What Kind of Love?

by Sheila Cole

  Then Dr. Winder said okay, if Peter wanted to be that way, two could play that game. Either Peter could go with him right now or he would stop sending Mrs. Winder support checks. He blamed her. He said that if she were ever home, Peter wouldn’t be in this mess. What could Peter do? He couldn’t hurt his mother and his brother.

  Peter said I shouldn’t worry. He’s not going to let anyone keep him from marrying me. He’ll be back home as soon as his father has cooled down, because his father’s new wife doesn’t want him living there.

  All the time I’ve known Peter, he’s told me what a mean bastard his father is. I always thought he was exaggerating, but he wasn’t. I can’t believe he’d make Peter choose between me and his family that way. I’m scared of what he’ll do next.

  Friday, August 16

  Four days since he left. I’ve called Santa Barbara at least twenty times. I keep getting the answering machine. They must have gone away. I should call Peter’s brother—he’ll know what’s going on.

  Saturday, August 17

  Peter called from a pay phone somewhere in Massachusetts. His father’s trying to enroll him in some prep school, but Peter doesn’t think he’ll get in because it’s too late—their classes are already filled. They are only talking to him to be polite because his father went there. He said he’ll be home before school starts. He was telling me that he loves me when the line went dead.

  What if he does get into that school? I know he said that everything would be all right, that he’ll be back and we’ll be together. But I can’t help worrying. Nothing has gone right for us so far, has it?

  Sunday, August 18

  Mrs. Ikura has been looking at me kind of funny. I wonder if she can tell. She hasn’t said anything. I’ve been wearing super loose clothes, so maybe she doesn’t know. I can’t afford to lose this job now.

  I’ve been working and working on The Lark, and it still doesn’t sound right. Sometimes I think I should give it up, but I can’t. I have to do this. It’s a challenge. My music is the only thing in my life that isn’t a complete mess.

  Monday, August 19

  Mom and I went back to see Dr. Price this morning for my five-month checkup.

  Although I dreaded going, I have to admit it wasn’t so bad. It felt kind of weird—lying there with my belly uncovered, with this man I hardly knew bending over it, listening to my insides with this cold stethoscope. I could feel his breath against my skin. He let me take a turn listening to the baby’s heart. I couldn’t hear anything that sounded like a heartbeat, but I said I did.

  He asked me if I had felt the baby move. I didn’t think so, but when he said it felt like a butterfly fluttering, I realized I had. Then I had the ultrasound.

  It was incredible! The nurse or technician put some sort of warm goop on my belly and then rubbed this plastic thing back and forth over it, and there it was on this television screen—a tiny baby. My baby!

  Until the minute I saw it, and its tiny hand moved as if it were waving at us, I had never thought about it as a real baby. It was just something that was causing me trouble. But when I saw it, tears came into my eyes.

  The technician was nice. “It really is something to actually see it,” she said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to cry.

  She asked if I wanted to wait to see if it would move so we could tell if it was a boy or a girl. I wanted to know, and at the same time I didn’t. Anyway, the baby never got into a position where we could see. It doesn’t matter. It’s mine, whatever it is—mine and Peter’s.

  Now that I know what it’s like, I keep feeling the baby move. It hasn’t stopped the whole time I’ve been writing.

  My dear little astronaut with your butterfly kicks, I love you.

  Tuesday, August 20

  Mrs. Ikura asked me if I was pregnant this morning. I knew she would let me go as soon as she found out, and she did.

  She said she’d thought I might be pregnant for a couple of weeks now, but she wasn’t sure. She told me she was sorry to have to let me go because I’ve been a good worker. But she needs someone who can do a lot of lifting and carrying, and she doesn’t feel that she can ask me to do it in “my condition.”

  I wanted to beg her to change her mind, but I didn’t. I didn’t say a word. I just bit my lip and nodded like I understood.

  I didn’t really like working there that much anyway. But it was a job, and I needed the money. I’m going to need money even more with the baby coming—and who’s going to hire me if they know I’m pregnant?

  Wow! I just had an idea! What if I could give violin lessons to little kids? Mrs. Rykoff would know, but I’m embarrassed to ask her because I’d have to explain to her why I want to do it.

  Wednesday, August 21

  Sandy’s friend Heather came over. They were talking about what classes they’re taking next semester, and I wasn’t really listening to them. Out of the blue, Heather turns to me and asks, “Are you going back to school?”

  Her saying that made me realize that Mrs. Ikura wasn’t the only one. Everyone can tell. I didn’t know what to say to her because I haven’t been thinking about school at all.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Oh,” Sandy said in that know-it-all way she sometimes has, “of course she’s going to school. She can’t quit at the end of tenth grade.”

  “I don’t know.” I said. “I’ve been thinking about becoming a welfare mother and watching television all day.”

  She gave me one of her dirty looks and opened the freezer to see if there was any ice cream.

