No More Sad Goodbyes

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Do you want phone contact with the adoptive family?” Yes.

  “Do you want to see the child occasionally over the years? How often?” Skip.

  “Will anyone else want these privileges? Is there anyone you would specifically want to exclude?” Skip.

  I read back over the items I’ve skipped, still not sure how to an­swer. I set that section aside and go on to the next one. Penny comes into the kitchen and glances at the “birth plan” forms.

  “We can go over these things together after your next doctor’s visit,” she says.

  “Good idea!” I say, relieved to set the whole thing aside.

  “I’d like to go with you to the doctor, if you don’t mind,” Penny says.

  “Sure.”

  I get my appointment card from my backpack and hand it to her.

  “So, Friday at 2:00?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll get someone to cover sixth period for me.”

  On Tuesday evening, when I’m sure Carole will be out, I dial Danni’s number. I’m not sure what I’ll say after hello. I just know I’ve got to talk to her.

  “Hello?”

  “Danni?”

  “Autumn???”

  “Yeah. How are you?”

  “How am I? How are you???”

  “I’m fine. Better.”

  “Better than what?”

  “Better than I was,” I say. “How about you?”

  “I’m better than I was, too,” she says, laughing. “Oh, Autumn, I can’t wait for you to meet Evan! He’s sooooo cool! And I can’t wait to see you. Where are you? When can we get together? Where are you going to school?”

  After a ton of questions, and more talk about Evan, and news of Krystal and Stacy and Shantell, and the rest of the volleyball-lunch group, Danni tells me she has the car tomorrow because she takes Hannah to soccer practice every Wednesday.

  “I could come get you after I drop her off,” Danni says.

  I tell her I’m staying with a foster family, but it’s better to meet somewhere than for me to have visitors. I don’t really lie to her, I

  just don’t say anything about who I’m staying with.

  “Well, where can I meet you, then? What’s some place close to where you live?”

  “Do you know where that big shopping center is in San Remo?”

  “Near where Coach Nicholson lives?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Where we got stuff for the party last summer?”

  After more talk about the details, we decide to meet tomorrow afternoon at Jamba Juice in the San Remo shopping center.

  “I can’t wait,” Danni says.

  “Me either.”

  “I’ll bring pictures of Evan.”

  “Cool.”

  “How about you? Is there a guy in your life?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  I stand in front of the mirror in the pink bedroom, trying to see myself through Danni’s eyes. My big belly. My chopped hair. My pale skin. If I were seeing me for the first time in months, I’d be totally shocked.

  At Hamilton High, between volleyball and my jogging routine, I was outside a lot. And even though I always wore sunscreen, I had a year-round light tan. Not anymore.

  Oh, well. I can’t hide from my very best friend forever. At least I don’t want to. I’ve missed Danni soooo much. I hope we can still find something to laugh about.

  It’s pouring down rain when the school van drops me off at the corner, about half a block from Nikki and Penny’s. I hurry to the house and let myself inside with the key they had made for me. This is so different, so much better than being in the county home. I’m free to come and go as I please, as long as I let someone know where to reach me and when to expect me home. Now that I have minutes on my cell phone, I can talk on the phone whenever I want, and use the computer, and shower whenever I want. Stay up late, or go to bed early—it’s up to me. More than that, though. I’m with people who care—not because they’re paid to care, but just because they care.

  I change into dry clothes and stretch out on the couch in the den, spinning past channel after channel, finding nothing I want to settle on. Elvis jumps onto the back of the couch, then eases him­self down gently onto my belly, as if he doesn’t want to disturb the baby. Maybe that swift kick he got the other night taught him some respect.

  I go through the channels again, then press the off button on the remote. I’m so nervous about seeing Danni, I can’t think about anything else. If she had a cell phone I’d call and say I was sick or something, but there’s no way I can reach her right now. I think about just not showing up, but that’d be so cold, to let her drive all the way over here, in the rain, and me not be there.

  I open my Economics book and try to read the assignment, but I can’t stay focused. I lift Elvis off my belly and go into the bath­room, closing the door behind me. I hate when he jumps up on my lap when I’m on the toilet! With a light dab of gel, I scrunch my hair up. Some blush and lip gloss adds a little color. Taking an umbrella from the stand near the back door, I step outside into a light drizzle and make my way toward the shopping center.

  At Jamba Juice I order a Strawberry Swirl and take a table in the corner, facing the door. It feels as if hundreds of butterflies are flut­tering around in my stomach, and the baby isn’t even kicking.

  I’m halfway finished with my drink when I see Danni’s blue Nissan turn into the parking lot. Now it’s thousands of butterflies. I watch her pull into a parking place a few spaces down from the Jamba Juice entrance. When I see her, that curly red hair and round, smiling face, I forget the butterflies and rush to the door.

  “Autumn!” she squeals, loud enough that everyone in the shop turns to look.

  We throw our arms around each other, laughing, then push away. Danni’s smile fades quickly.

  “What’d you do to your hair?”

  “I had to . . .”

  “Oh, my God!” she says, her eyes now on my belly.

