by Alana Terry
CHAPTER 3
“No, I can’t calm down.” Kennedy didn’t mean to snap, but after the third or fourth time Reuben made the suggestion, she was ready to gouge his eyes out. Kennedy was pacing in front of some benches outside the student union while Reuben did his best to listen. “I mean, she might not have meant her dad is the dad, right?”
“I don’t know.” Reuben shrugged. “I wasn’t on the phone.”
Kennedy replayed those last few words in her mind. She could hear Rose’s voice, clear as a tiny glass beaker. Saturated with fear. I think it’s my dad … I gotta go. Did that mean her dad was the father of the baby? Or maybe her dad was coming, and she didn’t want him to catch her on the phone. Even so, there were still troubling questions without any answers. How does a thirteen-year-old girl get pregnant if she doesn’t have a boyfriend?
“Why did she hang up so quick?” Kennedy asked the air.
Reuben picked his tooth. “Maybe it was time for dinner.”
She whipped her head around to face him. “I don’t think it’s something to joke about.”
He held up his hands in a position of surrender.
Kennedy hoped he knew she wasn’t really mad at him. She eyed the stupid phone. “Anyway, I better call the director.” She hated running to Carl her very first night on the job, but there really wasn’t anything else to do. “I’ll see you later.” She started walking toward her dorm, but Reuben ran up behind and reached for her shoulder.
“Wait, when are we going to work on the paper for chem lab, then?”
“I don’t know.” How could she think about some report while there was some traumatized little girl out there? “Let’s just meet in the library Sunday afternoon.”
“When? Two?”
Kennedy was hardly listening. “All right. Fine.”
She turned once more, only to hear Reuben call after her, “And don’t stay up all night worrying. These things work themselves out.” She gave him a brief wave, discarded his last words which were about as helpful as a lobotomy, and pushed all thoughts of Reuben and lab write-up aside. She glanced down at the phone, and her fingers trembled so much it took her three tries before the call went through. Whenever she clenched her ab muscles to keep them from quivering, the tremors relocated all the way up to her teeth and sent them chattering noisily. She took a deep breath, hoping the phone would mask the choppiness in her voice. She had been so impatient to talk to Carl she hadn’t thought about what she would do if nobody answered at all. By the fifth ring, her shivering was so violent she sat down on a bench but hopped right back up again since her muscles refused to relax.
“Hello?” At the sound of Carl’s voice, relief flooded Kennedy’s whole body and seeped into each individual cell.
“Carl, it’s Kennedy. I just got off the hotline phone.”
“Oh, really? That was even faster than I expected.”
She hated to squash his enthusiasm, but she had no energy left for pleasantries or small talk. She summarized the call and waited for Carl to comment.
“So, you think the father might be …”
“She didn’t say so,” Kennedy hurried to explain, as if that one simple statement could negate all her horrific suspicions. “But on the other hand …”
“A thirteen-year-old without a boyfriend …” Carl mumbled. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be her dad.” His voice held the same futile optimism Kennedy had been trying to cling to.
“That’s true,” she agreed.
“But it does have to be somebody.”
“Right.”
“Do you think it’d be a good idea to call her back?” Carl suggested.
“It was a blocked number. I couldn’t even if I wanted.”
He let out a huge breath of air. “We better report this, just in case.”
“Report to who?” Kennedy shivered. It was warm when she dressed that morning. Now she wished she had layered up. It wasn’t sunset yet, but the night was freezing.
“I think you should call 911. Tell them what happened.”
Kennedy hadn’t expected that. The police? But then again, the idea made sense. Maybe they could trace the number. Maybe they could actually find the girl. Get her some real help.
Apparently, the matter was already certain in Carl’s mind. “Tell them what you told me. And when you’re done, call me back, just to let me know what they say.”
Part of Kennedy wanted to ask Carl to do it. He was the director. But he hadn’t talked with Rose. He couldn’t give them the same details she could, details that might help the police stage a rescue. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll call you back in a few.”
