by Nicole Maggi
“An ‘emotional detective’?” I grinned. “I like that.”
The waiter came with our dessert and we were silent for a few minutes while we dug in. The cake made us speechless. It was that good. But after a few bites, Rowan put down his fork. “Look, whatever is or isn’t going on with Mellie, follow your gut. We both know you’re going to find out or die trying. I’m just glad you told me. You’ve been distracted and I was worried it was something I’d done.”
Then he picked up his fork, scooped a bite of cake onto it, and held it across the table for me to eat. I leaned forward and took the bite, my gaze on his. My insides were as molten as the lava inside the cake. He pulled the fork out of my mouth and the words tumbled out with it, as easy and familiar as our relationship has been. “I love you, Rowan.”
His eyes lit up. “I love you too, Lise.”
I slid out of my chair and went to him, kissed him hard. His arm snaked around my waist and he held me tight against his side. I didn’t care if everyone in the restaurant was staring. I was just so happy those words were finally out there. I pulled away slowly, and we finished our cake. We still have not had sex. And that’s okay.
I do love Rowan. I do. Am I going to marry him and spend the rest of my life with him? Probably not. But if we did, at least I know I’d spend a lot of my life being loved.
—Lise
February 27
Evening
Dear Ms. Tilson,
There’s a billboard as you drive into Wolverton. I’m sure you’ve seen it. PREGNANT? WE CAN HELP. There’s a picture of a worried-looking woman (white, pretty, young) holding a pregnancy test with two pink stripes clearly visible on it. Below is a 1–800 number and the words YOU HAVE OPTIONS.
I called that number today. I called from the same pay phone I used to call the RAINN hotline. This time I didn’t hang up.
It was so cold there on the corner, the little booth around the phone no match for the wind. A woman’s voice answered, “Pregnancy Counseling Center.” Her voice was nice. Warm. Reassuring.
“Hello,” I whispered into the phone.
“Hello,” she replied. “How can I help you, dear?”
It was the “dear” that got me. I hunched over the receiver. “I—I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s why we’re here,” the woman on the other end said. “We’re here to help. You called the right place. When was the date of your last period?”
I forced the words out through my numb lips. “I—I don’t know. December, maybe. A couple of weeks before Christmas.”
“Have you taken a pregnancy test?”
“Yes. It…it was positive.”
“Well, the first step would be to come in so we can give you an ultrasound and see if the pregnancy is viable.”
My stomach dropped. “I… That might be hard.”
There was a pause. Then, very delicately, like her voice was fragile glass, she asked, “How old are you, dear?”
“Sixteen.”
“Do your parents know?”
I shook my head, then remembered she couldn’t see me. “No,” I said quietly.
“That’s okay, dear. They don’t need to know. We’ll take care of you. Can you come in tomorrow afternoon? After school?”
Tomorrow. I could tell Bethany and my parents I was working in the library again. I’d have to get to the clinic without being seen, but if I went after the school crowd thinned out, I could probably slip over there.
“I can get there,” I told the woman.
“Good. Can I have your name, dear?”
My name. I hadn’t thought this far. If she had my name, she would know who I was. Everyone knows the Rivers family, by name if not by sight. “It’s…Melanie.” I’d been called Mellie for so long that most people didn’t know my given name. But what if someone at the center knew me when I got there tomorrow?
“Do you have a last name, Melanie?”
“It’s confidential, right? If I come see you?”
“Of course, Melanie. Everything between us is confidential. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I was silent.
After a pause, the woman continued, “It’s all going to be all right, Melanie. We’re going to take care of you.”
I put the receiver gently back into its cradle. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll have answers. Tomorrow I won’t have to carry this alone.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 28
Dear Ms. Tilson—
I followed Mellie after school today. I overheard her tell her sister she was going to the library and she’d be home by dinner. But she didn’t go to the library. I was going to catch up to her and say hi, try to get her to talk to me, but she breezed right past the library. I hung back to see where she was going (into another classroom, maybe? The guidance counselor’s office?), but she went all the way to the front door. There she stopped, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and left. Apparently my stalker skills have improved considerably, because she didn’t notice me.
I waited at the top of the steps until she had turned right at the corner. Then I followed her across town, hanging half a block behind her. Occasionally she peered around, like she was worried someone might see her. But she didn’t see me.
The route she took, the direction she walked…I know well. But I couldn’t quite believe it. Not Mellie Rivers.
Except she didn’t go where I thought.
She went across the street.
She went to the pregnancy center that’s run by anti-choice organizations. The people at that clinic trick girls into going there by saying they’re going to help them, then they tell them lies about what will happen to them if they have an abortion. Like they’ll get breast cancer. You don’t freaking get breast cancer from having an abortion.