  I feel my face grow hot while everyone in the shop seems to be watching us.

  “I’ve got my drink over here,” I say, walking toward the corner table.

  I sit down, but Danni is still standing at the door, staring. At first I wonder if she’s going to stay or go, but then she comes to the table and sits down.

  “You’re pregnant?” she whispers, her eyes wide with astonish­ment.

  I nod.

  “I didn’t even think you had a boyfriend!”

  “I don’t.”

  “Oh, my God! Were you raped? God! That’s awful!” she says, tears gathering in her eyes.

  I shake my head.

  “No. No . . . it’s nothing like that.”

  “But . . . when are you due?”

  “February 15,” I say, watching as she counts backwards to May.

  “You were pregnant all summer??”

  I nod.

  “And you didn’t even tell me?”

  “I . . . I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” she asks, anger creeping into her voice.

  “I just . . . I don’t know . . . At first I couldn’t believe it, and then . . . it was so embarrassing, and I kept hoping it would go away, you know, like one of those early miscarriages . . . and . . .”

  “Did your Dad know? Or your grandmother?”

  “No one,” I say, shaking my head. “I made a stupid, stupid mis­take, and I knew I had to work through it on my own.”

  “Who’s the father?”

  I stare into my drink, not answering.

  Danni goes to the counter, taking heavy steps, the way she does when she’s angry. She orders a Mega Mango, loudly, as if she’s an­gry at the counter person, too. I take a sip of what’s left of my now warm strawberry drink, wondering if Danni and I are still friends, or if she’s going to be like her mother and turn me away because I’m pregnant.

  Danni waits for her drink a
t the counter, her back to me. I’m remembering when I was twelve, when I first got my period. I didn’t tell Danni right away. I guess I was embarrassed or something. Then one afternoon, months later, Danni and I were hanging out at my house. She went into the bathroom and came out red-faced.

  “You got your period???”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Around Christmas.”

  “Three months ago? And you didn’t even tell me?? Your best friend-almost-sister???”

  She’d stomped out the door and wouldn’t even speak to me for over a week. Now, seeing her straight, stiff back as she waits at the counter, I’m thinking maybe my long-secret pregnancy will be too much for our friendship to bear.

  When her drink is ready she still waits at the counter, as if trying to decide whether to turn back to me or walk out the door. Finally, she turns to face me. Tears are running down her cheeks.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  I follow her to the car.

  For what feels like a long time, Danni sits with her head against her folded arms, her arms resting on the steering wheel of her moth­er’s car. The sound of the rain beating hard against the car adds an eerie rhythm to our long silence.

  I’d like to say something, but I don’t know what. Besides, it’s hard to talk to a buried face. I sit watching giant raindrops reflecting light from the Jamba Juice sign, wishing my hair were still as long and pretty as Jesus’s hair is in the laminated picture that hangs from the rear view mirror.

  A crack of thunder startles Danni to attention.

  “How long is this storm supposed to last, anyway?” she asks, looking at me for the first time since she ordered her drink inside.

  “All week, I think.”

  A distant flash of lightning. A faint roll of thunder.

  “I hate this weather!” Danni says.

  She goes on about how she hates the rain, even if everyone says how much we need it, and how she really hates the lightning.

  “More people are killed by lightning every year than they are

  by . . .”

  “Stop talking about the weather!”

  She gives me a surprised look, like maybe she’d forgotten I was here.

  “Listen, Danni, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but it’s not like there’ve been a lot of chances to talk lately with me locked away in the home.”

  “Oh! But you were already four months pregnant even before . . . before . . . And I tell you everything! I’ve always told you ev­erything! And you were going to have a baby and you didn’t even tell me!”

  “It was just. . . I was pregnant, but I wasn’t going to have a baby. . . At least, I didn’t think I was going to have a baby back then. I was going to get an abortion.”

  “You were going to murder your baby!” she shrieks.

  “It wasn’t a baby then!”

  “Who are you anyway?? I don’t even know you! I’ve missed you so much, and been so worried, and . . .”

  “Oh, poor you! Poor Little Miss Dannielle! So betrayed by her best friend! Shit! This isn’t all about you! How do you think I feel? I lost my whole family,” I yell, choking back tears. “And then I lost my second family because your mother, my second mother, sent me away when she found out I’d been a bad girl! And now I am going to have a baby, and I feel like shit, and I’ve lost my scholarship, and so excuse me if I’m not joining in on your pity-party!” I scream, giving way to tears, sobbing, gasping for air, my chest heaving so hard it starts the baby kicking.

  Danni puts her head back down on the steering wheel and I can tell from the shaky movements of her back that she, too, is cry­ing. And it’s pouring down rain. And there’s lightning. And thunder. And I want the storm to let up. I want it all to let up.

  “My mother sent you away?” Danni asks softly.

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “She just told me we couldn’t be your foster family anymore. I thought it was some state regulation or something. I kept wanting to get in touch with you, but she said that was against the rules . . . That’s what you said, too, on the phone that day.”

