with Miss Oldham from last year. “Hard work and a laugh a minute,” she’d promised. And chemistry with Dr. Frankel, also known as Dr. Frankelstein. If they gave out national awards for worst teacher of the year, he’d be a winner every year.

  Brenda comes back to the table.

  “Did I get everything listed?” she asks, pointing to the Gradua­tion Requirement Evaluation sheet.

  “I think so,” I tell her.

  The phone rings again, and again it is for Brenda.

  “I’m sorry, “she says, handing me a red pencil. “Check every­thing off to be sure I’ve got it all, would you? I’ll be right back.”

  I put little checks beside everything on my transcript that’s listed on the evaluation sheet. The only thing missing is the drama class from last year. I add that in the electives column. I only signed up for the class because Danni wanted to take drama and she didn’t want to be the only person in the class who couldn’t act. Then, when Carole saw drama listed on Danni’s preliminary program, she told her to choose an elective more in keeping with their Christian values. So then I was the only person in drama who couldn’t act. But I ended up doing lights, which was fun, and was worth an A.

  When we were sophomores, the drama department had chosen a play that dealt with AIDS for their spring production. Danni’s parents and a whole lot of other people complained the subject was inappropriate for high school students. I guess that’s why Carole didn’t want Danni to be in drama.

  Danni was hecka mad that Carole wouldn’t let her take drama. She didn’t speak to her mom for days. But then when they met with their weekly mother/daughter prayer group, everyone prayed that the hurt between mother and daughter could be healed, and that Danni would always be careful to use her talents in the service of God. Danni got all teary-eyed when she told me about it.

  “My mom loves me so much, she wants me to be with her in Par­adise for all eternity. She doesn’t want me to take any chances.”