“Judy, come on now,” I told myself. “Pull yourself together. Don’t jump to conclusions.” Then I prayed, “Please, God, just this one time. I promise I won’t ever do it again. Please let me off the hook on this one.” I felt a sense of comfort and knew He would answer my prayers. Up to now, I had almost anything that I really wanted in my life. This would be no exception. I mustered up some faith and started to believe it would turn out okay. “Lots of people have sex and don’t get pregnant,” I thought. “It can’t happen to me. If I get away with this, I will never, ever go there again. I promise, dear God, I will be pure until I get married someday.”
I felt some hope after praying. I felt that God must love me because He had been good to me. I could have been killed the time I fell out of Jeff’s Model T, but I survived with just some bruises. Even when I fell off the pier, Uncle Phil was watching and rescued me from the lake. God had been watching over me. I had been mostly a good girl too. I knew I had missed confession lately, but I would go back soon. What about those mornings when I got up in the dark, grabbed my white leather missal, and took the city bus into town so I could attend Mass before school started? I used to do that for weeks on end during Lent. God would remember that. I had some good deeds in my bank. I should be allowed a withdrawal. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. The inside of my head felt like there was a razor blade churning on the end of a drill.
I shivered from the open window’s icy breeze as I got out from under the warm covers. I found my robe on the floor and shuffled to the bathroom to find some aspirin. I put two tablets in my mouth and leaned over the sink faucet to fill my mouth. I swallowed. I crawled back into bed. The wind was wailing and moaning, shaking the window-panes. I pulled the covers over my head to get out of the draft and snuggled into a fetal position. I lay there awake until the aspirin dissolved into my veins and quieted the throbbing in my head.
Still in bed at 3:00 pm., I noticed that my fancy dresser had the skirt popped open, clothes dripping from the drawers. I was such a slob. The phone rang.
“Hi, Goonsfield. How are you?” It was Mick. I was annoyed that he sounded so cheery, like nothing happened, and that he was calling me that name. It was his term of endearment for me.
“Not so good,” I said. “I got the worst headache and I feel like I’m gonna puke.”
“Oh, man, me too,” he said. “I think we drank too much yesterday. That was a wild party.”
“God, if my parents knew why I was sick today, they’d kill me,” I said.
“Do they know you’re sick?”
“Well, yeah. I’ve been in bed all day, told ‘em I got the flu.”
“Do you think your dad noticed some of his booze was gone?”
“Oh, I don’t care about that. That’s the least of my worries. I have a monster headache.”
Then I started to worry about tonight when Dad went to pour himself the nightly scotch and soda. I didn’t take very much scotch, did I? Well, even if he noticed his scotch was low, I didn’t think he would suspect me. If he did, what would I say? It could have been someone else in the house who drank it, like Hugren, our housekeeper. But Dad knew she only drank beer. I just hoped he didn’t notice. Dad trusted me and would never suspect that I would steal or abuse alcohol. That thought made me feel short of breath, queasy. He didn’t trust me as far as boys went, but with booze he trusted me.
Mick didn’t bring up the breaking-rubber incident, and I couldn’t bear to go there.
“Do you want to go for a ride later?” he asked.
“No, Mick, I feel too rotten. I think I’ll just stay in bed.”
The rest of the evening I ached with the ominous feeling that something was terribly wrong. I knew what it was. I knew an impending disaster was on the crest. I rode the fear like a seesaw. My thoughts went from crushing worry to pleas to God that He would dispense my sins and make it so I got my period in two weeks. That was when I promised God I would say 500 rosaries the day my period started. Then I thought that wasn’t good enough: I had to show my faith in His answer to my prayers and pray the 500 rosaries right now. I would start tomorrow and make a tally sheet. I even considered promising to join the convent. Then I wondered if that drastic a bargain was all that necessary and if it really would make any difference. Then I decided, no, I couldn’t go that far: 500 rosaries, if that didn’t work, the convent wouldn’t work either. I would say 500 rosaries now, and if I got my period I would go to Mass every day for a year. I felt better, like I was doing what I could to make my period happen. I could hardly wait two weeks to get the good red news.
