What They Don’t Know

by Nicole Maggi

  I froze, my fingers hovering above the sketchpad and the secrets it held. “What?”

  “Your sketch. Show me.”

  Once upon a time I would’ve shown him eagerly, in hopes of earning his praise. I pressed my hand on the pad, a gatekeeper to the secrets within. “No.”

  Dad’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  “I—I don’t want to show you.” My mouth was dry as a desert. “It’s not done.”

  “Show me what you’ve done so far.”

  “No,” I said again. I don’t think I’ve said the word “no” to my father twice in the same day in my life.

  “Show me, Mellie.”

  We had entered a battle of wills, and one of us was going to walk away a loser. Dad always won, but then again, no one ever put up much of a fight. But this felt like a fight for my life, and all I knew was I couldn’t let him see the drawing.

  “It’s not finished,” I said again.

  “Show me how you plan to finish it.”

  He was always looking to the future, never the present. “I can’t. Art doesn’t work that way.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me, like who am I for knowing how art works? “I’m not allowed to see a work in progress?” he asked.

  “Would you deliver the first draft of your speech to the Elks Lodge? Or the final?”

  The rest of the house may have been asleep, but my fear made everything feel awake. The vein at the base of his jaw pulsed like a light warning a ship away from a rocky shore.

  “Go to bed, Mellie,” he said through gritted teeth. “I hope your attitude hasn’t kept me from writing this speech tonight.”

  That was all the lashing he was going to give me? A year ago, a month ago, it might have cut deep, but I barely felt its sting. I took my exit and fled up the stairs. It wasn’t until I got to the top that I realized I had somehow talked my way out of showing him my drawing. I tore it out of the sketchbook to hide somewhere else, just in case.

  I had won, but I’d still been bruised.

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  Dear Mellie—

  Do you remember the Girl Scout Law? There’s a line that tells us to treat every Girl Scout like a sister. You may have left Girl Scouts all those years ago, but I never stopped being your sister.

  I think I know what’s going on with you, and I can help.

  Don’t go back to the PCC. I can take you someplace where you can get real care.

  Please trust me.

  I haven’t said anything to anyone and I won’t, I promise.

  I’m here for you whenever you are ready.

  Love,

  —Lise

  March 1

  Night

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  Lise Grant left a note in my locker this morning. “Don’t go back to the PCC.”

  She saw me.

  Does she know my secret?

  She must. Why else would I go into a pregnancy clinic? Oh God, oh God, oh God. How did she see me? Was she following me? Is she spying on me?

  And why is she calling the PCC by its initials like she’s on a first-name basis with it or something?

  And then she had the nerve to say “I never stopped being your sister.” We were in the same Girl Scout troop a million years ago. “Please trust me”? Who does she think she is? Why would I trust her? I’ve barely talked to Lise Grant in ten years. Why on earth would I turn to her, of all people?

  Although, it’s not like I can turn to anyone else.

  I don’t know why she thinks she can help me. No one can help me.

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  Dear Lise,

  Thank you, but you can’t help me.

  Please forget whatever you think you saw.

  Mellie

  Dear Mellie—

  If you don’t want help, that’s fine…but something tells me you need help and don’t know how to get it. That, I can help with.

  At least let me tell you how I can help. I’d rather tell you in person than in a note. Write back a time and place we can meet.

  —Lise

  Lise,

  Meet me today after school in the girls’ bathroom by the gym.

  Mellie

  March 2

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  The girls’ bathroom near the gym smelled like smoke, but it was empty except for Lise when I pushed open the door. I didn’t know why I was there. Why I agreed to meet her. Was I really going to tell her the truth? To say out loud all I’ve been writing down in this journal? I didn’t plan to. I think, mainly, I went out of curiosity, to see if she really could help me.

  Lise was already there, leaning against one of the sinks. After she locked the door—which I didn’t know you could do—she spread out a long scarf for us to sit on. “I came prepared this time,” she said. “My ass was freezing that day I sat in here with you.”

  She leaned back against the wall by the last stall and looked at me. The memory of being in that stall with her on the other side was sharp, how her hand was so close to mine, separated by a breath and an invisible wall of all our differences. I looked back at her for what felt like a long time.

  Then, I sat. I pulled my knees up against my chest. “I don’t know where to start,” I whispered.

  “You don’t have to start anywhere,” Lise said. “We can just sit here if you want.”

  Something inside me cracked a little. She was being the true kind of friend, the kind that cares about you without making it all about them. I remembered how she’d stood up for Delia without expecting anything in return.

  But I didn’t have time to sit and cry in the bathroom anymore. Every day I crossed off on the Virgin of the Rocks calendar was one day closer to not having a choice. “No. I need to tell someone.”

  Lise leaned toward me, her shoulder touching mine. “Tell me why you went to the Pregnancy Counseling Center.”

  I turned my head to face her, my cheek resting on my knees. “I think you know why.”

