by Nicole Maggi
Well, that’s easy to answer. I want to make things better for women and girls. But there are so many ways to do that. Do I want to be a doctor? Sometimes the answer is yes, but then I think of all those years of school and the heartache I’ve seen that comes from being a doctor…and I’m not sure that’s the right path. Peace Corps? Maybe. How can I effect the most change?
The thing is, I have years to figure this out. I’m only a sophomore. I just wish the world would stop making me feel like I need to figure it out before I’ve even had a chance to live and decide for myself.
—Lise
February 16
Night
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I’m writing at home because I didn’t write at school today. I couldn’t get to the library because Mom needed me to watch Joanie after school, so I had to go straight home. Then I had to help Joanie with her reading assignment and play dolls with her and feed her, and it was nonstop. Once again, I could see my life stretched out as one endless do this with me, do that with me, I want a snack, I’m thirsty, I’m bored if I keep this baby. I can’t do it. I’m sixteen. I’m only ten years older than Joanie; I am not ready to be someone’s mom.
I think I have to give up the baby for adoption.
Which means I have to tell my parents.
But I’m not ready to do that yet. My palms get clammy and my insides turn hot. I try to imagine that conversation and I can’t. It is going to be so awful and I just—
I can’t.
Not now.
So instead, I’m curled up in the big squishy chair in the corner of the playroom. Mom is watching that show on TLC about the family with twenty million kids. She loves that show, probably because she wishes she had twenty million kids too. Ruth and Joanie are stretched out on the floor. Joanie’s wearing her Cinderella dress because she always wears her Cinderella dress after dinner, and Ruth is making a bracelet from her bead kit. Bethany is reading a magazine because it’s Friday and she doesn’t like to do her weekend homework until Sunday night. Dad is in his study and Jeremy is at an evening class, so it’s just us girls. I like it like that. No one is paying attention to me, because I’m in the corner and the TV is loud and everyone is doing their own thing, but we’re still together. And I like that too.
The TV show with the twenty million kids ends and the next one comes on. It’s about people looking for long-lost family members, and it runs in the background while I write.
It’s one of the few shows on TLC that we’re allowed to watch, like the show with the twenty million kids. We are definitely not allowed to watch the show about the Amish kids who go wild, or the transgender teenager, which I think Mom even wrote a letter to the network about. But this one is okay, because it’s about families finding each other. I glance up as the people on TV start to get emotional. The episode ends with a joyously tearful reunion. Suddenly there’s a knot in the pit of my stomach.
This episode—like most—involves an adopted kid who’s been looking for his birth mother.
This show isn’t just about families finding each other. It’s about people who chose not to have abortions.
I sit up. I can’t breathe. It’s a good thing I’m sitting in the corner, because I’m gulping for air like a hot iron poker is searing my skin. I’m burning, I’m burning, I’m burning…
These people are so happy to find each other.
The mothers always say the same things. They forced me to give you up. Or, I wasn’t ready to be a parent. I think about you every day. And the children say, it’s okay, I don’t blame you. I’ve always wanted to meet you.
And then the children say, “Tell me about my father.”
Tell me about my father.
TELL ME ABOUT MY FATHER.
I try to take slow, deep breaths.
My family is going to see me. They’re going to turn around at any second and see me having a panic attack.
The people on the screen are crying, and I can feel my own tears welling in my eyes. Tell me about my father. What will I say when Baby comes looking for me in twenty-five years?
Your father raped me on the cold cement floor of my family’s basement.
I didn’t want to have you, so I gave you up for adoption because the thought of looking at you every day made me sick.
I hate that you exist.
I HATE THAT YOU EXIST.
My whole body is shaking.
Once again, my life stretches out in front of me, one endless day after another, fearing the day when Baby finds me.
I can’t.
I can’t do this.
No one should ever hear that their mother wishes they didn’t exist. I know I can’t live with that pain every day. I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of punishment, but it seems excessive even for the most vengeful God.
I can’t bring this baby into the world.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 16
Midnight
Dear Ms. Tilson,
Somehow I made it upstairs and got ready for bed without anyone noticing I was having a panic attack. I’d normally think it was crappy that your kid or your sister could have a panic attack without anyone noticing…but this time I’m grateful.
Now it’s midnight and Bethany is snoring. I can’t sleep. I never sleep anymore. At least I can breathe again.
I’ve been thinking about my options all night. That third option, the option that isn’t an option, keeps surfacing.
Because it is an option. I know I said it wasn’t an option for me, but…
I hate myself right now. Hate myself for even thinking about it. I’m such a hypocrite. A dirty disgusting hypocrite. Abortion is not okay for other people, but it’s okay for me?
My circumstances are different.
How do I know that my circumstances are any different than someone else’s? Countless women have been in my exact same situation. I had no idea what making this choice would be like. It’s tearing up everything inside me. Before, I sat and judged those other women. Now, I am one of them.