  “You could have called, or come to see me, or written, you just would have needed an okay. She knew that. She just didn’t want you to be exposed. Like pregnancy’s catching or something.”

  We sit watching the rain. The parking lot is nearly empty now. There’s no one in the Jamba Juice place except the two people who work there. I rub my belly, wanting to quiet the still active baby. Danni gives me a long, searching look.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  Slowly, we start talking, catching up on the details of our lives. I tell her about the home, being stripped down, and searched, and checked for lice.

  Her eyes widen.

  “That’s horrible,” she says.

  I tell her about Madison, and Dericia, and their vocabulary les­sons.

  Danni tells me about Hannah, and everybody at the lunch table, and what she’s wearing to the Winter Ball. She shows me pictures of Evan—one wallet sized graduation picture with him in cap and gown, and two snapshots taken on their front porch, one of him with Hannah, and the other with Danni. He’s handsome, with a nice smile.

  “He’s so sweet,” Danni says. “He calls every morning before school, and every night before phone shut-off time at the Hopkins house.”

  “Your mom lets you get that many phone calls? From a guy?”

  “That’s what’s so cool. My mom loves him. He’s a junior pastor at our church . . .”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s nineteen. He goes to City College now, but next year he’ll be going away, to Bible College.”

  I pick up the picture of them together and look at it again. I know you can’t always tell by pictures, but they both look pretty happy. I glance again at the picture with Hannah.

  “Hannah’s totally in love with Evan, too,” Danni says, laugh­ing.

  “What about Jason?”

  “Oh, you know Hannah. Short attention span. She loves whoever’s around.”

  I hand the pictures back to Danni, wondering if Hannah ever thinks about me, her almost-sister, anymore. As if reading my mind, Danni reaches past the console and puts her hand on mine.

  “Hannah still carries that picture of you in her Sleeping Beauty purse. Just a few nights ago she had it out looking at it when I went in to tell her goodnight. We talked about how much we both still missed you.”

  “Tell her hi for me. Tell her I miss her too, a lot.”

  Danni nods. The rain has let up now, and Jamba Juice is getting busy again. Five girls wearing San Remo High School hoodies are sitting at the corner table where Danni and I had been just an hour ago. They’re laughing and goofing around. I try to remember what it was like to feel so lighthearted. I can’t.

  “Listen. I . . .”

  I turn my attention away from the laughing girls, to a serious Danni.

  “. . . I want to be there for you. I want to be your baby’s god­mother. I want it . . . it ?”

  “Her,” I say.

  Danni smiles.

  “I want her to call me Aunt Danni, let me fix her hair, and . . .”

  “I don’t think that’s how it will be,” I say.

  Danni looks away.

  “Please,” she whispers. “Don’t hold it against me, that I was mad at you. You know how I get. Don’t not be friends with me anymore.”

  “It’s not that! I always want us to be friends . . . you know that! It’s just that . . . well . . . I’ve still got a lot to figure out.”

  “But you can’t get an abortion now!”

  “No. It’s a baby now. I’m definitely having a baby in Febru­ary.”

  “You haven’t promised someone else they could be the god­mother, have you? That Madison girl’s not going to be the god­mother, is she?”

  “No . . . Oh, Danni, there’s still so much to talk about,” I say,
suddenly exhausted by the contrast between the laughing girls in the juice place and Danni and me, all out of laughs, in the car.

  Danni looks at the clock on the dashboard.

  “Uh-oh. I’m going to be late!”

  She starts the engine. “I’ll take you home,” she says. “Just tell me how to get there.”

  “I’m not supposed to be hanging out with old friends yet, so it’d be better if they didn’t see you drop me off. Can you just take me to the library? It’s real close.”

  Danni backs out of the parking space and I direct her to the li­brary, just two blocks away.

  “We’re close to Coach Nicholson’s, aren’t we?” Danni says. “If we had more time we should stop by and see her. I know she’d love to see you. She was totally worried about you until you called that day at lunch and said you were okay.”

  Danni pulls up in front of the library.

  “Email me,” I say, opening the car door.

  “Who’s the father?” she asks, wanting the other huge truth that remains hidden.

  I shake my head.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she says, her face going closed again.

  “I am going to tell you. But it’s going to take more than three minutes,” I say, pointing to the clock. “And please, please, please! Don’t tell anyone I’m pregnant. Promise?”

  “Promise,” she says.

  I get out of the car.

  “I’ve missed you a lot,” Danni says.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I say, closing the door and walking up the library steps.

  I wait inside, watching through a side window as Danni turns the corner. I give it a few more minutes, then step outside into the now gentle rain. I open the umbrella and walk back down the steps. The air feels fresh and clean, sort of like how I feel having finally let Danni know that I’m pregnant. It’s been awful, keeping secrets from my best friend. I vow never to do that again. Except . . . how will I ever tell her the Jason part of the pregnancy picture?

  Chapter

  21

  I shake out the dripping umbrella and put it back in the um­brella stand near the door, then slip off my wet shoes.

  “Sit right down and I’ll get you some dry things,” Penny says, alarmed.