“I’ll be praying.”
Kennedy’s corneas were still dry and scratchy, as if somebody had blown cold air at her until each tear duct shriveled up like a parched, sandy desert. She disconnected her call with Carl and paused for a minute to calm down. Thoughts, prayers, blurred images clashed against one another discordantly in her mind. What had she gotten herself into? She was a high-achiever, but she knew when to admit she was in over her head. Nothing had equipped her for the past twenty minutes. That tiny, frightened voice kept replaying in her head until she couldn’t think of anything else.
Kennedy was still staring at the hotline phone, as if Rose’s last name and address might materialize on the screen if she got lucky enough. Then with a sigh, she dialed 911.
“The location of the emergency?” The operator’s voice had an automatic, almost drone-like quality.
“It’s not exactly an emergency. At least, I’m not sure it is.”
“Your location?” he repeated, the smallest trace of annoyance creeping into his tone.
“I’m calling from Harvard.”
“Square or University?”
“University. But that’s not where the emergency is. I mean …” Kennedy tripped and stumbled over her words but finally described her conversation with Rose.
The dispatcher’s tone didn’t change. “So you’re calling us because …?”
“The director told me to,” she answered. Why had it sounded like a good idea at the time? “He thought maybe you’d have a way to trace the call or something.”
“Not without special equipment. And we can’t trace calls after they’re placed, anyway.”
They were the police. They were supposed to protect innocent people, like thirteen-year-old girls who end up pregnant and terrified, talking to strangers when there’s nobody else to turn to. “So there’s nothing you can do?”
“No.” She wondered if he spoke in a monotone all the time or only when he was on the clock. “And even if we could, there wouldn’t be enough evidence for us to take action at this point.”
Frustration and rage sandwiched Kennedy’s arteries, and she felt her blood pressure escalate with her pulse. “What do you mean there’s no evidence?” Had he been listening to her at all?
“She didn’t accuse anybody, for one thing,” the operator remarked. “In fact, there’s not even proof at this point that she’s pregnant at all. She could have just wanted some extra attention, create some false sympathy …”
You didn’t hear her voice, Kennedy wanted to scream. Why had she thought the police would be able to do anything? The dispatcher didn’t believe Rose’s story. Next thing he’d start telling Kennedy she was the one making things up and looking for extra attention.
“So you’re basically saying I’m wasting my time trying to figure out how to help her. Is that it?” Kennedy heard the sharp edge in her own voice but didn’t try to soften it.
“Without more information, there’s nothing we can do.”
“She said she was homeschooled,” Kennedy suddenly remembered. “Can’t you guys run a list or something of the families around here that homeschool their kids? See if there’s a girl named Rose?”
“And then what?” Kennedy thought she picked up a hint of sarcasm although the operator’s tone didn’t change from its irritating, robotic lull.
S
he didn’t answer. So there really wasn’t anything they could do? Not even trace a simple call. How hard could it really be? They did it all the time in movies, right? “What if she calls back?” Kennedy asked. “Could you trace a call then?”
The operator let out a sound that was a mix between a chuckle and a sigh. “Theoretically, maybe. But we’d need a lot more evidence before we’d set something like that up.”
The last ounces of hope deflated out of Kennedy’s lungs. “So there’s nothing we can do.”
“Well, if she calls back, you can always try to get a last name. See if you can figure out if she really is being abused or not.”
Maybe the girl would call back. She could always hope. “But what if she doesn’t give me her name?”
“Encourage her to call 911. Or talk to someone, a teacher or something.”
“She’s homeschooled,” Kennedy reminded him, but the operator didn’t respond. “All right,” she finally sighed. “I guess that’s all.”
“Sorry we couldn’t be more help.” The words came automatically, and Kennedy doubted he meant them.
“Ok.” She hung up and stared at the phone. Her first 911 call, and he had basically told her he couldn’t lift a pinky finger to help. Exhaustion clung to her limbs as she made her way up the stairs to her dorm room. She’d have to call Carl back and tell him there was nothing to be done.