CHAPTER 13
BATHROOM JUNKIE
Three weeks later, I had become a bathroom junkie. My trips numbered up to ten a day. I didn’t have diarrhea or a urinary tract infection. Those would have been simple to cure. I didn’t go in there to smoke cigarettes or do drugs. I just went in to look. I looked for my salvation.
I knew I should pay attention in class, but the dates for history’s milestones had no relevance to me. Perhaps I had a learning disability specific to American history. Sister Mary Joseph didn’t pause to ask us questions, for that would be too engaging and interesting for her students. She was bent on sucking us into her gray and plain life, spewing mundane historical facts. Sister’s voice droned into a solid hum. My eyes wandered and fixated on her pale lips; crusty deposits of spittle had accumulated in the corners of her mouth.
I had to flee. My mind returned to my looming problem. What if I was pregnant? My father would kill me. The kids at school would shun me. Nobody in my school had ever gotten pregnant. We just didn’t do those things. I was a freak. I was preoccupied with my state of dryness down below. I wanted to feel a gush of red coming forth and didn’t even care if it messed up my whole uniform and everyone saw. Oh, how I wanted those cramps. Now I noticed there was an ever so slight emerging wetness. I detected that old familiar cramp in my lower gut that always came with my “friend.”
Hope pumped through my veins with adrenaline of impending relief. The moist feeling was like a lottery ticket with the first four numbers matching. I raised my hand. “Sister Mary Joseph, may I be excused?”
I quietly closed the door behind me and shuffled past a neat row of classroom doors. I liked the feeling down there; it was even a little cold from the wetness. I wallowed in gratitude. The rosaries had worked. This meant I would go to Mass every day for a year. I would do it with joy every day, recalling how I had escaped the holocaust of doom.
The Regina halls were painted white; the floor was shiny gray linoleum, smelling like freshly applied floor wax. It was silent and empty. Everyone would be in class for ten more minutes. I picked up my pace as I cut the corner by the library. A silver plaque with black letters read, “GIRLS.” I leaned my shoulder into the swinging door. The familiar creak heightened my anticipation.
I chose the stall all the way at the end of the row. I closed the door and slid the metal latch into the slot. I lifted my pleated uniform skirt and sat down. With my underwear at my knees, I leaned over to take a look. It was dark in there. I squinted and saw a hint of pink there in the wetness. I moved my body to let more light shine in. Blessed day! Pink was the precursor to red. The sight made me giddy. Mass, here I come. Rosary beads—they’ll be a permanent fixture between my fingers. I looked again. What was that squiggle shape to the pink? A simple pink clothing thread was responsible for the color that smeared the white wetness.
It had been ten days now that I had been coming in and out of this bathroom during every class change and even during class. Truth replaced my fervent wish with doom. My period was seven days late now and I had always been on time in the past. I couldn’t kid myself. The worst possible nightmare was true. I was pregnant. My body bent in half as I muffled the sobs that erupted from my chest. I let the tears drip down until they fell and collected in a pool on my brown penny loafers.
A few weeks later, my breasts were sore. Then I remembered this is what ha
ppened just before I got my period. Like a one-armed man dangling from a cliff, I held on to the impossible. I prayed on my way to school, on my way home from school, before my nap, and at night when I went to bed. I prayed that my monthly friend would visit. I couldn’t admit it, but with each passing day I came to know that the sore breasts really meant my body was preparing to nourish a baby.
Then the nausea set in. As I rode to school in a car full of Regina girls, I hung my head out the window, gasping for the fresh but frigid air. The cigarette smoke made my stomach turn. It would be too conspicuous to tell them to put out their foul-smelling sticks, so I hung my head out like a floppy-eared dog.
