The Wishing Jar

by Penelope J. Stokes

  “What I’m trying to tell you, Mom,” Neal Grace was saying, “is that Mike and I—well, we slept together.”

  Abby went white. “You slept together,” she repeated. “I’m assuming you don’t mean taking a nap in the same bed.”

  “We made love,” Neal said. And then, before her mother could respond, she corrected herself. “No. We didn’t make love. We had sex.”

  “Did he force you? You said he had a bad temper—”

  Edith opened her mouth to intervene. Of course Abby would be looking for an excuse, some reason she could wrap her mind around. She couldn’t imagine that her daughter would ever willingly do something like this.

  “It wasn’t rape, if that’s what you’re asking. I agreed to it. It was a stupid thing to do, but I have to take responsibility for my part in it.”

  “That’s very—uh, mature,” Abby said, obviously groping for words and trying to keep a lid on her emotions. “But I don’t quite understand. I thought we had talked about all this, Neal. About not taking sex lightly, about waiting . . .”

  “Yeah,” Neal Grace said.

  Abby exhaled heavily. “Well, I’m glad you told me. I don’t want any secrets between us. And it’s clear you regret what you’ve done. I can only hope you’ve learned from your mistake, and—”

  Edith closed her eyes and shook her head. She supposed it was too much to ask that Abby could completely avoid launching into Mother Mode. “Abby—,”she began.

  But Abby wasn’t listening. “I know you’re aware of these things, but I’m going to say them anyway because I’m your mother,” she said to Neal Grace. “This could have been much worse, you know. If you’d had unprotected sex, you might have contracted—”

  “Abby!” Edith shouted.

  Her daughter stopped speaking and turned to look at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What is it, Mother? We’re in the middle of a conversation here.”

  “A conversation has two sides.” Edith fixed her with a glare. “Let Neal Grace finish.”

  “I thought she was finished. What else is there?” She turned back to her daughter. “Neal?”

  Neal Grace was staring down at the table, her fingernail tracing the spot where she had carved her initials when she was ten.

  “Neal?” Abby repeated.

  Neal looked up. “Mom, we didn’t always have protected sex. I’m . . . I’m—”

  Abby’s gaze flitted from Neal to Edith and back again.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  A silence descended over the kitchen. Edith could hear the faint buzz of the clock on the oven.

  “No,” Abby breathed.

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t be. You’re not even eighteen years old.”

  “I’m old enough to have a baby, Mom.”

  “How did this happen?”

  The tension in the room had been strung as tight as a piano wire. With Abby’s question, it snapped, and Edith began to laugh. “How’d it happen?” she repeated. “I distinctly recall having an extended conversation with you about the facts of life when you were eleven years old. Do we need a refresher course at this late date?”

  Abby was not amused. “I wasn’t talking about biology, Mama. As you know perfectly well.” She turned back to Neal Grace. “Is it possible you’re just late?”

  Neal shook her head. “I took a home pregnancy test this morning. It was positive.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I couldn’t believe it, either,” Neal muttered. “But it’s true.”

  Abby shut her eyes and pressed a hand to her mouth. “What are you going to do?”

  “I believe what your mother is asking,” Edith said quietly, “is what are we going to do?”

  Abby looked up and gazed into Edith’s eyes. “Of course,” she agreed. “We’re in this together.”

  “Yes and no,” Neal countered. “I mean, I appreciate the support you’re trying to give me and all that, but there are some decisions I need to make myself.”

  Edith gazed at her granddaughter. She seemed braver now, more resolute, as if the very act of telling the truth had roused some inner strength deep in her soul.

  “As I see it,” Neal went on, “I have four options. First, I could marry Mike. He’s already asked me to live with him. He’s not real thrilled about the idea of marriage, but with a baby on the way, he might change his mind.”

  She paused and looked away, then rushed on as if determined to finish before she lost her courage. “Second, I could have an abortion. End of baby. End of problem.”

  Abby opened her mouth to interrupt. Edith kicked her under the table. She shut her mouth again.

  “Third, I could have the baby and give it up for adoption once it’s born. And fourth, I could have the baby and keep it.”

  She stopped speaking, put her head in both hands, and began to massage her temples. Edith watched her granddaughter struggle and felt her own heart breaking. The girl was little more than a child herself. And now, because of one mistake, her whole future had been turned on its axis, her dreams and hopes diverted. College. Dating. Falling in love. Planning a career. Getting married. All the experiences a young woman should be able to enjoy without the pressure and responsibility of caring for a child.

  She looked across the table at her daughter. Abby’s hopes for Neal Grace’s future had gone up in flames, too. She could see it on Abby’s face—the loss, the grief, the confusion and agony.

  Abby met her gaze, her expression thoroughly miserable, her eyes glazed with unshed tears. She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness.

  Edith laid a hand on her granddaughter’s arm. “Are you ready to talk about those options?”

  Neal Grace looked up. “I guess so.” Her countenance took on a hard, determined expression. “You might as well know right up front that I have no intention of marrying Mike Damatto.”

