Misconception

by Ryan Boudinot

  Veronica appeared in the doorway. "Take some more boxes, Kat. I really don't think it'll take much effort to get this room packed up today."

  "I told you I'll get it all packed, okay? Don't you have your own crap to worry about? I can get my own boxes. Now leave me alone!" Kat proceeded to throw some random toys and pictures into a box. I wanted to get her attention, but knew she'd scream. The longer I didn't reveal myself, the more my visit turned to voyeurism. I opened my mouth to whisper her name, then shut it. I only hoped she wouldn't start packing the contents of her closet.

  George poked his head into the room, loudly singing the Miss America pageant theme, and tossed Kat a roll of packing tape. "For your boxes. Just think, you're going to have your own bathroom. You can dry your undergarments in private or whatever it is you do in there."

  "Gross!"

  "I'm kidding! Jeez Louise!" George said, then sat down on the edge of the bed. "You wanna talk?"

  "About what?"

  "It's weird for you. I get that. You and your mom had your life, just the two of you, and I can respect that. It's got to be strange to just one day pick up and move all your stuff. But I want you to feel at home at my place, I really do."

  George hesitated then touched Kat's shoulder. She shrugged him off. "Don't touch me. Pervert."

  "Why are you calling me that? All right, that's fine. I hope ... I mean, I just think we had a really good time on the boat, don't you? I want those good times to continue. At our house. As a family."

  "Leave. Me. Alone."

  George sighed, stood, and paused for a second like he was hoping to say something useful, then gave up and left, closing the door gently behind him. Kat listened to him recede down the hall, then reached down between the cushions of her bed, extracted the wand of her pregnancy test, and squinted at it for a while before returning it to its hiding place. "Fuck," she murmured, then threw more things into boxes. Any moment she could open the closet and find me huddled there, but her mother called for her help and she left the room. An hour or so later I heard the van leave the driveway and figured they had all left. I waited a few more minutes then crawled from the closet, listening for signs of life in the house. When I was sure everyone was gone I pulled the pregnancy test from under Kat's mattress to confirm what I already knew. Two stripes, Pregnant.

  "What did you do to your lip?" my mom said. "It's bleeding." She handed me a napkin across the table. I dabbed my mouth. The paper flowered with blood.

  "Are you chewing your lip?"

  "I guess so," I said.

  "Must be a habit you picked up when you quit smoking," my dad said to his an gratin potatoes.

  "I never smoked."

  My parents nodded and sipped their wine. Several times a day my lower lip bled and I applied Blistex, which seemed only to enhance the pain. I tried willing Kat's period into existence. Every morning I called and asked, "Did it happen?" but apart from some misleading discharge, nothing. I read that 30 to 40 precent of pregnancies ended in natural miscarriage within the first trimester. I hoped for a sudden absence of progesterone or some other mysterious biological event to drive the embryo from her womb. I willed the endometrium of her uterus to become necrotic and prostaglandins to kick her uterine smooth muscles into high gear. I could hardly masturbate anymore and when I did it was to the most tawdry and low-grade materials, a JCPenney's underwear catalog, a novelty ballpoint pen that you turned upside down to make the woman's bikini disappear. Kat asked if I could get her a fifth of vodka then punch her several times in the stomach. I told her I wouldn't. After a week of hounding her and still no period she made an appointment at Family Beginnings on the condition that I accompany her.

  We rode our bikes together to the clinic, Kat swerving to hit every pothole and bump in the road. I promised that afterward I'd take her to breakfast at Denny's and she could order anything she wanted.

  "Are you going to tell them George did it?" I asked.

  "Why would I do that? They'd have to report that to the police."

  "What are you going to tell them, then? That I did it?"

  "I'll make something up."

  The Family Beginnings offices were part of a medical complex near a doomed mall that kept shuttering stores. Letters had been stolen from some of the store names on the sign welcoming shoppers into the empty parking lot. A craft store, All That Glitters, was now All That i_ - - _s. Apparently the employees had even started answering the phone that way. We parked our bikes behind the clinic by the Dumpsters. The waiting room was mostly empty except for a pregnant Hispanic girl we didn't know. Kat checked in, providing a fake name, and I pawed through a Newsweek. The receptionist explained that the first part of the appointment would be a counseling session with someone named April, and then Kat would get an exam.