  I forgot that school starts in two weeks. I can just see it now. Me coming into class every day, and everyone watching me get bigger and bigger, pretending they’re not really looking. Some of them will feel sorry for me—they’re the ones who will try to be nice, but not too nice. Most kids will act like I’m not there, like I’m some kind of subhuman. Wouldn’t want to be contaminated by someone like me. I don’t think I could stand that. It would be too hard.

  Thursday, August 22

  I told Mom when we were doing the dishes that I wanted to quit school and get a job. Though I wasn’t even talking to him, Daddy blew up. “Isn’t it bad enough you got yourself pregnant? Now you’re telling us you want to quit school, too.”

  First he tells me I have to have an abortion or go away because he can’t face people, and now he tells me I have to go to school. He’ll throw me out of the house if I quit. “I pay for the roof over your head and the clothes on your back,” he shouted. “And as long as it’s me who pays, you are going to finish high school.”

  Boy, he brings it up every chance he gets: “I’m supporting you, so you have to do whatever I say.” I wouldn’t take a nickel from him if I didn’t have to.

  It doesn’t matter anyway, because I can’t quit school until I turn sixteen, which isn’t for a month and a half. But they can’t make me go back to Irvine High, not even for six weeks. Even Daddy understands that. Mom’s taking off work tomorrow to see if I can enroll somewhere else.

  Friday, August 23

  Saw Mrs. Garnet, my school counselor. It was humiliating. I knew it would be. Mom told her I was “… uh … expecting.” Mrs. Garnet said there was nothing to keep me from coming back to Irvine, but the district has a school-age mothers’ program in downtown Santa Ana. I could enroll now, and after the baby came, the school would provide day care while I was in class. There were classes in child development and discussion groups about being pregnant and raising kids, too. It sounded okay to me. But I could tell from the way Mom’s cheek muscle was twitching that she didn’t like it.

  Mom asked about home study, and Mrs. Garnet got all huffy. She said I’d have to have some medical condition that kept me from participating in regular classes and a doctor’s letter to be eligible. She admitted that some pregnant girls did home study, but she’s against it. “What you don’t understand, Mrs. Larch,” she said in that know-it-all way people like her have, “is that in home study, the girls a
ren’t forced to confront the deep intrapsychic needs that made them get pregnant in the first place. It has been my experience that if girls like Valerie don’t resolve those needs, they go right out and get pregnant again.”

  She made me so mad I stood up to go. But Mom didn’t move. She put one hand over mine and made me sit down while Mrs. Garnet went on.

  We decided that I would enroll in the school-age mothers’ program for the time being.

  Mom didn’t say a word until we were out in the car. Then she exploded. She said she didn’t want me in the program. She said it wasn’t academic and I wouldn’t learn anything in it. “It’s designed for girls who are going to be nothing but mothers.”

  “What’s wrong with being a mother?” I asked, which made her even madder.

  “It’s not funny, Valerie,” she snapped at me. “Having a baby doesn’t have to mean your life is over. That program is a dead end. It doesn’t qualify you to go to college or teach you marketable skills—and take it from me, because I know from bitter experience, you’re going to need to earn a living. Eventually you’re going to have to be an adult. You can’t be a teenager who got pregnant for the rest of your life. You have to look ahead. That’s what Daddy and I are trying to tell you. That’s why we don’t want you to quit school. And that’s why you’re not going to keep this baby, if we have anything to say about it.”

  “You don’t have anything to say about it,” I said, and we didn’t say another word the whole way home.

  I was thinking about what Mom said about the school-age mothers’ program being a dead end and about all the fun things I’d miss not going to school, like hanging out with Carrie and Dianne and all the other kids, and playing in the orchestra and being in school plays and the prom and graduation. And I started to feel sorry for myself. I even began to think that she’s right. I am too young to be anyone’s mother. Then I had to stop and tell myself it wasn’t the baby’s fault I got pregnant. It’s my fault for letting it happen—and Peter’s.

  Please don’t take it personally, my little astronaut. I know I shouldn’t feel that way about being pregnant with you. It’s not your fault. But sometimes when I think about all the things I’m going to miss out on, I can’t help it.

  Saturday, August 24

  Yesterday Dianne asked me if I wanted to take a bike ride with her to El Moro Beach, “if it won’t hurt the baby or anything.” I said I couldn’t go. Then today Arianna asked me to go to the beach with her. There was no way I was going to let everyone see me in a bathing suit, so I made some excuse. The only people I don’t feel funny being with right now are Carrie and Nick. They’ve been terrific. Nick and I walked all the way to Penguin’s after dinner the other night: five miles there and back just to get some frozen yogurt. And last night Carrie and I went to the movies. Afterward we sat in the car and talked.

  She thought that it was a big mistake for me to switch schools. She said I was being paranoid, most kids wouldn’t even notice that I was pregnant. But I said she was wrong. How could I go to swim meets or football games or hang around the lunch tables where the guys sit when I was expecting a kid? And what was I going to do once the baby is born? Take it to my classes? To dances? Parties? There’s day care at the school-age mothers’ program. And the other girls in the program are in the same boat. She said I was throwing away my chance for a decent education. She was starting to sound just like my mom, so I changed the subject and asked about her and Tom. She said she knew she should break up with him because of what he did when she was away, but she didn’t want to because she still liked him a lot.