  She brought her knees up so that we were like mirror statues. “How far along are you?”

  “They said twelve weeks.”

  “That’s still early,” Lise said. “You still have a lot of options.”

  Options, options, options… I’m so sick of hearing that word. I don’t feel like I have options. I see three paths in front of me and all of them look bad.

  “Mellie.” She said it soft and gentle, like harp music in church, and reached out to touch my fingers. “Were you raped?”

  I tightened myself into a smaller ball. I could not get small enough. My throat constricted. All I could do was nod.

  “Oh, Mellie,” she said. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

  Tears spilled from my eyes. Finally, the words I wanted to hear. I’m sorry that happened to you. I didn’t want anyone’s pity, but I wanted someone to acknowledge that what had happened on that basement floor was terrible and wrong. Not even the women at the PCC had said they were sorry. They called me a liar.

  Lise’s fingers tightened on mine. “Who was it?”

  My gut clenched. “I can’t say.”

  “Mellie, he doesn’t deserve your protection. He’s the one who did something wrong, not you.”

  “No.” The word cut the air between us. “I’m not protecting him. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment. “Okay. Fine. That’s your choice.”

  It’s just the way things are.

  Lise opened her eyes. “What did they tell you at the PCC?”

  I took a long ragged breath, and then I told her. I told her everything they said about cancer and infertility, God and Jesus, post-abortion syndrome and regret, and options. Except they were only offering one option: have the baby. It felt like I’d been
carrying glass in my mouth, and when I was finally done talking, I’d spit all the glass out.

  “First of all, most of what they told you are lies. Abortion doesn’t cause cancer or infertility. And there’s no such thing as post-abortion syndrome.” She made a gagging sound. “That makes me want to punch those bitches.”

  I wished I’d had the courage to do that. My hands trembled. “They gave me an ultrasound. Made me listen to the baby’s heartbeat.”

  “Oh, Mellie.”

  Breath choked in my throat. “How can I kill something that has a heartbeat?”

  She turned so she was on her knees and put her arms around me. I buried my face into her shoulder and cried. I cried for that tiny little heartbeat, cried for my own heartbeat, cried because it was the first time since this nightmare began that someone had comforted me.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” she murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “How?” I pulled back a little, tears still streaming down my face. “How is it going to be okay? I want to get rid of it. But how am I going to live with myself after that?”

  Lise pressed her mouth into a straight line. “I wish I had the answer to that, Mellie. I really do.”

  My heart fell. For a moment, I’d really thought she could help me.

  “But,” she went on, and my heart lifted again, “if you do want an abortion, or if you want to hear what your real options are without the judging and shaming you got at the PCC, I can help you with that.”

  “How?”

  “You trusted me,” she said. “I have to trust you too.”

  “Trust me with what?”

  She looked down at our clasped hands. “I’ve never told anyone this, Mellie. Not even Cara, or Rowan. I’ve wanted to, but…it’s not safe.”

  I tried to pull my hand away, but she didn’t let go. “Whatever it is, Lise, you don’t have to tell me.” That was a lie. I desperately wanted to know what she had to say.

  “No. I want to tell you.” She swallowed hard. “It had to be the right person, someone who needs to know rather than just wanted to know, if that makes sense.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve never said this out loud,” she said. “My mom can help you. She’s the head doctor at Whole Women’s Health Clinic.”

  I felt her confession deep in my gut, Ms. Tilson. It was as deep as what I’d confessed to Lise. I understood what it cost her to tell me—me, the daughter of the man who wants that clinic and all the others like it closed. Tears welled up behind my eyes. For once I was crying for someone else, not for me. “I’m sorry, Lise. I’m so sorry for everything my dad’s ever said about that clinic and all the doctors.”

  Lise squeezed my hand and leaned toward me. “Mellie, you can’t tell him. He doesn’t know it’s her. You have no idea what we go through to protect her identity,” she went on. I could hear the angry tears in her voice. “Fake names on the payroll, a guarded underground entrance so she can’t be followed in and out… All so people like your dad won’t harass her…or worse.” She let go of my hand and gripped my upper arms. “You have to promise me you won’t tell your dad or anyone, Mellie. You know what happened at that clinic in Minneapolis last year, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. Five people shot, three killed. I remember watching the report on the news with my dad and saying, “Doesn’t killing people defeat the purpose of being pro-life?” My dad had given me a withering look, like I didn’t understand the complexity of the situation.

  “Promise me,” Lise said.

  I looked her in the eyes. A year ago, I might not have made that promise. But now…my mind flashed to that stage in Woodview, to my dad saying you can’t get pregnant from rape. “I promise,” I said. (Except now I’ve told you. I needed to write it down. Maybe I’ll tear these pages out before I hand in this journal.)

  Lise pulled me into a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispered into my ear. “And I promise, Mellie, I’ll get you to my mom’s clinic. We’ll help you.”

