It was a rather somber seventeenth birthday for me the next day. I’d already told my family I didn’t want a party, and I didn’t. I was getting too old for a lot of fuss, and I was too wiped out worrying about Pamela to enjoy it much. I let Dad and Sylvia think I was just tired from studying for my finals.
I went to the newspaper staff meeting after school, and when I got home, Lester was there, and Sylvia was frosting the cake she’d baked the night before.
Lester blew on the little paper horn he’d stuck in one pocket, and I decided I was going to be cheerful no matter what. If I couldn’t tell my family what the matter was, then I owed it to them not to play Guess Why I’m Grumpy.
“Looks delicious!” I told Sylvia of the German chocolate cake.
“Do you realize you were born in one of the most beautiful months of the year?” she said. “Just look at our yard. Everything that can bloom has blossomed.”
“The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la!” sang Lester, and even I recognized the song from The Mikado. The words, anyway.
What was really a surprise was that Dad came home bringing David, Marilyn, and her husband, Jack, along with him.
“Now, this isn’t a party, Alice,” Sylvia said quickly. “We just invited a few friends in for dinner.”
I laughed and was grateful that there was some kind of a celebration after all—grateful for family. And I tried to keep Pamela out of my mind for the present.
Jack had brought his guitar, Marilyn brought flowers, and at seven sharp a delivery man from Levante’s brought shish kebabs and tabbouleh and lemon rice soup. We had a feast.
“So this is the age when magical things happen, huh?” said Lester.
“Magical how?” asked Marilyn.
“Well, every time I pass a newsstand, I see that magazine, Seventeen. It’s been in print forever, but it never says Eighteen. It’s as though seventeen is the age a girl wants to be forever.”
“Oh, no,” said Marilyn. “Twenty-one. Definitely twenty-one.”
“I say whatever age I am right now,” said Sylvia. “Whatever age I get to be, that’s the best.”
“Live in the moment,” said David.
“So what’s the magical age for a guy?” I asked Lester.
“Easy,” he said. “The age he graduates.”
“Amen to that,” said Dad.
After dinner Jack played “Happy Birthday” for me on his guitar. Then he and Marilyn sang some duets they’d been performing at folk music concerts, their own arrangements. We’d had so much food that we sent some of it home with them when they left, and I gave them both a hug at the door.
I really appreciated my family that night. But of course the evening could not be complete without a phone call from Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt in Chicago.
“Happy birthday, honey,” said Uncle Milt. “Wish we could be there to give you a hug.”
“I wish you could too,” I said, and thinking about his heart operation last fall, I asked, “How are you?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” he said. “Taking good care of myself. But the big news here is that Carol is getting married in July to that Swenson boy. We like him a lot.”
“Oh, we do too!” I said. “That’s wonderful.” And I told the others.
“Well, you’ll all get invitations,” said Aunt Sally on their speakerphone. “But I’m writing poetry now as my hobby, Alice, and I’ve composed a poem for your birthday. I mailed it to you with a card, but I’m afraid it won’t get there until the weekend. So I’d like to read it to you.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” I said. “I’m going to hold the phone away from my ear so everyone can hear, Aunt Sally. Is that okay?”
“Of course!” she said. “And I’ll speak louder.” She cleared her throat and began:
When you were born a little girl,
As pure as driven snow,
We knew that you’d be tempted to
Say ‘yes’ instead of ‘no.’
Your mother left our earthly home
And asked me to take care
That you would lead a virtuous life
In thought and deed and prayer.
We’ve watched you grow up straight and tall,
So beautiful of face.
And hoped that you would keep yourself
In innocence and grace.
But whether you are pure or not,
Or somewhere in between,
You’ll always have our deepest love,
So, Happy Seventeen.”
I hardly knew what to say. Aunt Sally has been worried about my virginity for almost as long as I can remember, but her preaching always comes at me sideways, and she thinks she’s being subtle.
This time, though—maybe because I’m almost grown up—it didn’t bother me a lot. I was moved that she cared for me so much, and I wished that Pamela had a mother she could talk to. Even an Aunt Sally.
“Thank you, Aunt Sally,” I said. “It’s an honor to have a poem composed just for me on my birthday.”
After we’d talked a little about Carol’s coming wedding and how the reception would be held in the hotel where the groom is manager, we said good-bye and I gently put down the phone.
“Only Aunt Sally!” Lester said, grinning. Turning to Dad, he asked, “Do you remember the article she sent me on my thirteenth birthday, warning me of the dangers of smoking? And the newspaper clipping on my eighteenth birthday about teenage drinking? Oh yeah. And the story of the man who fathered eleven illegitimate children, and once they learned to trace DNA, they tracked him down and made him pay eleven mothers for child support? And Aunt Sally would always write at the bottom of each article, ‘But we know this would never happen to you.’”
“What would we do without Sally?” Dad said. “She got us through some rough times when Marie died. Ah, yes. Sal and her poetry. Now, this one’s a keeper.”
17
The Bus to Somewhere
I put on my pajamas at about ten thirty and was reading one more chapter in my sociology book when my phone rang. I glanced at the clock, puzzled, then reached down for my bag on the floor and took out my cell. Pamela.