  She asked me about Peter. I said I thought he’d be home soon, although I didn’t know for sure.

  “Haven’t you spoken to him?” she asked.

  “Not for a week,” I admitted.

  “He hasn’t called for a whole week!” she yelled.

  I told her that it’s hard for Peter to call from a pay phone with his father watching him all the time and with my mother or father hanging up on him. The whole time I was saying that, though, I was thinking, why hasn’t he called? What if he doesn’t come back? Carrie must have read my mind, because then she asked me what I was going to do if Peter didn’t come home. “I don’t know,” I said. “But he is coming back. He promised he would.”

  She drove me home because I had to go to the bathroom. I must go at least twenty times a day. The pregnancy books tell you that you’re eating for two, but they don’t tell you that you’re peeing for two.

  Sunday, August 25

  Carrie heard from Tom that Peter is going to school back East. She kept saying that it’s only a rumor, Tom doesn’t know definitely, and I shouldn’t believe it until I hear from Peter. But I haven’t heard from Peter, and I have this sinking feeling that it’s true and he’s afraid to call and tell me. Oh, please, God, let it not be true. Please let him come back.

  Monday, August 26

  It’s true. Peter isn’t coming back. He’s been accepted at Westfield.

  I felt like I’d been hit over the head with a hammer. I was standing in the kitchen looking out at the backyard when his brother called me, and everything went blurry. After I hung up, I staggered over to a chair and sat down. I couldn’t think. My chest felt ready to explode.

  Nick came in and asked me if I was okay. I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t. I just started sobbing and couldn’t stop.

  He can’t be going to school there. He said he’d be back. He promised he wasn’t going to let anything keep us apart. And I believed him. What am I going to do? I can’t have this baby by myself. I feel so alone. I wish something would happen to it. I wish I were dead.

  I can’t get this book called An American Tragedy out of my head. It’s about this guy who gets a poor factory girl named Roberta pregnant. Then he meets this rich girl and falls in love with her. So he takes Roberta out boating to drown her so he can be free to marry the rich girl, only he doesn’t have the nerve to push her overboard. The rowboat overturns by accident, and Roberta drowns anyway.

  It’s not that I think Peter ever wanted to murder me or anything like that, but I wonder if he’s relieved things turned out like this. He can forget about me and go on with his life like nothing happened. Peter isn’t a weasel like the guy in An American Tragedy. Still, you can’t really tell about other people, can you? I was counting on Peter, really counting on him, and I shouldn’t have. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t know what else to do.

  Saturday, August 31

  Dianne and I bumped into Mr. and Mrs. Rykoff today when we were coming out of the bakery. Mrs. Rykoff couldn’t take her eyes off my stomach the whole time we were talking. I thought she was going to say something embarrassing about it because she always comes right out and says what’s on her mind, but she didn’t. She just asked me if I was practicing. I told her I was working on Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending. She said she was impressed, it’s a hard piece. I told her I was finding that out.

  She was wearing one of her costumes: off-the-shoulder ruffled blouse, a full skirt, ballet slippers, silver earrings dangling down to her shoulders, and a half dozen silver bracelets. Dianne was bug-eyed staring at her.

  I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Rykoff were clucking their tongues all the way home about how it’s too bad I’ve ruined my life.

  They’re right. My life is ruined.

  Dear Peter,

  There’s so much I want to say that I’m writing to you even though I don’t know where to send this letter.

  I miss you. I think about you all the time: your smile, your laughing golden brown eyes, your strong, straight back, your arms. I think about how we were together, too. How it felt to hold you tight against me, to move my body with yours—and I ache with longing.

  Oh, Peter, I love you. You said you loved me, but I haven’t heard from you for weeks, and I’m afraid that I’ll never see you again.

  I don’t know what to think anymore. Am I a fool to believe your promise? E
verything tells me that I am being blind and deaf to what’s happening—everything but my love and my need to believe in you.

  Valerie

  Sunday, September 1

  I’m home alone. Sandy went back to San Francisco this morning, and Mom, Daddy, and Nick went out sailing in the harbor this afternoon. They didn’t ask if I wanted to come with them—they just went without me.

  I wouldn’t care so much if Peter were here with me. And he would be if I weren’t pregnant. Everything would be different if I weren’t pregnant. Oh, God, I wish I weren’t. Because there’s this thing growing inside me, I am here alone. And I don’t know what to do. I’ve made such a mess of everything. I hate myself.

  Monday, September 2

  This morning I went shopping with Mom. We bought a pair of overalls and a couple of oversize shirts and this maternity outfit with leggings and a big overshirt. It’s a gorgeous color, a sort of lavender blue.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t take anything from her or Daddy that I didn’t have to, but she kept nagging me, saying she couldn’t stand my going to a new school in one of Nick’s old shirts. When we got to the maternity department, the saleslady started showing Mom the slacks as if they were for her. “They’re for her,” Mom said, turning to me.