Half the staff of these places aren’t trained medical professionals. And some of the clinics aren’t even licensed. The clinics deliberately set up offices across the street from legit women’s health care centers to confuse women. Take its name: Pregnancy Counseling Center. You can see how that would be misleading. They will counsel you—but give you only one choice.
And Mellie went in there. She didn’t come out for a long time, like two hours at least.
There’s only one reason why she would go there.
Mellie Rivers is pregnant.
How is that even possible? Mellie wears a purity ring. She hosted a table at the Women’s Day Fair promoting abstinence. She told me to my face that she made a commitment to herself to wait until marriage. And her parents are so conservative. They must not know. They would probably disown her. I wonder if she’s told anyone.
I can’t even imagine what she must be going through. I’m hugging myself as I write this, the notebook balanced on my knees. She must be so scared and feel so alone.
I want to help her. I can help her. I might be the only one who can help her.
But if I help her…
I can’t.
The cost is too high.
—Lise
February 28
Dear Ms. Tilson,
My baby has a heartbeat.
I heard it today.
I didn’t want to hear it.
But they made me.
I didn’t want an ultrasound.
But they made me.
They made me take off my underwear and stuck a cold, lubricated wand inside me. I begged them not to. I didn’t want to be touched there. The last time I was touched there was when he shoved his penis inside me. I want to forget that part of my body exists. But they made me, they made me, they made me. They said I had to hear the heartbeat to understand the decision I was making.
They said if I have an abortion, I’ll get breast cancer. Is that true? They said I won’t be able to have childre
n. Is that true? It can’t be. My mother had all of us. But I can’t be sure of anything anymore.
They tried to give me baby clothes.
They said I should tell my parents.
They didn’t believe me when I told them I was raped.
They said if I didn’t go to the police when it happened, I must not be telling the truth. Are you sure it wasn’t consensual? they asked. Are you sure you didn’t change your mind afterward? There are two sides to every story, they said.
They said if I have an abortion, there’s a chance I could die on the table. They said I could bleed to death.
They showed me pictures of aborted babies. Don’t do this, they said.
They told me if I had the baby, I would be redeemed, forgiven for having sex outside of marriage.
They said if I had an abortion, I would get post-abortion syndrome, which would make me regret it for the rest of my life. They said I’d be at higher risk for suicide.
They said if God sent me any children in the future, I would fail to bond with them because I would feel so guilty about killing this one.
I tried to leave so many times.
They wouldn’t let me leave.
They kept bringing in different counselors, all women, all wearing scrubs covered in hearts or teddy bears or storks carrying baby bundles.
They kept calling me honey and dear and sweetie. They kept patting my hand. One of them touched my belly. I wanted to smack her.
I can’t have this baby, I told them. I don’t want to have this baby.
They asked why. They didn’t accept any reason I gave. I couldn’t give a good enough reason. I don’t want to be a mother at sixteen wasn’t good enough for them. You could give it up for adoption, they said. Make a childless family happy. I said I didn’t want to carry the baby of my rapist. That wasn’t good enough for them. Don’t punish the baby for the sins of the father, they said.
Somehow I got out. I still don’t know how. The last two hours are a blur of Anne Geddes prints and baby clothes and shoulds and don’ts and the sound of a heartbeat beating, beating, beating, beating, beating, beating.
My baby has a heartbeat.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 28
Dear Ms. Tilson—
Please don’t think I’m a horrible person. You don’t know what I’d be risking to help her. I can’t even tell you.
I can’t tell anyone.
And I definitely can’t tell the daughter of our very conservative mayor whose entire political campaign could destroy—
Too much.
Just…please don’t hate me for not helping her.
I have people to protect too.
—Lise
OH GOD.
OH GOD. OH GOD.
It woke me up like an earthquake.
All the pieces fell into place:
The RAINN pamphlet.
Throwing herself off the balance beam.
Crying in the bathroom for an entire class period.
Mellie Rivers isn’t just pregnant.
She was raped.
She threw herself off the balance beam to try to cause a miscarriage.
If this is true, I really can help her.
But—she’s the mayor’s daughter. The damage she could cause…
My mind is swirling so fast that I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes with my pen poised above the page, watching the stars, thinking. I don’t know what to do.
Okay, that’s not true. I know what the right thing to do is. I just don’t know if I can do it.
I heard my mother get up and go to the bathroom. I almost went out into the hall to ask her what she thinks I should do. But I already know what she’d say.
I won’t sleep tonight. Not a chance. When dawn comes, I know what I have to do.
—Lise
March 1
Early morning
Dear Ms. Tilson,
It’s almost dawn. A thin line of blue stretches across the mountains outside my window. I’ve been awake all night. I wish it were possible to have a miscarriage from lack of sleep. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.
