by Neta Jackson
Jared definitely needed to pick their son up on Saturday, though, because the new Hope and Healing group was starting, and no way could she miss that.
“You’re all set, Destin,” said the muscular young man at the registration table. “All we need now is your fifty dollar room and key deposit.”
Michelle blinked. “What’s this? I thought we paid everything already.”
“Well, you did. We got your registration fee and the full tuition, but we just need this room deposit—which will get refunded if Destin leaves his dorm room in good shape and turns in his key.”
Michelle gave Destin a look that said, “You better not lose that room key, buster,” and handed over her credit card.
But as she waved good-bye and drove away, she wished she’d taken the time to pray with Destin before leaving him at camp. Well, she’d pray for him on the way home—and she had plenty of time, since she had to drive through the city during the heaviest rush hour. Could use the time to pray for Grace and Estelle and Ramona too, since she’d missed their prayer time the night before. Had Estelle invited Nicole Singer yet? Neither Estelle nor Grace had mentioned it, so probably not.
* * *
Charlotte Bergman wasn’t too happy that Michelle was taking another half day off work for her doctor’s appointment on Friday, but this one had been scheduled for a couple of weeks, so what could she say?
Doctor Marie Callas had been Michelle’s primary doctor since before the birth of the twins. But the dark-haired, green-eyed white woman—she looked Irish to Michelle—peered over her reading glasses at Michelle after flipping through her chart. “Mm-hm. It’s been quite a while since you’ve scheduled a physical, young lady.”
Michelle allowed a wry smile at the “young lady.” She and Dr. Callas were probably around the same age. “I know. Too busy to think about it, I guess.”
“Yes, but it’s been five years since you’ve been in, and that was because you got bronchitis. We didn’t do a full workup. But you’re now . . . what? Forty-one? You really should start having a regular physical every other year until fifty, Michelle, then annually.” The doctor flipped through her chart again. “I don’t see any mammograms, either. I’ll schedule a baseline now, and you should repeat it every year or two. Do it around your birthday. Makes it easier to remember. The good news is, we can probably wait on a colonoscopy and bone density test for a few years, but today let’s make sure the rest of you is in good health.”
Michelle nodded meekly as the doctor reviewed her recent health history. Joint pain? No . . . Blackouts? No . . . Headaches? Yes . . . Seven to eight hours sleep? Um, sometimes . . . Still menstruating? Yes, though irregular . . . Smoke? No . . . Night sweats? No . . . Regular exercise? Not really . . . Self breast exams? Sometimes . . . Any recent complaints? Often tired, appetite off, occasional nausea . . . Stress? Huh, I’m a social worker and have three teenagers, goes with the territory . . .
She dutifully gave a urine sample, winced as a nurse drew two vials of blood, and changed into one of those stupid gowns that opened down the back for the “physical” part of the physical. She followed the doctor’s finger with her eyes, said “Agggh” as the tongue depressor gagged her, breathed deeply as Dr. Callas moved the stethoscope around her chest and back, and obediently put her feet in the stirrups for a pelvic check and Pap smear.
The doctor thumped here, pushed there, felt everywhere.
Michelle stared at the ceiling. At least she was thorough.
Dr. Callas finally peeled off her plastic gloves and stuck them into a waste container. “All right, young lady. You can get dressed now. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we can talk.”
Talk? That sounded ominous. Hopefully she’d just get a lecture on taking better care of herself.
Michelle had just finished dressing when the doctor knocked and came in. She pulled up her stool-on-wheels and folded her arms in front of her. “So.”
Michelle waited several moments. “Is . . . everything okay?”
The doctor nodded, pursing her lips. “Mmm, you’re more or less healthy—in spite of the fact that your stress level is high, you’re not getting enough sleep or exercise, not taking care of yourself like you should. But there is one thing . . .”
Michelle held her breath. She knew it.
A small smile tipped the edges of Dr. Callas’s mouth. “You’re pregnant.”
Chapter 36
Stunned, Michelle licked her lips. Pregnant?
No, no, no . . . can’t be! Not now . . .