All right, God, she prayed. You heard him. If you want me to help, Rose is going to have to call back.
CHAPTER 4
Kennedy spent some time that evening looking up abortion methods online. The information she found both sickened and saddened her. Her initial search brought up several sites aimed specifically at young girls like Rose. You don’t need to feel guilty for choosing to end an unwanted pregnancy. Many girls have this procedure. It is quick, easy, and much safer than childbirth.
As Kennedy read on, she couldn’t stop thinking about those pictures in her dad’s pro-life magazine showing what an aborted baby looks like. She jumped a little when her roommate threw open the door and swept into the room. Kennedy closed her browser. She had to get to work on some real studying, anyway.
“I thought you’d be out tonight,” Kennedy remarked. In the past two months since they first came to Harvard, Willow hadn’t spent a single night in on the weekend.
“I’m not staying.” Willow sprayed some mousse into her hands and scrunched it through her hair. “I’m just waiting for Keegan.”
“Who’s Keegan?” At first, Kennedy had tried to keep track of Willow’s dates, but when she realized her roommate hardly saw anyone more than once or twice, she gave up the habit.
“Keegan. I thought I told you about him. He’s Cesario in Twelfth Night.”
Kennedy watched Willow crumple her hair into gravity-defying curls and waves. “Isn’t Cesario supposed to be played by a girl?”
Willow shrugged and studied herself in her little desk mirror. “This version is sort of a modern retelling. Drag queens, bisexuals ... Shakespeare would’ve loved it.”
Kennedy watched Willow put on some colorful bead earrings she had made herself and wondered how her roommate found time for crafts.
Willow glanced over at Kennedy’s computer. “What are you studying?”
“Oh, I just got a lab I need to get ready to turn in on Monday.”
Willow, who could hardly ever sit still for more than five seconds, crossed her arms and eyed Kennedy critically. “You ok?”
Kennedy didn’t think she had done such a bad job hiding her stress about Rose’s phone call. She definitely didn’t want to talk about it with Willow, who probably believed Carl and Sandy’s pregnancy center would set back women’s rights by half a century or more. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Her roommate frowned. “You don’t need to talk or anything?”
What was this? Willow sounded like Kennedy’s mother, who always had an uncanny way of knowing if something was bothering her. “I’m fine. I really am.”
Willow raised her eyes to the ceiling as if she were trying to remember the lines for a play. Finally she lowered them to give Kennedy a penetrating stare. “I’m just asking because I saw you on an abortion site. Are you in trouble?”
Kennedy let out a nervous laugh. No wonder Willow had been so concerned. It was sort of endearing, but also a little troubling. Didn’t Willow know her well enough by now to understand Kennedy’s values? “I wasn’t looking it up for me.”
Her roommate frowned. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You wouldn’t be the first Christian girl to get knocked up on campus.”
“It’s really not for me.” Kennedy didn’t have the energy to tell Willow everything about Rose and the hotline phone. She hoped her roommate’s date, Keegan, or whatever his name was, would show up soon.
Willow shrugged. “All right. Just remember, the longer you wait to deal with it, the harder it is. They even have pills now. So much easier than sitting in stirrups with a doctor and nurse gaping down at you.”
Kennedy wanted to shut her ears.
“The thing with the pills is you can only take them in the first few weeks. So if you are in trouble, now’s the time to do something about it. I know a good clinic I could recommend. You know me. I’m the last person to judge.” Willow had stopped staring at Kennedy and was now pouting in the mirror as she applied her eye makeup. “I mean, I know you’re probably all pro-life and everything, but there are obviously going to be exceptions, like when the mother’s safety is threatened.”
Kennedy didn’t say anything. The more she insisted the research was for someone else, the more Willow would doubt her, anyway.
Willow adjusted her earrings in the mirror. “Whatever you do, don’t become a martyr like that Morphia lady or whatever her name was. You know who I’m talking about?”
Kennedy shook her head.