I’m starting to see there is no right decision. It’s all so personal, and I don’t want anyone judging me for whatever I decide.
But that third option…
IT’S OUT THERE.
And it’s the only option that lets me move on.
I just wish I didn’t have to make this decision alone.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 18
Night
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I’ve been thinking all weekend.
There’s that scene in Gone with the Wind where Rhett comes home from London with Bonnie and there’s Scarlett at the top of those great, grand stairs and he says she looks pale and she says it’s his fault because she’s pregnant and he laughingly says in this careless, callous way that maybe she’ll miscarry. She gets so mad at him that she strikes out at him with her fists and he smoothly steps out of the way and down those great, grand stairs she falls and sure enough, she miscarries.
One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. I learned that from Mom after her miscarriages.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 19
Dear Ms. Tilson—
The weirdest thing happened during gym class today. Mellie Rivers threw herself off the balance beam. I don’t mean she fell, I mean, she threw herself off it. She didn’t think anyone was watching, but I saw it. Why would she do that? That’s weird, right?
I followed her out of the locker room into the girls’ bathroom, the one way down by the gym that no one ever uses except to get high. (In case you didn’t know—people get high in that bathroom. But you didn’t hear it from me.) When I went in, I found her in the end stall, crying. She cried the whole period. THE WHOLE PERIOD. I sat next to
her. (It was my lunch period, so I wasn’t skipping.) Have you ever sat next to someone while she cries for an hour? It tears your guts out. I thought my heart would break from listening to her. I wanted to say something profound and helpful, as if I could make all that pain go away in one sentence. All I actually did was give her my compact to fix her face afterward. I didn’t know what else to do. I felt so helpless, and I hate that feeling.
You’re probably wondering: “Who is Mellie Rivers to you? Why would you waste an hour of studying to sit with some random girl while she cried?” Let me tell you a little bit about Mellie and me. We have a history. We used to be friends. Like, ten years ago. We were really good friends, actually. We were in the same Girl Scout troop. We sang about making new friends and keeping the old. We exchanged friendship bracelets. We went to movies together. I remember having movie night at my house and watching Charlotte’s Web. We both cried at the end. We were those kind of friends.
Then Stella Jacobs-Meyer joined our troop. Stella has two dads. (Who are both freaking awesome, by the way. Her dad Tom makes the best spaghetti Bolognese I’ve ever had, and that includes in a restaurant.) It was back before the Supreme Court took its head out of its ass and legalized gay marriage, and Mellie’s family had a big problem with the Jacobs-Meyer family. They probably still do.
Anyway, Mellie’s parents yanked her out of our troop. She was going to Country Christian at the time, and I didn’t see her again until she came to public school in ninth grade. I thought we’d be friends again, because we had some really fun times when we were kids. But she had a different social circle, and, well, it just wasn’t going to work out. Which is fine. I’m very happy with my own group of friends.
But something pushed me to follow her into that bathroom this afternoon. All I could think about while I was sitting there (ceramic tile is really cold BTW, especially when you’re wearing a skirt) was why she would launch herself off the balance beam and then cry for an hour? And if she has such a close circle of friends, why wasn’t one of them with her?
Something is up with her. Maybe it’s not my place to worry—no. That’s not true. It is my place. Even though we don’t hang out anymore, I never stopped being her friend. And you never give up on your friends, no matter how far apart you’ve drifted.
—Lise
February 19
Afternoon
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I used to be able to talk to God. I don’t mean like Joan of Arc and her voices. I used to be able to go to a quiet place and tell Him my secrets. I always felt like He was listening. No matter what I told Him, He was listening.
Now I guess I have to settle for you and this journal.
He’s gone. I can’t feel Him anywhere anymore.
I used to feel Him everywhere, even at school. Today I was alone in the girls’ bathroom by the gym (the one no one uses except to get high—you know about that, right?) and I thought I might feel Him there. That He’d hear me crying all by myself and comfort me. Nope. Instead, I got Lise Grant.
Lise Grant is a poor substitute for God, in case you were wondering.
She must’ve followed me into the bathroom. I was in the last stall when I heard the door open. Then, click-clack, click-clack. I peeked underneath the stall door. Click-clack. Two feet appeared clad in black pumps that had two bright red lips printed across the toes. I recognized those shoes. This morning Bethany pointed at them on our way into school and said something mean like Lise Grant might as well go sell herself on a corner in Pinecrest if she was going to dress like that. I held my breath. Maybe Lise didn’t know anyone else was in the bathroom. Maybe she’d come in to get high. I bet Lise Grant gets high.
But those bright red lips were pointed in my direction. Lise was standing in front of my stall. A second later there was a knock on the metal door. “Mellie? Are you okay?”
