I hated myself; I hated everything about me. I was a smart person and yet I’d gotten myself into this situation in the dumbest, most obvious way, all for a one-night stand.
I jumped into the shower and glanced down at my stomach. I expected it to be sticking out even though I was only four or five weeks pregnant. Instead, it was concave from all the puking. I put my face under the hot shower and let the water run into my eyes and nose and mouth. Everything was a blur. I needed five hundred dollars, a car to drive to Louisville, Kentucky, and someone to sign me in so they’d give me anesthesia. I was fucked. There was no one in the world I would tell about this…no one.
I couldn’t even imagine telling JoAnn. As close as we were, the pregnancy seemed too seedy and irresponsible to disclose to the one person I’d always looked up to and emulated. I wanted her to believe I was an upstanding person—smart and independent. The shame and embarrassment overruled my asking for support.
That night I showed up at the theatre, pale and terrified. I ran into Patrick in the hall. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“I can’t help you. I talked to my brother and he thinks you’re framing me. It’s probably not even mine. I won’t help you.” He walked away and began talking to a group of friends who were standing outside smoking. I watched him through the glass doors. I wanted to slit his throat.
I couldn’t focus on him, at least not until I found the money and had the procedure. Once this was out of my body, I would deal with Patrick. I had other things on my mind. It was opening night.
I walked into the theatre. Mr. Whitfield smiled at me. “Monica, you’re doing a beautiful job. Your character really seems like she’s dying. Not easy to pull off,” he said.
“Easier than you’d think,” I quipped, and walked past him to the dressing room.
Mom and Jim had just arrived to see the play. I had to give a great performance and then spend the weekend with them, puking and showing them the campus. It was going to be a nightmare.
The show opened and, in front of Mom and Jim, I said again, “I was so much stronger before I got pregnant. Before the baby, I was strong.” I wanted to stop the play right then, step out of the stage light, and tell them how scared I was and what a mistake I’d made and how the world was ending. I wanted them to comfort me and tell me they still loved me and that I would get through this. But instead I pretended to die of tuberculosis. The play ended with a standing ovation.
I wish I could have told them. Jim would certainly have understood; he would have been supportive. But my mother was now in direct competition with me morally and academically. She’d brought her report card down to show me that she was still a 4.0 student. “And what’s your average?” she asked. Mine was a 3.75. “Must be hard competing with a genius,” she teased. I was too nauseous to care.
At the opening night party I won an award for my performance. I threw the trophy into the garbage after my family left, because I knew it would always remind me of being pregnant. Plus, this was the beginning of my punishing myself. I stopped eating real food, choosing crackers and water instead. I would not allow myself to watch television or go to a movie. I refused invitations to parties or dinner. I worked out day and night, jogging, lifting weights, and abusing the StairMaster, trying to get the baby to die. I wanted it dead, gone, away from me. Regardless of how nauseous I was, I punished myself, driving my body into the ground.
That week I ran offstage in the middle of a scene and puked in a trash can. Mr. Whitfield grabbed my arm after the performance. I was mortified.
“You feeling okay?” he asked.
“Flu,” I said, walking quickly to the dressing room.
Three days later, he called me into his office.
“Monica, I think there’s something going on. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“I’ve been watching your work, which is outstanding but really raw. I wish you’d let me help you with whatever you’re going through.”
Tears welled up. I felt like a child. “I got myself into something monumentally stupid, but I’m taking care of it.”
“Are you pregnant?” he asked. I hesitated. “You know you wouldn’t be the first person this has happened to here,” he said, encouraging me to talk.
I nodded.
“Is the person who did this with you helping?”
“He told me it was my problem.”
“Do I know this person?” he asked.
“No. He’s on the soccer team,” I lied. Patrick was helping with the play and I didn’t want to put Whitfield on the spot.
“I’ll help any way I can.” He grabbed a box of Kleenex and handed it to me.
“I don’t need help,” I assured him. “My parents know and they’re being supportive.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Remember, if there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it.” I attempted a smile. He placed his hand under my chin and gently kissed my forehead, just as a father would do.
The next day I didn’t get out of bed. I didn’t get out of bed the following day either. I called school to say I was ill. The third day when I couldn’t get out of bed, I called Planned Parenthood and asked for my nurse. I had weighed only 105 to begin with, and had then lost eight pounds.
“Hello?” she said.
“This is Monica Peterson. I can’t wait another week for the abortion. I’m suicidal. I can’t get out of bed and when I do I want to die. I have to move my appointment. I have to have the procedure sooner.”
“I’ll talk to Louisville and call you back,” she said. I hung up.
There was a surge of energy that was going to propel me through. I was going to push up the date of my appointment, find the money, and get out of this excruciating mess.
I picked up the phone and called Dad. I hated to do this to him, since he was already paying for college—even though he reminded me constantly that he was only paying because the divorce papers ordered him to do so. Still, I was mortified to have to ask for anything more.
Dad knew I had health issues. My kidney infections would lean in my favor.