She tried to swallow. “Are you saying positively? Or maybe?”
Dr. Callas nodded. “Pretty positive. Urine sample and blood test will tell me for sure, but from my pelvic exam, you’re probably at least eight weeks along.”
Eight weeks! Michelle tried to get a breath. She couldn’t be pregnant. Couldn’t have another baby, not now. She was forty-one years old! Destin would be off to college in a year. The twins were thirteen. She had a full-time career! And they needed both incomes for their double mortgage, medical insurance, car loans . . . not to mention still paying off their own college loans.
“I realize a pregnancy is challenging at your age, Michelle,” Dr. Callas was saying. “There’s a bit more risk after forty, but there’s no reason you can’t carry this baby to term and give birth to a healthy child. But you will need to take better care of yourself. Cut down on your work hours if you can. Pay more attention to your diet and exercise, get more rest. I’ll get you started on some prenatal vitamins and write up some basic health guidelines I want you to follow. And, frankly, I’d like to see you in another four weeks, just to keep everything on course, but you’ll also want to make an appointment with an obstetrician. I can refer you to an excellent team. What hospital do you prefer?”
Michelle shook her head slowly. Naming a hospital made it real.
The doctor stood up and patted her on the shoulder. “That’s all right. Take your time.” She chuckled. “Good thing it takes nine months to grow a baby. Takes about that long to wrap our minds around bringing the little rascals into the world.”
Alone in the examination room, Michelle stared, unseeing, at the health posters on the wall. The thought had crossed her mind, but she’d squashed it before it took root. She always used birth control. Yes, her period had been late, but she’d never been regular—though, admittedly, she’d never been this late. But she’d been too busy, too stressed, too distracted to keep track or worry about it. She’d worried about other things—a brain tumor (the headaches) . . . some kind of gastric cancer (the nausea) . . . a low-grade virus (general malaise) . . . or even mononucleosis, though she was a bit old for that. In college, stressed-out students were always falling prey to mono, with fatigue, headaches, and nausea being typical symptoms. Well, along with fever and swollen glands, neither of which she’d had, but still.
But it wasn’t mono. Or a virus. Or cancer.
Michelle was still in a state of shock when she walked out of the doctor’s office half an hour later with a prescription for prenatal vitamins, a long list of instructions for prenatal healthcare, an appointment in four weeks, and the phone numbers of three excellent obstetricians who delivered at St. Francis Hospital. But all her mind could think as she drove to work was, O God, O God, let Dr. Callas be mistaken!
Fortunately, she had two clients to visit that afternoon back-to-back to distract her, and when she returned to the office, her desk was piled with a stack of case folders to update and report forms to fill out. The full import of the doctor’s diagnosis didn’t hit her until she was back in her car heading home.
A baby? Jared would freak. He loved their kids, he was a great dad. But they were done. When the twins were born, bringing the number to three, they’d decided that was it.
Was supposed to be it.
A fourth child? Or . . . she suddenly gulped. What if it was twins? Again.
She couldn’t tell Jared. Not yet. Hadn’t the doctor admitted she wasn’t a hundred percent sure?
She’d wait for the results of the urine test and blood sample. That was it. No sense getting her husband all worked up about something that might not even be true.
* * *
Michelle rehearsed all the way home what she was going to say—and not say—if Jared asked how her doctor’s appointment went. But his car was gone, much to her relief. Out running errands or something. Gave her time to catch her breath.
Estelle Bentley called while she was making supper, saying Harry was taking DaShawn miniature golfing, did the twins want to go? “Destin too, if he’d like. We might take Ramona—they’re about the same age, aren’t they?”
The same age? Ramona was young, but she’d never realized she was the same age, or maybe even a little younger, than her son. Michelle shuddered, thinking of Ramona naively traveling cross-country with a drug runner, grateful Destin was a boy. Surely not as vulnerable as a young girl . . .
“Destin’s at basketball camp, but I’m sure the twins would love to go. I could send Jared if Harry needs backup.” Nothing like volunteering her husband without his permission. But right now Michelle needed some space.