“Judy, close the window. It’s freezing in here,” Diane said.
“I can’t. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
“You should stay home then. Do you have the flu?”
“No I just kinda feel sick—it’ll pass.”
I crammed my body to the car door and pointed my nose farther out the window. My mouth tasted like metal and watered profusely. My stomach needed food, but I couldn’t eat breakfast. Nothing tasted good. By lunchtime I managed some cracker and cheese packets from the vending machine, then washed it down with a Coke. This became my lunch routine.
By the time I got home from school, the nausea had eased and I was famished. I began a love affair with the round, red and white box: Quaker Oats. The gummy porridge soaked up the foul acids welling in my gut. It was my saving grace: creamy, gooey, glorious oatmeal, two heaping bowls.
After my tummy was full, I became unbearably tired and longed for a nap. Each step up the stairs was like walking through water; fatigue had its grip on my muscles. Sleep came fitfully, but as I finally slipped away, the black cloud lifted. Most of my dreams had to do with some sort of conflict I was frantically trying to solve, like finding my math homework when I knew I did it, or being called on in class and realizing I forgot to get dressed that morning and was horrified that I was naked.
When I first woke from a nap, I’d feel deliverance at the end of my fitful dream, but this was short-lived as the predicament of my waking life settled its darkness on my heart. Something was not right. I would ask myself just for an instant, “What was it?” Then I remembered—I’m pregnant—and the dread squeezed like man-hands on my throat.
Then my thoughts turned dark. What about that coat-hanger abortion I learned about in the movie at school? One girl was performing her own abortion and she ended up on the verge of death. Then I thought, “No, as much as I hate my life right now, I still don’t want to die.”
The debilitating shame froze all action as I waited for some miraculous turn of events. In the meantime, the baby continued to grow. When the period-producing prayers failed, I prayed for a miscarriage, but it seemed God had forsaken me.
CHAPTER 14
MICK, GUESS WHAT?
Mick picked me up at home, honking in the driveway. The car was still running when I hopped in. Sonny and Cher were singing “I Got You Babe” on the AM radio. That was our song.
“They say we’re young and we don’t know
We won’t find out until we grow
Well I don’t know if all that’s true
‘Cause you got me, and baby I got you
And when I’m sad, you’re a clown
And if I get scared, you’re always around
‘Cause you got me, and baby I got you”
I loved to listen to this song while I was up at the cabin away from Mick, pining for his love and attention. Now it was a sham. So what if he had me and I had him. All that meant now was serious trouble.
Mick smelled like Brut, men’s cologne. I usually liked it, but that day it smelled like he took a bath in it. The fumes provoked a wave of nausea. Instead of charming and attractive, he looked ordinary and a tad sinister. Maybe it was the overpowering sense of dread that made my body respond in this foreign manner.
Halloween was a few days off and the air was frigid; the trees were covered with frost crystals. We whizzed past the suburban houses that lined Glenview Road. Some of them were set back so you could gaze down the long driveways and dream about the castle like homes that lurked beyond. Glenview Road was pretty deserted this Sunday afternoon. The sky was gray and the air thick with fog. I stared out the window. There was a news show on the radio; Mick reached over and switched the channel.
I started mulling over the script. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. I rolled, hashed, and mashed the words in my mind. How should I put it to him?
“Uhh, Mick, guess what?”
“What?” he’d say.
“I’m pregnant.”
No, that was too blunt.
How about, “Uh, Mick, I have to talk to you about something. I think I’m pregnant.”
No, I can’t say that. I don’t think it. I know it.
How about, “Hey, Mick, my period is late and I’m worried.” That might work. But there didn’t seem to be a good way to say this. I thought, “What is wrong with me? I hate this indecision, wondering how to choke out a few dumb words.”