“Hello?”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Monica.”
“How’s the weather up there? It’s raining here, about forty-three degrees outside.”
“It’s cloudy. Dad, I’ve had an emergency come up and I’m going to need a minor medical procedure, but they won’t take my insurance. I have to pay up front and then send in the insurance form. Could you maybe loan me some money?”
“How much do you need?”
“Five hundred,” I said without leaving a pause. “I need five hundred, Dad. I’m really sorry. I wouldn’t ask unless it was a real emergency, which it is.”
“That’s a lot of money.” (My heart sank.) “I don’t know if I have that much lying around.” I waited silently.
“I’ll send you a check in the next couple of days,” he finally said. I felt tears starting down my cheeks. “It’s not your kidneys again, is it?”
“No, Dad, it’s not my kidneys,” I said.
“Well, do what you have to do,” he said.
“Thanks, Dad. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I’ll pay you back by the end of the semester. I promise.”
I’d won an acting scholarship, which was supposed to be used to travel during the summer, but I would give it to my father now. I didn’t care.
I hung up the phone just as Planned Parenthood called me back. I was having the abortion in three days. I needed that check to make it to me by then. I called Dad back.
“Dad, I’m really sorry to ask you this, but could you put the money directly into my checking account down there? I don’t think I can wait for the mail.”
“What’s all the hurry?” he asked.
“Please, Dad, just put it into my account. I’ll pay you back. Thanks.” And I hung up the phone. I was a despicable person, but I was desperate and I needed that money.
On the morning
of the abortion, I got up at four thirty a.m., dressed in gray sweatpants and a white sweatshirt, and grabbed my backpack with my wallet containing five hundred dollars in cash plus an extra twenty for gas or food. The bathrobe and slippers they told me to bring were shoved into a brown grocery bag.
I rode my bike over to Patrick’s. He had said I could borrow his car, but his car wasn’t there. He was at his new girlfriend’s house. I rode over there. Nothing was going to stop this day. I banged on the door, and Patrick finally opened it. “I need your car, asshole. If you don’t give it to me, I’m going in there and telling your girlfriend why I need it.” He turned and walked back into the house. When he came back, he threw his keys at my feet.
“Fuck you,” I said, walking away.
I had never driven five and a half hours by myself. I felt much younger than eighteen, and the morning was so dark. I was petrified and my hands were freezing and shaky, trying to grasp the steering wheel.
Patrick’s piece of shit car rattled to a start and I pulled out onto the road. All I could think was, When I see this road again, I will not be pregnant anymore. When I see this road again, I’ll be okay. His gas tank was empty.
I got gas and then followed the written directions I had figured out the night before. I was terrible at reading maps. Thoughts kept racing through my head: What if I die during the procedure and my parents don’t know where I am? My great-grandfather’s sister, Great-Aunt Nettie, bled to death after an illegal abortion. What if it doesn’t work and I’m still pregnant afterward? What if God holds this against me the rest of my life?
I arrived at the clinic five and a half hours later. I was exhausted and strung out from no sleep and fear. I needed someone to sign a form saying they’d take me home so I wouldn’t drive after the anesthesia. I looked around the waiting room and picked a guy with a kind face. “I need you to sign me out, please.” I stared straight at him. “I need you to say you will drive me home, but you won’t need to drive me home. I have to have someone sign.” He actually did it. I don’t know why, but he signed for me.
I sat down in the waiting room. There were no other hurdles blocking the abortion. I was there, I had the money, I had a person say he would sign me out—it would be over today. A brunette nurse called my name and I walked into the next room.
I looked around. There were women and young girls sitting in bathrobes and slippers, their hair in green shower caps. They were reading People and Reader’s Digest as if they were waiting for a massage or a facial. Soon I was sitting among them in yellow slippers and the white terry cloth bathrobe Mom had given me for my birthday. I wasn’t the youngest one. I picked up a magazine and pretended to read, but tears were already starting to fall.
My name was called and I was led into a smaller room. This time I lay down on a gurney. There was a girl on the gurney next to me. She already had an IV in her right hand. While the nurse was putting an IV into my left hand, I winced. I’d never felt so alone or so ashamed. I kept thinking, How did I let myself end up here? and Please don’t let anything happen to me.
I looked over at the girl next to me. She had huge green eyes and black eyebrows. She was looking at me, too.
When the nurse left, I whispered to my neighbor, “Nobody knows I’m here.”
“My boyfriend’s waiting for me. But he’s the only one who knows.”
She was the first person since it had all begun who knew what I was feeling. I was so grateful she was beside me. I reached over and held her hand.
“I’m scared,” I told her.
“I’m scared too,” she said, and looked up at the ceiling. Tears began rolling into her hairline.
“We’re going to be fine,” I said, hoping it was true, even as tears started down the sides of my own face.
“I hope so,” she said. The nurse injected something into our IVs and, with our fingers intertwined, we went to sleep.
I woke up to a nurse saying my name over and over again. Everything was blurry. The first thing I asked was, “Is it over?” And she said, “It’s all over.” I began to cry again, my shoulders shaking with sobs.