  A voice from the counseling room behind us called out, "Geraldine Ferraro? Is Ms. Ferarro here?"

  "That's me," Kat said, and we turned to find our homeroom teacher Mrs. Wheeler standing in front of us with a clipboard in hand.

  I wanted to run. Or die. Or escape to our Grand Slam breakfasts. Mrs. Wheeler's face betrayed an instant of recognition quickly replaced by a mild and professional smile. She'd once sent me to the principal's office for showing everybody my sperm, but here, in this clinical context, she'd counter any transgression with a pamphlet. "Come on back," she said.

  We followed her to a drab room decorated with a Monet poster that said "MONET" and sat down in front of the desk.

  "You weren't expecting to see me," Mrs. Wheeler said. "I volunteer here during the summer. And I want you to know that I don't think anything bad about you for coming here today. In fact, I think you've made a mature decision. What we discuss here is completely confidential. I won't reveal that we had this conversation to anyone, even your parents. I'm here to help. What can I do?"

  Kat slowly lifted her eyes. "I think I got pregnant."

  "When was your last missed period?"

  "Three weeks ago."

  "And you had intercourse prior to that time?"

  "I ... it was in Canada. I mean, it wasn't with Cedar. I was on a boat trip with my mom and her boyfriend and there was this town we stopped at. That night my mom and George, the boyfriend, went and got a hotel. To celebrate that they'd gotten engaged. I was supposed to sleep on the boat. I went into the town that night and found these kids at a park and started hanging out with them. They were drinking peach schnapps and asked if I wanted any. I had maybe like a drink and a half of it. So then, one of the boys . . ." Kat paused, her hands shaking. "He was older. I was making out with him and he was like, let's go somewhere together. So I told him about the boat. And we went there. I shouldn't have drunk that schnapps."

  Mrs. Wheeler offered a box of tissues while I sat dumbly.

  "Have you taken a home pregnancy test?"

  "Yes. It was positive."

  Mrs. Wheeler asked a few more yes/no questions about sexual activity and drug use and whether Kat understood her options in the event of an unwanted pregnancy.

  "I want an abortion," Kat stated. I was surprised at how resolute she sounded.

  "Should your test today come up positive, we can refer you to a clinic that performs abortions," Mrs. Wheeler said. "Your next question is probably how much it costs. We have funds to help young women like you. All we ask is that in the future, when you have the means, that you consider making a contribution to Family Beginnings." She let this new pathway sink in a moment then continued, "Do you have any questions, Cedar?" I wondered if she suspected I was really the responsible party here. She knew I was capable of producing sperm, had personally seen them, in fact. I wanted her to know that I was just here to help, but any explanation would have entangled me in Kat's lie. Best to play along. "No," I said.

  Kat said quietly, "Mrs. Wheeler? Do you think I'll go to hell if I get the abortion?"

  "That's really not something Family Beginnings can address. If you have spiritual questions about abortion, you need to consult with the appropr
iate person at your church. But Katie, I will tell you it's ultimately your decision alone to make."

  Mrs. Wheeler's answer seemed inadequate to me, something she had rehearsed from a manual. Kat asked if I could be in the room during her exam and Mrs. Wheeler showed us to the examination room. She said a nurse would be in shortly and that Kat needed to put on a robe. Then Mrs. Wheeler's decorum fell away and she took us each under one of her arms and said, "It's going to be okay." Then she took a moment to compose herself, smiled tightly, and left the room.