  For the first time since the kick under the table, Abby spoke. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Neal turned to her. “Really? I thought you might try to talk me into getting married—you know, so I’d be respectable, so my baby would have a father and a name.”

  “Absolutely not,” Abby said. “From what you’ve told me today of that boy, he’s a loser and a jerk and a potential wife-beater. No daughter of mine is going to marry someone like that, not as long as I have breath in my lungs to protest.” She waved a finger in Neal Grace’s face. “And believe me, I am trusting that the genes you’ve inherited from this family will be very, very dominant.”

  Neal Grace grinned. “I’ll do my best, Mom.”

  “And since I seem to be on a roll here,” Abby continued, “let’s talk about Option #2.”

  “Just chill, Mom,” Neal Grace said. “I’m not going to have an abortion any more than I’m going to marry Mike.”

  Abby looked up. “But you said—”

  “I said it was an option. A possibility. I have to consider all my alternatives, don’t I, even if I reject them?” She ran a hand through her hair. “I . . . I just couldn’t do it. On the surface it feels like it might be easier in the long run—one trip to the clinic and bam! Problem solved. I bury the secret, get on with my life, go to college, meet a nice guy. But I don’t think I could live with myself if I made that choice.”

  She looked up into her mother’s eyes. “You must be terribly disappointed in me.”

  Abby sighed. “Honey, I’m disappointed for you. For the price you will have to pay.”

  “So if I don’t marry Mike and don’t get an abortion, I’ve got two remaining options,” Neal continued. “To keep the baby or give it up for adoption. Either way, it’s going to be very difficult— not just for me, but for you and for Granny Q as well.”

  “And how will you make that decision?” Edith asked.

  “I don’t know,” Neal admitted. “And I may not know for a while.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry for all of this. I wish I could go back, do things differently, change what’s happ
ened.”

  “No one can change the past,” Abby said. “We can only do our best with the present and try to make the future better.”

  Her daughter’s words triggered something in Edith’s mind— memories of Grandma Gracie and her own mother, Abigail, of herself as a child, of Sam and little Abby and Gracie’s parting words. She saw herself in middle age, holding her fretful infant granddaughter, calming her, easing her into a noisy, frightening new world. And she saw something else, too—a vision of the great-grandchild who was to come, cradled in the same way, loved and protected by her old Great-Granny Q.

  She had been left here for a reason. And at this moment, with a clarity that reverberated through her soul, Edith knew what that reason was. She couldn’t change the past, but God willing, she might be able to help change the future.

  22

  Rethinking Everything

  Abby got in the car and began to drive—blindly, aimlessly.

  She had to be alone, had to think.

  It all seemed like a nightmare—a strange, bizarre dream. Her daughter, her little girl—not yet eighteen, still in high school. Unmarried. Pregnant. While they were talking at the kitchen table, she had managed to keep her emotions in check. Now everything inside her seemed to be breaking loose, flying out in all directions, and she couldn’t bring any order to the chaos.

  She turned the conversation over in her mind. Neal Grace had seemed so small, so terrified and timid when she first began to talk, but as the truth had come out, she had seemed to mature right before Abby’s eyes. Somehow, in the midst of a very frightening and confusing situation, her little girl had found the strength and courage to think through her options rationally, to begin to make plans.

  Thank God, she had rejected the notion of marrying this Mike Damatto character. And she had also rejected the idea of an abortion.

  Abby berated herself. Why hadn’t she seen what was happening? Skipping school. Dating an older guy. Why had she allowed herself to be so absent from her daughter’s life? Why hadn’t she picked up on any clues?

  Neal Grace had no idea how much commitment was involved in raising a child. She didn’t know that a mother never retired, that there was no end to the worry and anxiety and responsibility. And what if she did choose to give the baby up for adoption? Abby couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of agonizing pain and long-term guilt her daughter might have to face.

  Suddenly Abby realized she was high up on the Parkway. October was in full glory, and the road was clogged with leaf-lookers— cars with out-of-state plates, motorcycles, RVs big as houses. The mountainsides that spread out all around her glowed with red and yellow and orange hues. Sandwiched between an overcrowded minivan and a pickup truck towing a pop-up camper, she glanced at the speedometer and saw that it read twenty-five. Her hands tapped anxiously on the steering wheel. “Enough of this,” she muttered to herself. Given the frayed condition of her nerves, she was in no condition to be driving. She’d either end up with an expensive ticket for tailgating or make a spectacular nosedive and crash to her death off one of these precipitous ridges.

  She passed through a curved tunnel and, at the next overlook, parked the car and got out. A chilly breeze blew up from the valley, and she shivered. But it wasn’t just from the cold. It was, at least in part, from her apprehension at what lay ahead.

  Neal Grace had made it clear that she would neither marry Mike nor abort the infant he had fathered. But beyond that, she had made no decisions. How agonizing would it be, Abby wondered, to hold her first grandchild and then abandon it into someone else’s arms? And how much more difficult, at her age, to take on even the partial obligation of helping to raise a fatherless infant?

  As Abby gazed out over the fall foliage, her eyes unfocused, transforming the mountain scenery into a stunning impressionistic painting. But even as her brain registered the sensory images, her conscious mind was miles away.