When it was time to get dressed, I realized how hard it was going to be to drive five and a half hours after being under anesthetic. I listened to the nurse rattling off the “at home” instructions and groggily walked out the door to the waiting room. The nurse at the front stopped me.
“Is someone driving you home?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s pulling the car around,” I said. She smiled and let me go.
It was evening and dark outside again. I was having bad cramps and was very sleepy, but I needed to get back to Kenyon. I would not have thought to get a hotel room, not that I had the money to pay for one. I just wanted to be back at the dorm with my warm quilt and my toothbrush. I wanted to be eighteen and starting college again. I wanted to start over.
I turned on the car and rolled down all the windows, even though it was thirty degrees outside. I hadn’t thought to bring my coat. I needed the air to stay awake. In the five and a half hours it took to get back, I only stopped three times to get caffeine and take care of all the bleeding.
Patrick was furious that I got back so late with his car. I was so exhausted I didn’t care what he thought. I threw his keys onto the front porch by the wooden glider. I couldn’t imagine sitting on a bicycle seat, so I walked it home, my backpack over my arm. My cramps were getting worse.
I spent the weekend in bed but felt terrific by Monday morning. The relief I felt at having my life back, at being in control again, at surviving the worst thing I’d ever been through, was monumental. I absolutely knew that if I couldn’t have had an abortion, I would have killed myself or done what my great-aunt Nettie did in 1922—I would have found anyone who would perform one, and I would have prayed they knew what they were doing. She picked the wrong person, and died at the age of thirty-one.
I saw Mr. Whitfield. “You look great,” he said.
“I feel better,” I said. He smiled and gave me a big hug. I hugged him back.
Patrick saw me that afternoon and said, “You kept my car just to fuck with me.” I swung around and shoved him hard in the chest. “Stay away from me. Don’t say anything to me; don’t even come near me. You are a lying piece of shit.”
I walked away knowing I would never get over that experience. I would carry it with me the rest of my life. I’d always be grateful that I’d had a choice, that my life hadn’t been derailed. I vowed to try to let other people help me the next time I was in serious trouble. I vowed to always be smarter than the person I was dating. I would work on trying to forgive myself, and I would ask others for forgiveness too.
That summer I spent time at Dad’s lake house, and one day when he was flipping steaks on the grill, I said, “I can finally pay back the money you loaned me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, not looking up.
“But it’s five hundred dollars,” I said.
“We all get a little short sometimes,” he said, leaning down to blow on the hot charcoal.
I felt tremendous guilt. I wanted to tell him what I’d done, to make sure he still would have given me the money if he’d known, but I just stood there, looking at his profile. I wanted to say that my life had almost been ruined but he’d helped me.
“Thanks, Dad,” I managed.
Chapter Seventeen
The fall of my sophomore year, Becky was going to marry Mitch, who more and more reminded me of the old, cruel Dad. She walked away from Dad, only to marry his doppelgänger. They were having a big wedding at a church in Cincinnati and a fancy reception at his father’s country club. His family had a lot of money and, once again, we were the hicks.
I’d landed my first professional acting job at a summer theatre in Vermont and had gotten the lead in two of the plays. I was thrilled, until I received a call from Becky.
“We’re moving the wedding to July,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Mitch will be s
tarting school in the fall, so we’re having it this summer,” she said.
“But I can’t make it,” I said. I didn’t have the money to fly home.
“I know,” she said. “Gina Burns is taking your place. She’s the same dress size as you.”
Each time our relationship was revealed as the empty, hateful thing it was, I was caught off guard. I hung up the phone as quickly as possible. With Becky, I was always convinced I’d done something unforgivable to her that I just couldn’t remember.
I talked to Mom later that week. “Becky doesn’t want me in her wedding.”
“She doesn’t want you taking all the attention,” she said.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said.
“You’re the center of everything,” Mom said. “You make sure of that.”
Stunned, I slowly walked back to the rehearsal for Oliver.
One month later Mom placed a picture of Becky in her wedding gown, JoAnn in a fuchsia bridesmaid’s dress, and Jamie in his gray tuxedo, on the buffet table by the front door, where it sat for years.
A reminder that for one day at least, it was exactly the way she’d planned: three children.
When I got back to school, I started dating Joel, a bisexual magician. He was wholly original, introducing me to sushi and teaching me Ashtanga yoga. He was the funniest person I’d ever met. He wasn’t “normal,” but neither was I.
Mom loved him, Jim tolerated him, and Dad just shook his head in disbelief at my incredibly bad choice. I didn’t care.
It ended in disaster, but not until I participated in at least forty magic shows performed out of the back of his Audi hatchback. The final saw through my middle was Joel sleeping with Patrick Romano. The ultimate betrayal.
Joel eventually had a nervous breakdown, barricading himself in his apartment. His parents, who were Baptist ministers, shipped him off to South Dakota to convalesce.
Driving With Dead People Page 19