“Pam?” I said, holding the phone to my ear.
“I feel horrible that I forgot your birthday,” she said. Her nose sounded clogged.
“Hey, there’s a lot on your mind,” I said.
“How was it?”
“My birthday? Fun. Les came over, and Dad brought Marilyn and Jack and David from work. Jack played his guitar.”
“What’d you get?”
“Money, mostly. Everybody’s been asking what I wanted. My feet have grown a half size, I think, and I need new heels for the prom, among other things.”
“Did Patrick give you anything?”
“A kiss. Before school.”
“That’s all?”
“It was a pretty good kiss.”
“Who are you doubling with?”
“No one that I’ve heard. I think we’re going alone.”
“Uh-oh,” said Pamela knowingly. Then, “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”
“Only sleep,” I said. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. But she didn’t say good-bye. “Just wondering … do you and Sylvia have good talks? I mean, after that last quarrel over the car, can you tell her stuff?”
“Not entirely. Some. We’re working on it.”
“Lucky,” said Pamela. And when she didn’t say anything for so long that I started to ask about it, she interrupted and said, “Alice, I’m scared.”
“I know you are,” I told her. “How long are you going to keep this secret? You’ve got to talk with someone. An adult.”
“Yeah? Like who?”
I couldn’t tell if she was crying or not.
“I think you ought to tell your mom.”
“Are you crazy?” she said. “Why would I listen to her?”
“She’s still your mom.”
“And hear
her tell me all the mistakes she’s made?”
“You’ll have to take that chance,” I said. “She didn’t ask to be put in this position, remember. But you won’t tell your dad or Meredith, and someone’s got to know, Pamela. You need to start seeing a doctor.”
She was crying now. “I don’t want to go through this! I don’t want this baby!”
“What does Tim want you to do?” I tried to be as gentle as I could.
“He said he’s not ready to be a father, but he will if he has to. I don’t want him to have to. I don’t want me to have to. I just don’t want to be in this mess!”
I thought of all the times Pamela had slept over—all the good times we’d had in my bedroom. The phone conversations. The laughter and jokes and music and movies and scrapbooks and bulletin boards and … We weren’t even in college yet! How could Pamela be a mother? How would she act? What would she do?
We’d had this same conversation several times already. And each time Pamela said she didn’t want to be pregnant, as though if she said it enough, it wouldn’t happen. And the conversation always ended with Pamela in tears.
I think we were on the phone until around eleven thirty. My battery was going, and Pamela’s voice was fading in and out. I told her we’d talk again the next day after school. We’d go somewhere and get ice cream, I said. Make a list of all the things she was worried most would happen, and we’d go over them one by one.
I dragged through the next morning. Probably no one except Gwen and Liz and Tim and I noticed that Pamela laughed too loud, sat too quiet, walked too fast, ate too slow.… It was as though none of these usual activities was familiar to her. Like she was playacting her life, trying to fit in, with a future so uncertain.
She fell asleep in sociology.
“Miss Jones, if you please?” the teacher said. “The musical’s over now… .”
Tim, too, looked distracted, worried. How did a guy tell his parents that he was going to be a father? That eight months from now, he’d either be moving out to set up housekeeping or that a baby would be moving in? How did he ask his mom if she could babysit five days a week until the kid was in school? If he could bring a wife home to live in his bedroom? How did he give up plans for college and settle for bagging groceries at Giant? It wasn’t just Pamela and Tim whose lives would change; it was everyone’s.
I was on my way to sixth period that afternoon when I saw Pamela, tears streaming down her face, walking rapidly toward the south exit.
“Pamela?” I called.
She kept going. There was something about her face that was frightening. I ran after her, ignoring the bell. She ran down the steps and out toward the soccer field.
“Pamela, stop!” I yelled again. “Wait up.”
When I finally caught up with her, she was breathing in little gasps and spurts, and her eyes were so teary that she’d walked right into the fence.
I put my arms around her. “Talk to me,” I said. “Tell me.”
She kept crying. “Tim w-walked away,” she said.
“When? What do you mean?”
“I w-was heading for his locker, and … I know he saw me! But he turned and walked away! Like he didn’t even want to talk to me!”
I just held her. “Well, maybe he didn’t want to talk right then. He’s still trying to deal with all this too. And maybe he’s mad at himself.”
Pamela just sobbed into my shoulder. “Alice,” she wept, “I w-want to call M-Mom.”
• • •
By the time we got back to the street, she’d changed her mind. I guided her into Ben & Jerry’s and bought her a dish of chocolate raspberry.
“Call her,” I said.
“She won’t be home,” Pamela said. “She works on Thursdays.”
“Then we’ll go over there when she gets home.”
Pamela took a bite of ice cream, then wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “She’s probably going out tonight.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can guess.”
“We’ll call her at work,” I said. I knew if we didn’t call right then, Pamela might not do it at all. “Finish your ice cream, Pam, and then we’ll call.”
She ate slowly, stirring the ice cream around until it became soup.