“Right, I keep forgetting you spent your teenage years overseas on some mission of mercy with your parents or something. It was huge news around here last year. Some lady denying chemotherapy since she thought it would harm her baby. Made huge headlines. Of course, the anti-abortionists had a heyday about it. When she died, you would have thought she was a war hero on the crusade to abolish the murder of little fetuses or something. Anyway, the way I see it, if she didn’t want her kid getting radiation from chemo, she should have been on the pill.”
Kennedy started to say something in reply, but Willow wasn’t done with her monologue.
“And don’t get me started when you’re talking about little kids. Can you believe there are actually politicians who say that if a girl is raped by her dad, she should still be expected to carry the baby to term? I mean, even someone as conservative as you could see how ridiculous that is to make a twelve- or thirteen-year-old actually go through nine months of pregnancy and all the risks of childbirth. They’d actually rather see the girl die than take care of it right at the beginning when it’s safe.”
Kennedy didn’t answer. The mention of thirteen-year-olds and their fathers made her full stomach spin in protest. She didn’t agree with Willow, she knew abortion was wrong regardless of the circumstances. But why? She hadn’t thought through it thoroughly enough to be able to enter into any sort of debate.
Willow shrugged. Her phone buzzed once and she sprang out of her seat. “That’ll be Keegan. Gotta go.” She flashed Kennedy the same smile that made her perfect for stage acting. “Don’t wait up for me.” She flounced out of the room, leaving the door opened a crack behind her.
Kennedy sighed and reached down into her book bag. She had work to do, and Monday would be here before she was ready.
CHAPTER 5
Kennedy was used to being surrounded by people. The past decade in Yanji gave her quite a different definition of crowded than most other Americans. Still, her pulse sped up when she entered St. Margaret’s Church for Sunday services. For the past ten years, church had taken place in her parents’ den and consisted of her, her mom and dad, and the few North Korean refugees
that lived with them.
A woman in a flowery skirt welcomed her at the door, and Kennedy didn’t know if she was supposed to shake the outstretched hand or just accept the bulletin it offered. “Are you a visitor here?” the greeter asked, and Kennedy wondered in a church this size how someone could possibly keep track of who was new and who wasn’t. Was there some kind of glossy look in Kennedy’s eyes that gave it away? She explained that the Lindgrens were old family friends and entered the main sanctuary.
In Yanji, Kennedy’s Korean housemates would often arrive in the den thirty or forty minutes before services officially started. They kept the lights off and kneeled in darkness, offering a chorus of praise all at the same time. Tears, sobs, prayers, and petitions from each individual rose up to heaven simultaneously. At the time, Kennedy had found the noise chaotic and a tad frightening, but it was nothing like the din at St. Margaret’s. The noise created an almost physical barrier that Kennedy struggled to pass through on her way to the pews. Children ran around haphazardly, shouting, waving, bumping into the legs of unsuspecting congregants. A whole gaggle of teen girls giggled loudly in a huddle. A mother of three snapped at her oldest to hold onto his little sister’s hand. Behind her, two men bantered good-naturedly about the upcoming football game.
There was a band on the stage, with three guitars, a gleaming drum set, a keyboard, and a saxophone. Kennedy suspected there must be some sort of method in the musicians’ warm-up, but it sounded like each one was vying to create the loudest, most obnoxious sound. Back in Yanji, Kennedy and the others had sung plenty of hymns, but there wasn’t even a piano for accompaniment. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to will away the noise, trying to recall the sounds of worship in her parents’ den. During the ten years she spent in China, Kennedy always felt like the outsider. Now, in the second-to-back pew in the crowded auditorium, she realized she’d give about anything for a day or two back home.
The band played its first harmonious bar, and the talking and bedlam reluctantly died down as people took their seats. The ensuing music, however, was even louder than the hundreds of tiny conversations that had stopped. Kennedy clenched shut her eyes, wishing for some sort of cocoon to shield her from the volume. Was this how Americans worshipped every single Sunday?