  And finally, I believed her.

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  March 2

  Dear Ms. Tilson—

  It’s a strange feeling, telling someone a secret you’ve been holding so close for so long. At first you think it’s going to drown you, but then you realize the water is actually lifting you up. After what she told me, I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t offer up my own deeply held truth. Especially when I know it can help her. That gut feeling I had was leading me to this moment.

  I had to tell Mellie, but I want to tell you my secret too. This journal will never be honest without it. After all you’ve said about feminism in class, I believe you’re on our side. Plus, you have a Michelle Obama poster on your wall.

  My mother is the head doctor at Whole Women’s Health. Less than ten people in town know this: the staff at the clinic, me, and the driver who picks her up from a different secure location every day and delivers her to the underground entrance so she doesn’t get harassed—or worse—by the protesters outside. And now Mellie knows. And you.

  Not even Rowan knows.

  A year or so ago he asked me why my parents got divorced. And I told him they were fighting all the time, they fell out of love, blah blah blah. I said all the typical stuff people cough up when their parents get divorced. But the main reason they got divorced was because of my mom’s work.

  It’s not because my dad is anti-choice. He’s not. He said he couldn’t compete with all my mom’s patients. He was tired of coming in second.

  I overheard them fighting one night, after they thought I’d gone to bed. It was shortly before they told me they were getting a divorce. It must have been their last big fight. A lot of mean, ugly things were said. I heard it all.

  My dad accused my mom of loving her work more than him, of making her patients a higher priority than her own family. (For the record, I’ve never felt that way about my mom. I know I come first.)

  Then my mom accused my dad of wanting some version of a 1950s wife who greets him at the door wearing an apron and puts his slippers on his feet while he reads the paper. My dad got superloud and defensive after my mom said this. Probably because, deep down, there’s a grain of truth there.

  Things got uglier and meaner from there until it went silent. I remember standing at the top of the stairs, listening hard. I tiptoed down a few steps, hoping I’d find them kissing, like so many other fights.

  They were on opposite sides of the room. My dad sat on the couch with his head in his hands. My mom leaned against the wall, like she was trying to hold herself up. One of them said, “I think this is it,” in such a hoarse, harsh whisper that I couldn’t tell who was speaking. “I think it is,” the other one answered. I turned and fled back up the stairs. A week later, they gave me the news.

  Now my dad lives in New Mexico. He has a girlfriend who he’s probably going to marry. Meanwhile, my mom still lives alone (well, with me) in this smallish town, working eleven hours a day. We both pitch in taking care of the house, and I never feel like I come in second. It’s ironic that my dad accused my mom of not making me a priority when he’s the parent who makes me feel like that.

  My mom and I are always honest with each other. I have to tell my mom that I told Mellie about her and the clinic. She needs to know exactly who knows her identity, because if anything ever happens, the police will need to know to figure out who the snitch was. I need to tell her about Mellie too. I know she’ll want to help her like I do.

  But even if I get her into the clinic, even if Mom helps her, that’s only the start. She still has a long road to walk, and I can’t walk it for her. The best I can do is walk beside her so that she always knows I’m there.

  —Lise

  March 4

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  I used to love church. It was fun to see family friends, especially De
lia. With her dad up there preaching, it made me feel special that we were close with the pastor and his family, part of the inner circle. It was as if that brought us even closer to God. I would always sing full-out, filled with the Holy Spirit. The organ was so loud it had to be impossible for God not to hear. The candles, the light pouring in through the stained-glass windows… I remember thinking how romantic it was. I could totally understand why Catholic women wanted to become nuns. Who wouldn’t want to spend their lives in this beautiful place?

  Now it’s all so ugly to me.

  HE is there.

  I try so hard to not look at him, to act as if he didn’t destroy me.

  I don’t want to give him any more power than he already has.

  He ignores me, of course. I’m nothing to him, nothing but a body he used for his own pleasure one time. Maybe he doesn’t even remember. Maybe he’s done this to other girls and we all blend together for him.

  Mom noticed me not singing and raised her eyebrows at me. I pretended to be interested in my hymnal and moved my mouth just enough to get her off my case. A panicky flutter started in the base of my gut and tightened through my chest so that it was hard to breathe. I looked up at all the bent heads around me, and suddenly I saw sheep, all bleating the same tune. I needed to get out.

  Bethany raised her head and stared at me. “What’s wrong?” she mouthed.

  I fanned my face. I couldn’t breathe. Bethany just rolled her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic,” she whispered and started singing again.

  I forced air into my lungs. The hymn ended and we sat down. Pastor Charlie started his sermon. It dragged on for hours. Days might have passed inside that church. It’s so hard to listen to him now. I can’t see him as anything other than a hypocrite. I closed my eyes, arranging my face into an expression that hopefully looked like I was absorbing the sermon. To keep calm, I started listing all the states in alphabetical order in my head.

  Somewhere around Michigan, I heard it.