“I bet Harry would like that. Why don’t you—”
“Actually, why don’t you have Harry call Jared and ask him personally if he and the twins would like to go? Might make the medicine go down better, if you know what I mean.”
Estelle’s deep, throaty laugh filled her ear. “Got it. I’ll have Harry call.”
Jared came in just as Michelle was dishing up the Hamburger Helper to go over the mashed potatoes. “Sorry, Gumdrop. Thought I’d be back before you got home. Had to get the oil changed in the Nissan, took longer than I thought.” He kissed the cheek she held up to him as she passed carrying a hot dish between potholders. “Should probably take the Honda in tomorrow for the same thing—oh, rats. Can’t. Gotta go pick up Destin, right?”
“Yes, dear,” she said, making a face at him. “You’re on chauffeur duty this time. I’m starting a new Hope and Healing group at Lifeline.” She raised her voice. “Tavis! Tabby! Supper!”
“What time do I have to be there? Tomorrow is first Saturday of the month, men’s breakfast meets at eight. Think I can go after?”
Michelle tried to keep her tone lighthearted. There was no way he was going to wiggle out of picking up Destin. “Camp info sheet says pickup is eleven o’clock. But I think there’s a game or presentation ceremony in the morning that parents are invited to attend. Would be nice if you could be there for that.”
“Yeah.” Jared frowned and scratched his head as he sat down. “Hate to miss the men’s breakfast though . . . hey, hey, hey!” he hollered as the twins skidded into their chairs. “Where’s the fire? This is the dinner table!”
“Sorry, Dad.”
They held hands around the table as Jared said the blessing, then busily filled their plates as Michelle passed the food around. “So how was babysitting at Singers’ today, Tabby?” she asked. She only half-listened as first Tabby, then Tavis, chattered away about their day with mouths full. Just keep them talking.
But during a lull, Jared cocked an eyebrow at her. “Didn’t you have a doctor’s appointment today? What’d he say?”
“She said you guys have to put up with me for twenty or thirty more years at least. Though she said I might live longer if my kids brought me breakfast in bed, if my husband did all the laundry and housecleaning, and—”
“Mo-om.” Both twins rolled their eyes.
“Seriously, hon.”
She shrugged. “Okay. She said I’m in pretty good shape, but should cut down on stress, get more rest, get more exercise, include more vegetables and fruit in my diet—you know, the usual.”
“But what about—”
The phone rang. Saved by the bell. Michelle jumped up to answer it, then handed Jared the phone. “For you.”
“Jasper here . . . Well, uh, sure, don’t think we have any plans tonight.” He shot a look at Michelle, who shook her head. He covered the mouthpiece. “Hey, Tavis, Tabby, DaShawn’s grandpa is asking if you guys want to go miniature golfing tonight—”
“Yes!” they both yelled.
Michelle smiled. Out of the house. A quiet evening at home for her.
* * *
Jared was gone by seven thirty the next morning. Said he’d put in an appearance at the men’s breakfast, but leave in time to get to Lewis University by ten. Traffic shouldn’t be bad on a Saturday morning.
Michelle poured herself a second cup of coffee and slumped at the kitchen table. She hadn’t slept that well. And when she did fall into a restless slumber, she’d dreamed she was being chased by . . . by something, never clear what, but ahead of her was a steep cliff, and she was running straight toward it. Couldn’t turn right, couldn’t turn left, couldn’t turn back . . . but disaster lay straight ahead.
She’d awakened in a sweat. It was still early, not quite six, but she got up, took a shower to fully wake up, and decided to put the coffee on and start the laundry.
Anything to shake that dream.
Should she make breakfast? Jared was gone, the twins still asleep. She didn’t really feel like eating, but she had a full day ahead. Needed the strength. Nibbling on a piece of toast, she felt uneasy about not telling her husband all that the doctor had said—but good grief! He’d asked in front of the kids!
The phone rang, jolting her out of her thoughts. “Michelle?” It was Grace next door. “Wondering if I could ride with you this morning to Lifeline. Trying to make sure I actually get there. I’ve been known to panic and run.” She laughed self-consciously.