I listened to Bethany’s loud breathing for hours. She’s so lucky she can fall asleep anytime, anywhere. She once fell asleep on top of a pile of skis in front of the lodge while we were waiting for Dad to bring around the car. That’s a skill.
Me? I have to be in a temperature-controlled room with enough white noise to be unobtrusive and just the right pillow. My brain also needs to be quiet. So, that’s an issue right now. I’ve hardly slept in two months.
Winter was in full force last night, even though it’s March. The wind howled long and close. Did you hear it? I love winter in Colorado. It’s like a living thing that doesn’t take orders from anyone. I wish I could be like that. Free as the wind, with the power to take down houses and uproot trees.
When it finally became clear that I could either get up or let Bethany’s snoring drive me insane, I went to my closet and sat in there for a while, comforted by the warm enclosed space. I kept thinking about the Pregnancy Counseling Center. On my way there, my biggest fear was running into someone I knew from church, or around town. But all the women who worked there were strangers. They didn’t care that I wouldn’t give my last name. They didn’t care what I wanted. All they cared about was making sure I kept the baby.
I can still hear it. In my head. The heartbeat.
I pressed my hands to my ears, but it’s still there. I tried to make myself small in the corner of the closet, when something dug into my spine. I felt around in the dark. My sketchbook and pencils. I’d nearly forgotten I’d put them there, in the back of my closet, hidden away. I clutched my sketchbook and pencils and crept out of the closet.
Downstairs, the house was silent. The dining room is far enough away from the stairs that I can turn on the light without anyone seeing it, so I set up in there. I opened my sketchbook to the last thing I’d drawn, and squinted at the date. Two years ago. Two years? Has it really been that long? And yet…it seems like a lifetime.
The drawing was of my mother, standing at the kitchen sink, gazing out the window with faraway eyes. She hadn’t noticed me, so I’d sketched quickly to capture her, not wanting to lose the moment. After I finished, I showed it to her, proud of how it had turned out. She’d pressed her lips together. “Did you finish the chicken stock?” We’d had a roast chicken for dinner that night and it was my job to make a stock from the bones afterward. When I shook my head, she sighed with annoyance. “Put away your little drawing and finish your chores, please.”
That’s why it’s been two years since I did anything with my art.
I turned to a clean page and got out my charcoal pencils. They were still sharpened, waiting for me like an old friend. My hand hovered over the page for a long moment. What did I want to draw? What did I want to say?
Without conscious thought, my hand began to move. All that art was still in me. Those skills hadn’t been lost. They had lain dormant, waiting for me to awaken them again. Drawing was an old friend. More of a friend to me than Delia, or Hannah, or even Mom.
There comes a moment when you’re sketching when you just know you’re done. It’s like running a marathon. You know the moment you cross the finish line. When I reached that feeling, I sat back and looked at my page. The breath left my body.
I had drawn myself.
I’ve never done that before. I’ve always drawn the world around me. I’ve never put myself on the page. This drawing wasn’t just me, though. It was me in the future. My future if I do nothing. My arms are wrapped around my swollen belly, holding myself. In another artist’s hands, this might’ve been a sweet portrait of motherly love. In mine…the look on my face is full of anger. In the drawing, my fingers claw at the curve of my stomach, as if I wan
t to tear the thing inside me out.
And I do.
Just as I’d captured my mother’s unguarded moment, I’d captured one of my own.
“Mellie?”
I jumped out of my chair so fast it almost fell over. My father stood in the doorway in a T-shirt and his pajama bottoms. He narrowed his eyes at me. “What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He peered at my art supplies, and I shifted my sketchpad so he wouldn’t be able to see the drawing. “Sketching again?” he asked.
“I thought it might tire me out, help me sleep.”
“I had the same thought about writing my speech for the Elks Lodge.” He dropped into the chair next to me. “I was hoping my own words would put me to sleep.”
He smiled. I forced my lips to curve, knowing he expected me to laugh at his joke. “What’s the speech about?” I asked.
“The strength of community and giving back.”
“Do you ever get tired of saying the same thing over and over? Do you think anyone is listening?” The question fell out of my mouth before I could stop it.
I clamped my lips shut. We don’t question Dad in our family. It was as good as the Eleventh Commandment, passed down from Mom to the rest of us. My insides clenched, waiting for the verbal blow I knew was coming.
Dad considered me in silence. That long stretch of quiet felt more dangerous than the words I’d just said.
“Of course people are listening, Mellie,” he said finally. “People are listening because I make them listen. Do you know how I do that?”
I shook my head.
“Because the strength of my conviction is impossible to ignore.”
Ah. It wasn’t a lashing I was about to receive, but a lecture. I squirmed in my chair. “I know, Dad. You’re good at your job.” I made to get up, but he reached out and caught my arm.
“Show me your drawing.”