How about, “I have some bad news.” Maybe …
But what if he gets all mad or doesn’t believe me? Worse yet, what if he denies it could be him that planted the seed? Impossible. He knows he is my one and only. But yet I could see how it could be tempting to deny the whole damn thing. The incurred responsibilities were daunting. His parents would freak out; maybe his dad would beat the crap out of him. I didn’t know Mr. Romano that well, but I knew he and Mick had some run-ins.
Mick made a right turn off Glenview Road and onto Waukegan. We still sat in pregnant silence. The time was now, but the words stuck in my throat. I was scared of his reaction. I thought he might yell, freak out, deny it, or drop me.
He flipped the turn signal and we rolled into McDonald’s. He parked in our usual spot in the back lot and turned off the key.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Not really.”
We hardly ever ate anything when we came to McDonald’s. It was more like a place to be rather than a place to eat. Hot rods and old beaters filled the lot. The dam let loose; the words spilled out.
“Mick, uummm, I don’t know how to say it, but I think I have some really bad news.”
“What’s that, Goonsfield?”
“Well, remember when the rubber broke?”
“Yeah …” he said, the word trailing off. His face got dark.
“Well, my period is two weeks late.”
“Are … you … kidding … me?” He said it slowly.
“No, I’m just sure. I wouldn’t kid about this.”
“A lot of girls are late, though, aren’t they?” he said.
“That’d be nice, but I’m scared shitless. I’m not the irregular kind.”
Mick turned the radio down and said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. You’ll probably get your period tomorrow and know you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
I stayed on my side of the car and could feel tears welling in my eyes. This wasn’t going well. He didn’t want to believe we were in hot water.
I placated him by saying, “I guess there’s a chance I’m just late.” My gut knew this was wrong. I was suddenly hot, and I rolled down my window.
“Why are you opening the window? It’s cold out there.”
“I need some air.”
“Really, you haven’t gotten a period since the party?” Finally he sounded concerned.
“Really,” I said. I cranked the window back up but left it cracked.
There was a long pause and then, “Do … you … think … you … are ……?”
“Pregnant?” I said, filling in the blank.
“Yah, but you couldn’t be,” he said.
“Why not? All you need is one screw-up.”
“Yeah, but that’d just be our luck. That idiot, John. Why’d he give me that defective piece a shit? It’d been better if we used nothing.”
“Yeah, it’s not good. My boobs are sore and I’ve been sickish. You know, like morning sickness?”
Mick shuffled in his seat and used his fingers to run his hair back. “Morning sickness? Oh, fuck. Great. This is just great.”
“Don’t get mad. That won’t help.”
“I can’t believe that rubber broke. I never should have gotten that thing from John. He must have had it in his pocket forever. Some favor.”
“Well, what happened, happened. We can’t change that.”
“What are you going to do?” he said.
“I don’t know. Is there some way I can bring on a miscarriage?”
“I don’t know,” said Mick. “Maybe you could ask someone.”
“Who?”
“A doctor?”
“Who’d I go to?”
“I don’t know.”
The wind was whistling through the cracked window. I was cold now, and rolled it shut.
“A doctor’d make me tell my parents. I can’t do that.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe I’ll have a miscarriage. I’ve been praying for that.”
“That’s a long shot, but worth a try, I guess. Do you think we should get married?” He asked it in a halfhearted, tenuous tone.
“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said. “We’re too young.” That didn’t seem like a good solution. The idea was suffocating.
“Oh, shit, this is awful,” he said.
Mick stiffened his body and moved away. His eyes had a contemplative stare; his mouth was tight, stern. He seemed pissed off. I felt sorry for the worry on his face.
“Look,” I said. “Lennie’s pulling in.”
“Who gives a fuck,” Mick said. “My parents are gonna kill me.”
“Well, don’t worry about that now. We’ll see what happens.”
I tried to hold back the well of tears that were squeezing out; my throat was so tight that it ached. My organs shook inside their cavity.
Sunlight on My Shadow Page 7