“You know what she’ll say,” she said.
“No, and neither do you.”
“She’ll say, ‘How did you get yourself in this mess?’”
“And if she does?”
“I’ll say, ‘How did you get into the mess you made for yourself?’ And then we’ll fight.”
“Give me your cell phone, Pamela.” She didn’t move, so I reached for her bag and retrieved it myself.
I knew that last period would be over soon, that kids would be leaving school. I’d been waiting for Pamela to finish her ice cream, but now I saw that she was crying again. Any minute crowds would be dropping by. The warm days of May were great for Ben & Jerry’s.
“What’s the number?” I asked Pamela, holding the cell phone out in front of me. “Do you have it programmed?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know it.”
I called information. “Nordstrom, Montgomery Mall, Bethesda, Maryland,” I said. The operator gave me the number and connected me.
“What department?” I asked Pamela.
“Career wear,” she said.
I repeated it into the phone, and when the extension started ringing, I handed the phone to Pamela.
Pamela waited until she heard her mother’s greeting, and then, in a voice like a kitten’s mew, she said, “Mom? I … I … I need to talk to you. Could I come over, m-maybe tonight?”
Please say she can come! I whispered in my head. Please don’t tell her you’re going out.
She must have been telling Pamela something, because Pam was quiet, listening. “All right, then,” she said, and my heart sank. She ended the call and sat there staring at the cell in her hand, then at me.
“She’s leaving for home. She said to come right over.”
I think we had just missed a bus, because we waited twenty minutes for another. Then it was a twenty-five-minute ride to Glenmont Apartments.
Pamela’s eyes were red, and she looked as though she hadn’t slept for a while. I wondered if I should be coming along and told Pamela I could sit out on the steps or over in the kiddie playground while she and her mom talked. But Pamela said she wouldn’t go inside unless I went with her.
“This is about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” she said. “You know what Dad would say if I told him I was pregnant? That I was growing up just like mom. What he’d mean is, a slut.”
“He may have told you that once, Pamela, but has he said that recently?”
She thought about it. “No. I guess he’s mellowed some since he met Meredith. But I don’t think he’s ever going to forgive Mom for walking out on us. I don’t think he ever can.”
“People change,” I said.
“And sometimes for the worse.”
“Sometimes.”
Mrs. Jones must have gotten there just before we did, because she was still wearing heels and a silk top over her dark skirt. When she opened the door, she barely saw me at all. Just took one look at Pamela and opened her arms.
I sat in one corner of the living room, Pamela and her mom on the couch across from me. I think Mrs. Jones knew, even before Pamela opened her mouth, that she was pregnant.
“I … I’m going to have a baby, Mom,” Pamela wept. “And I’m s-scared.”
The grief on her mother’s face turned to sympathy in moments. “Oh my God!” she breathed. “When, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know. January, maybe.”
Mrs. Jones was holding one of Pamela’s hands in hers. “And … the father?”
“My boyfriend, Tim. He’s a really nice guy, Mom. But I don’t think he wants to be a father… .”
“Of course not.” Mrs. Jones kept stroking the back of Pamela’s hand. “Have you told your dad?”
<
br /> “I’m not suicidal,” Pamela said, making me smile a little.
“Or Meredith, either, I suppose… .”
“No.”
“Oh God!” Mrs. Jones said again, shakily. She pressed her lips tightly together, studying her daughter some more. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yeah. I took a test.”
“How late are you?”
“Four weeks.”
“But you haven’t seen a doctor?”
“No.”
Mrs. Jones nodded. “Do you want to keep it, Pamela? Have you thought about what you want to do?”
Want to keep it? The words chilled me. Imagining Pamela with a baby chilled me. How do you ever decide what’s best for everybody?
“I don’t know!” Pamela wept. “I don’t want a baby, Mom, but … it’s T-Tim’s baby!”
“And yours,” her mother said.
“What do you think I should do, Mom?”
“Pamela,” said Mrs. Jones, “this is a decision you’re going to have to make yourself, and it’s one of the biggest decisions a woman could ever face.” She didn’t say girl, she said woman. “I don’t think you should decide anything right this minute, but I want to take you to a doctor so we can talk about it and see what the choices are.”
I sat silently through the long conversation. Mrs. Jones was saying all the right things, it seemed—that whatever Pamela decided to do about the baby, she’d support her. That Pamela hadn’t ruined her life—she had to believe that—but she was taking a detour. And that somehow they would get through this together. She told Pamela that they would get all the information they could about her choices—abortion, keeping the baby, or giving it up for adoption—that it was a situation none of them wanted to be in, but they were. People made mistakes in their lives, and this was a big one. But she knew what it was like to make a mistake.
I excused myself to go to the bathroom, then purposely stalled to give them some time alone. I’d taken my bag and cell phone with me, and I tried to call Sylvia to tell her I’d be late for dinner, but I hadn’t recharged the battery and couldn’t get through.
When I finally went back in the living room, Pamela was standing by the door, hugging her mom. And as we left, Mrs. Jones said, “Thank you for coming, Alice,” and hugged me, too. Her eyes were so sad.
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