“Of course—if you don’t mind going a little early. The group meets at ten but I try to get there by nine. Meet you out front at eight thirty?”
“Yes . . . yes, fine. See you then.”
Knowing Grace was going to be riding with her gave Michelle the jump-start she needed to get dressed, start another load of laundry, leave instructions for the twins, and head out the door at eight thirty.
Grace was waiting beside the Honda. “Thanks,” she said, climbing in. “Don’t know why this is such a big deal for me. Just is.”
Starting the minivan and squeezing past Lincoln Paddock’s fancy town car parked in the cul-de-sac, Michelle nodded and smiled. “I know. But you’re going to be fine.”
Grace chatted nervously as Michelle drove to the crisis pregnancy center—mostly about Ramona. “Kind of weird having someone else in the house. I’m so used to living alone . . . She likes to cook—mostly Mexican food. Good thing I like it . . . She’s not real neat, but she’s trying. Keeps most of her mess in the guest room . . . I wasn’t sure she’d want to go when Estelle invited her to play miniature golf last night, but she did and seemed to have a lot of fun.” Grace gave a half-laugh. “Felt like a middle-aged mother waiting up for her to come home . . .” Grace’s voice suddenly cracked and she quickly turned her face toward the side window.
Michelle glanced at her neighbor, saw her brush a tear away. “Grace? Are you all right?”
Grace nodded but her chin trembled. “Ramona told me she’s ‘almost seventeen.’ Made me realize that . . .” She paused, making another swipe at her eyes. “. . . if I hadn’t aborted my baby, she or he would be a teenager like Ramona right now—well, a few years younger, more like your twins, but still.”
“Oh, Grace . . .” Michelle laid a hand on the young woman’s knee for a brief moment. Grace was quiet the rest of the way.
They arrived at Lifeline in good time. Introducing Grace to the affable Bernice, Michelle asked the receptionist if she’d be willing to give Grace a tour of the center, then excused herself to gather her thoughts together. Review the list of clients who’d signed up for the group. Review how she wanted to introduce the nine-week course. Mark the scriptures she wanted to read. Pray.
She had already met individually with each of the four women who’d signed up for the new post-abortion support group—well, not exactly “met” with Grace, but Grace had shared enough at Man
na House about her situation to know the basic story—and knew that each one was making a choice to attend the group. But that didn’t mean it would be easy. Sometimes a woman came thinking there was a quick fix for the “blues” she was experiencing after an abortion. Sometimes the anger—at herself, at others, at God—was so deep it hindered the healing. Sometimes a woman just wanted a safe place to talk about her abortion, to share her story, to know she wasn’t alone—especially if she’d kept it a secret from family and friends for years. Sometimes a woman was hoping to be reassured that having the abortion wasn’t all that bad, her guilty feelings were irrational, she should just forget it and move on . . . as though that were possible.
“Lord,” she breathed quietly, “you know each of these women, know what they need. Fill the room with your Spirit and your peace. Help each one to set aside any hindrance to what you want to do in their lives . . .”
Like her doctor’s visit yesterday, which kept trying to invade her thoughts.
Michelle stood up firmly, gathered her notebook, books, and Bible, and headed for the conference room. No, she had to set her own issues aside. A problem to deal with another day. She had to focus on Grace and Hannah and the other two young women.
* * *
The first meeting seemed to be going well. Michelle had passed out a notebook and a sheet with some starter questions to think about, and then given the four women time to write answers privately. After a while she opened the meeting with a prayer and an invitation for anyone to share something about her abortion experience—or not. Totally voluntary.
At twenty-nine, Grace was the oldest of the four, still hadn’t told her parents about the date rape and abortion she’d had at sixteen. Had been trying to “make it up to God,” she said, by making abstinence before marriage a theme of her concert tours. But she felt like a fraud. “I’m only now beginning to understand what my name means—Grace. Realizing God covers me with his grace and forgiveness, even when I don’t deserve it. Still . . . I have a hard time admitting publicly what I did. Afraid my career will be over.”