  I watched Kat undress and found it odd how nonsexual she looked in her nakedness. She was in a body, undergoing processes, needing diagnosis. The nurse was a wide, red-faced woman who conducted this business without much enthusiasm. Kat climbed onto the table and the nurse drew some blood. Then she spread her legs as directed, sucking air through her teeth when the nurse inserted the speculum. The nurse explained that every pregnancy test they administered was accompanied by tests for a variety of STDs-gonorrhea, chlamydia, herpes, etcetera. She inserted a long wooden swab into the opening of the speculum. When it was done the nurse flatly wished us the best of luck and left. Kat wiped the gel from her vagina and tossed the paper towel into the trash. I felt extraneous to this solemn and antiseptic ceremony. What could I, of all people, possibly do to help her now?

  I helped Kat in through the front door of the clinic and toward the nearest chair. Her feet benumbed by Valium, her sneakers dragged across the carpet. The instructions had been to take two the night before and one that morning, but she'd done the opposite. On the bus she had washed the two pills down with Sprite and her body had turned limp and slumped against mine.

  The clinic was empty except for a couple of receptionists. I recognized the music in the background as Steely Dan, a band I had always hated. The rubber fetus-bearing protestors I'd feared hadn't materialized, but the cheeriness of the lobby suggested peace on the verge of disruption. After helping Kat sign in, we sat beneath the boughs of a plastic plant. Within minutes a female nurse called her back.

  The duration of an abortion is about the length of time it takes to read one issue of Newsweek from cover to cover. I wanted to run across the street to the gas station and buy cigarettes, but feared Kat would emerge from the swinging doors as soon as I left. So I stayed and learned about Berlin's reunification and the new James Bond movie. In my mind, beneath the blathering text of newsworthy items, chanted a chorus: my girlfriend is getting an abortion, my girlfriend is getting, my girlfriend, an abortion, my girlfriend is getting. Steely Dan was followed by Hall and Oates singing "One on One," the Cars doing "Drive," and a-ha's "Take On Me." My surroundings seemed to lack the basic requirements of reality. A director could have called "Cut!" and I wouldn't have been all that surprised.

  An elderly couple arrived and spent a lot of time going over their paperwork, the man breathing with assistance from his portable oxygen tank. I was pretty sure they weren't here for the same kind of procedure we were here for. What would they think if they learned what was occurring this moment behind the swinging door? When Kat finally appeared in front of me she was smiling, startling me. The nurse spoke to me about how much rest Kat needed, how many pills to take, when to eat. I nodded as if everything made sense while my drugged girlfriend wobbled beside me.

  "They gave me something pretty potent!" Kat said when we were outside. I wanted to ask her how it went, but the question felt more appropriate for somebody who'd just completed a job interview. She said, "It wasn't as bad as I thought. The doctor was really nice. At the end he said, `Well, you used to be pregnant, and now you aren't.' He said to eat soup."

  "I'll get you some when we get to your house," I said, as we walked our bikes through an alley to the bus stop. I checked the schedule and saw we'd have to wait half an hour.

  Kat sat down on the bench, rummaged in her big knit bag and pulled out her Walkman, inserting Def Leppard's Hysteria. "Don't be mad at me because I just want to listen to music."

  "I won't. Go ahead."

  The bus came and I strapped the bikes to the front rack. The bus squeezed us slowly through one development after another until we came to Kat's old neighborhood. There was a FOR RENT sign in the yard with a picture of a bighaired woman's head on it. Kat used her extra key to get in. The empty house echoed around us as we climbed the stairs to her old bedroom, where that morning I had stashed a couple sleeping bags and pillows. She lay down and I waited until she was snoring, then went to the grocery store four blocks away. I selected a couple cans of chicken noodle soup and a six pack of 7UP. Day-to-day banality continued unabated for the rest of the world. No one, not the butcher, the clerks, or the old lady frowning over the bananas knew that my girlfriend had gotten an abortion that morning. Stupidly, I almost expected the entire world to pause and reflect on this occasion. But the same benign rituals of buying proceeded uninterrupted and, thrust into them, I found myself confounded and alone.