  She had prayed for change, had wished for a simpler, less burdened life with fewer responsibilities. Briefly she wondered if God, in some kind of cosmic stand-up routine, received her prayers, evaluated them, and answered them with exactly the opposite of what she had asked for.

  Or was it a test? A pop quiz to see how much she had learned, how much she could bear?

  If it was a test, what in the name of all that was holy was she supposed to learn from it? That prayer was a joke, and that the Almighty couldn’t care less about her needs?

  That wasn’t the attitude toward God that had been drilled into her by Mama and Nana and Great-Grandma Gracie. They had all believed. They had trusted God, had seemed to find meaning in concepts like grace and mercy and faithfulness. They had, from everything Abby had seen, experienced the truth they espoused.

  Her own approach to faith wasn’t that simple. Or perhaps it was too simple. Maybe what she called faith was merely wishful thinking—blowing out birthday candles, watching for the first star in the night sky, touching the Wishing Jar for luck.

  Abby looked around. The last carload of tourists had pulled out of the parking space, and for the moment she was alone. She went to the edge of the overlook and sat on the low stone wall with her back to the road and her feet in the grass. The breeze had died down, and a warm October sun bathed her face.

  “God,” she said aloud, her voice tight and hesitant in her own ears, “I don’t know how to handle all of this. Mama seems to be doing so well with it, taking it in stride, supporting Neal Grace. I love my daughter and want to do the best for her, but I can’t even figure out what the best is. I could use a little help here.”

  She fell silent. Behind her she could hear the whiz of tires on the Parkway. High in a tree that rose up to her right, a bird was singing. Below, in the valley between two mountain ridges, a hawk coasted on the updraft in a slow, lazy spiral. From somewhere far away, she could just make out the sound of rushing water.

  It all reminded her of something she had experienced before. The spectacular long-distance vista. The soothing hush of a creek cascading over rocks. The rustling of small animals amid fallen leaves. Deer grazing beside a pond. An unaccountable sense of peace and well-being.

  Devin Connor’s place.

  Neal had a nagging feeling that she ought to give herself more time to think this through, but she couldn’t wait. Although she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about the baby, she was absolutely certain of one thing: even though she dreaded facing him, she wanted Mike Damatto out of her life. Now. And so, against her grandmother’s warnings and T. J.’s resistance, she had decided to go out looking for him.

  Telling T. J. about the baby had simply confirmed what Neal had known for a long time. She couldn’t ask for a better best friend. Teej had listened without interrupting, refrained from saying “I told you so,” and avoided any mention of Neal’s neglect of their friendship during the time she had been dating Mike. When Neal had finished, T. J. had shrugged. “OK. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

  What Neal needed at the moment was a ride. T. J. borrowed her mom’s car and drove Neal around until they found Mike’s Harley parked in front of the Woodside Tavern, a dilapidated bar-and-grill on the west side of town.

  “You are not going in there alone,” T. J. protested when Neal opened the passenger’s door.

  “I’ve been here before,” Neal said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Despite the fact that her heart was pounding like a jackhammer, she forced a smile. “All right, so it’s only a little less disgusting inside. But I need to do this by myself.” She held the door open a moment longer. “Wish me luck.”

  “Are you sure you won’t let me go in with you?” T. J. asked. “I don’t like the look of this place.”

  “No, I’ll be OK. I don’t know how long it will take. I hope it’ll be quick, but—”

  “Doesn’t matter.” T. J. put the car in park and shut off the engine. “Just go, OK? I’ll be here when you come out.”

  Neal hesitated. “Lock the doors.”

  “In a c
lassy neighborhood like this?” T. J. grinned. “Go on. Get this over with, and I’ll buy you a burger. Someplace clean.”

  “You’re the best,” Neal said.

  “I am. And don’t you forget it.”

  Neal shut the car door, squared her shoulders, and clenched her jaw. The thirty-foot walk from the parking lot to the entrance of the bar seemed like thirty miles. Twice she almost lost her nerve and turned back. But at last she pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  It took a minute or two for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Cigarette smoke swirled around her in a gray haze, even though the place was almost empty. A country song was playing on the jukebox—Garth Brooks, Neal thought. I got friends in low places. “Yeah, Garth,” she muttered under her breath, “me, too.”

  The bartender recognized her. “You meetin’ that man of yours?” he yelled over the music. “He’s in the back, playing pool.”

  Neal nodded and waved and snaked her way through the maze of tables and chairs into the pool hall. The room was large, with a stained cement floor and three pocket billiard tables in the center. A waist-high bar with stools ran along one wall.

  The light was better in here, and she spotted Mike immediately, leaning over the center pool table to attempt a shot into the corner pocket. He made the shot, but scratched, and came up cursing the ball, the table, his opponent, everything in sight. His buddy poked him with a cue stick and pointed in Neal’s direction.

  Mike turned. “Well, hey baby,” he slurred in a breathy voice, a bad imitation of Elvis. He had been drinking. Neal had anticipated that but hadn’t expected him to be this far gone at four in the afternoon.