How did she know it was me? More importantly, why did she care? I haven’t talked to Lise Grant in ten years. I swallowed, forcing the sobs out of my throat before I spoke. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
Her obnoxious shoes didn’t move. “Are you sure? I…I saw you fall in gym.”
“That was an accident. I’m fine.”
“Okay.” One shoe lifted and then set back down. “Only…it didn’t look like an accident.”
“Why would I throw myself off the balance beam on purpose?” My voice sounded high and sharp, like the lady doth protest too much.
“I don’t know. There could be a million reasons. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I told her I wanted to be alone, but she wouldn’t leave. She claimed it was her lunch period and she didn’t have to be anywhere. I had study hall, but Mr. Wright would assume I was at the library because I pretty much have a standing library pass. As soon as she left, I wanted to get back to crying, to not talking to God some more.
Instead of leaving, those stupid black-and-red pumps stepped closer to my stall. And then, Lise Grant slid down onto the floor, her back against the wall, the two of us separated only by the dented, pink metal door.
Why would she do that? It’s none of her business why I was crying in the bathroom. Her hand rested on the floor, right between the door and the floor, hovering on the border between her space and my space. Like she was reaching out. Like she was chiseling a door in the wall between us.
“I really want to be alone,” I told her. It would’ve been more effective if my voice hadn’t cracked on the word “alone.”
My whole life I had never wanted to be alone. I had always wanted to be in the circle of my family, surrounded by people and by God. I’d never had the need to be alone. I’ve never had to listen to my own thoughts without anyone else’s crowding in. Now that was all I wanted, and Lise Grant wouldn’t give it to me. Lise Grant, of all people.
Lise didn’t say anything. She also didn’t move. Fine. If she wanted to sit there while I cried, then fine. It’s a free country. I lowered my head back onto my knees and gave in to the sobbing. For the rest of the period, Lise sat against the wall with me, listening to me cry. When the bell rang again, I dug the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, stood up, and opened the door. “I don’t know what that accomplished,” I said.
Lise slid up the wall until she was eye level with me. “Sometimes when we think we want to be alone, we really need someone to just be there for us,” she answered.
I tightened my jaw and brushed past her to the sink. My reflection in the mirror was a mess. I splashed some cold water on my face. When I straightened, Lise was holding out a powder compact to me. “Here,” she said. “It’ll cover up the splotchiness.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Hey, I’ve cried in the bathroom more than my share. I’m prepared.”
But see, Lise Grant is the type of person I’d expect to find crying in the bathroom. Lise Grant probably has her heart broken by a different boy every month and gets into fights with her friends. She needs to be prepared.
I took the compact and dabbed the powder all over my face. It did help. “Thanks,” I said and handed it back to her.
She dropped it into her bag. She was watching me in the mirror. Then she said to me, “Look, Mellie, I know you have no reason to confide in me, but you can talk to me. I know how to keep a secret.”
Why would she assume I was keeping a secret? I mean, if I don’t want to talk about it, that means I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. Why is that so hard to understand?
She followed me all the way to biology. Well, okay, she’s in the same class, so she had to go that way anyway. But the whole time, she was just like, “I get it if you don’t want to talk, but if you do, I will listen.”
Finally, when we were outside the classroom, I asked her, “Why? We haven’t been friends for ten years. Why on earth would you want to be my friend now?”
Lise looked at me, like she was searching my face for an answer to a q
uestion she hadn’t asked yet. She stared so long that I noticed how the flecks of gold in her green eyes make her whole face light up like there’s a perpetual ray of sunshine above her. “Just because we haven’t spoken in ten years doesn’t mean I stopped being your friend,” she said. “I was always your friend, whether you wanted me there or not.”
She and I sit on opposite sides of the biology room, but all through class I could feel her presence like she was sitting right beside me. In the same way she’d sat beside me the whole previous period, filling my silence with her presence.
Then, after school, she caught me on the stairs on my way outside and gave me her number. She said, “I know you think all sorts of things about me, but the truth is, I’m a decent person. And you can talk to me. If you need to.”
The piece of paper with her number on it gleamed in the fluorescent light, like the handle of a pot I know is too hot to touch. “I have people I can talk to.”
Lise tucked the paper into my coat pocket. “I’m pretty sure that if that were true,” she said, “you wouldn’t have been crying alone in the bathroom.”
And then she just disappeared like a ghost. She was off to go hang out with whoever she hangs out and do whatever she does after school. It’s like she just popped in to drop a bomb and then poofed away before she had to deal with any of the aftermath. She told me she thinks I’m keeping a secret, but doesn’t stick around to hear what it is. Who does that?
Not that I would’ve told her anyway.
So far, you’re the only one I’ve told.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 19
Midnight
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I almost did it. I almost told my parents tonight.
Almost.
So close.
THISCLOSE.
The words “I’m pregnant” were on the tip of my tongue, on the verge of spilling out.