  When I returned to Kat's old house I realized that I had no way of preparing the soup or even opening the cans. I hunted through the empty cupboards hoping to find a leftbehind can opener, but everything was gone. I sheepishly went upstairs to tell Kat I'd screwed up. She was still asleep, drooling onto a He-Man Masters of the Universe pillow case. We were finally alone together in a place ideal for having sex. I internally scolded myself for the thought. I imagined George's middle-aged body slurping against hers. Where was Veronica when it happened? An imaginary detective led me through the cabin of George's boat. They started here, see, and he laid her down on this mattress here. The reality of it screwed up my stomach. I tasted blood on my lips.

  While Kat slept I curled beside her and stared at a corner where a wisp of cobweb swayed in a draft. I boiled at what George had done to my girlfriend, but the anger possessed another dimension I was slow to admit. Disgusted with myself, with Kat, and with George, my thoughts endlessly looping visions of intercourse and anatomical dissections, I came to admit that what coursed through me was jealousy. He had so easily accomplished things with Kat that I had long wanted to do. I was jealous of a rapist. I wanted to kill myself.

  The afternoon gave in to a lackluster dusk. I knew my parents must have been wondering where I was, but part of me wanted to get busted so the whole story could come tumbling out. I indulged my imagination with my suicide, my limp body in the tub, their wailed regrets. I felt Kat looking at me and turned my head.

  "I'm hungry. Did you get the soup?" she asked.

  "Yeah, but there's no can opener."

  "What else did you get?"

  "7UP."

  "That's it?"

  "Yeah."

  "Thanks a lot, Cedar. Thanks a lot."

  "I didn't know there was no can opener."

  "What have you been doing this whole time? You could've at least gone out and gotten something else."

  "I was watching you. Fine. I'll go get more food."

  I left abruptly, slamming the front door behind me. I help my girlfriend abort a child molester's baby and she gets all bitchy. Fuck it. The closest fast food was a Wendy's on the other side of the elementary school. I left my bike at Kat's and crossed through the ball fields where a day camp was engaged in a series of elaborate relay races. There were kids in matching baggy T-shirts, orange traffic cones demarcating some kind of course, and frisbees and whistles.

  I ordered a couple Frostys, a chicken sandwich, a double bacon cheeseburger, a bowl of chili, two orders of fries, and a salad. As I waited for my order I watched a mopey, acne-defeated girl stuffed into her uniform clean the salad bar with a rag. Two cooler-looking girls in Esprit shirts walked by, one of them digging her hand into the crouton bin. The employee quickly grabbed the girl's wrist, and said, "Hey, you can't do that." The crouton thief jerked away, laughing, popping croutons into her mouth. "I didn't mean it," the employee said sadly. I tried to imagine her life. She probably had a mundane daily routine, a mother who watched soaps, a father who worked at a plant or factory. She wanted friends, I could tell;
she was just confused about the whole system of friendship. She never said the right things around other girls and was always a step or two behind in fashion and music. She earned straight Bs, was the last to get picked for teams, suffered the indignity of her mother taking her shopping for cosmetics at the drug store. She ate chocolate in her room at night reading Sweet Valley High books. She would go to a community college, become a secretary at an office, marry a man similarly stymied by social rituals. They'd watch TV and make love-concurrently, not sequentially. They'd have a kid, an average student, undistinguished on the playfield or classroom, a kid who would represent the boring and unimaginative section of the gene pool. I could feel contempt for such a person, for such a nobody, but this high school girl whose name tag read "Beth" had rendered me incapable of anything but unbearable, knife-twisting empathy when she said, "I didn't mean it." She would have suspended her salad bar duties and her adherence to the rules of Wendy's if it had meant someone being nice to her, and this made me terribly sad. I wanted to say something kind to her, but she returned to the inner sanctum of the kitchen and my order came up.

  As I was walking across the parking lot with my bag of food and the drink carrier, my parents pulled up in their Volvo. Without thinking, I got in. We were all surprised to see each other. The interior of the car reeked of an argument. My mom was in the driver's seat, meaning my dad had gone on strike from driving because he would no longer tolerate my mother's commentary on his substandard traffic-safety skills. We sat silent in the parking lot for a good minute. A woman wearing bright floral stretch pants entered the Wendy's, slapping one of her kids on the head on the way in.