Pregnant at 17

by Christine Conradt

  “Then you’re gonna pay,” Lauren had threatened. “I’m the last person you wanna fuck with.” If she could have gotten away with it, Lauren would have decked Chelsea right then and there, smashing her pretty little face into the metal door of the locker. But she had more self-control than that. She’d already been in trouble for assault earlier in the year and she was less than a year from graduating and getting out of the hellhole of a school she was forced to attend. Instead, she had slammed the palm of her hand against the locker next to Chelsea’s face, causing her to flinch. Then she’d pushed past the students who had started to gather, and stalked off. I can’t beat the bitch up, but I can make her life unbearable. And that’s my new mission.

  As Lauren took one last glance at Chelsea’s mobile home and started up the engine in the truck, she smiled, proud she was responsible for making Chelsea drop out of school. There was no way anyone could have put up with what Lauren and her friends put Chelsea through. And now that Greg was about to be released, he could really make her life hell. Lauren couldn’t wait.

  Six

  The Kindness of Strangers

  After tossing and turning all night, Chelsea had no choice but to drag herself out of bed and get ready for work. Jeff still hadn’t called or texted and Chelsea was alternatingly mad at him for leaving her and guilty that she was somehow to blame for the current situation. Adam’s question echoed through her mind. Who leaves his pregnant girlfriend in a hotel room by herself? Every hour that ticked by without a word from Jeff made Chelsea feel more abandoned and alone. He can’t even call me? she fumed. Is this what their life together was going to be like? Every time they encountered a difficult situation he’d just disappear?

  Luckily, unlike Jeff, Liz was already thinking about the next steps Chelsea needed to take. When she’d arrived at work, looking forward to the mindless task of scooping gelato into cups, Liz had handed her a slip of paper with the name and address of a free pregnancy clinic that was located about two miles away.

  “The best thing you can do for your baby is get prenatal care right away,” Liz explained. “Not only will they not charge you a penny, but they won’t require your father’s signature.” Chelsea felt relieved. She wanted to make sure the baby was okay. She didn’t mention it to Liz but she was worried about the cocktails she’d had at the Lucky Lady. If she’d known she was pregnant, she wouldn’t even have been at the Lucky Lady at all. She would’ve been home listening to soft music and sipping caffeine-free tea. A rowdy, smoky bar wasn’t an environment she wanted her kid to frequent, even if he was still curled up inside her belly.

  Chelsea still wasn’t showing. She’d checked in the mirror earlier when she was getting dressed for work. It makes sense, she’d thought. It takes nine months to pop out a kid, there’s no way I’ll see a difference in twelve hours. Although she liked the idea of having a little round pregnant tummy and showing the world she was going to be a mom, she was worried people might give her dirty looks or even say something nasty to her. People could be weird about pregnant teenagers. She’d even heard her father say from time to time that he felt bad for these young girls who got knocked up. That they had no idea how tough life would be. Life’s already tough, Chelsea thought as she stuffed a scoop of double chocolate gelato into a cone for the customer standing in front of her. She couldn’t see how a baby would make her life worse. What did she have? Pretty much nothing. She wasn’t even sure if she had a boyfriend anymore. It wasn’t like she had a great job that she’d have to quit. And it wasn’t like she was in college and a baby would interfere with her ability to study. The night before, as she’d climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her, she had thought about all the ways a baby would make her life better. She’d finally have someone who loved her unconditionally and needed her every single day. She’d never be lonely or bored. A baby was going to bring more good to her life than not. That was going to be hard for people to understand.

  Chelsea handed the man his cone, swiped his credit card, and thanked him for coming in. Then she went back to the other side of the long counter to help the next women in line—an attractive blond woman in her thirties.

  “Welcome to Stella Luna.” Chelsea smiled. “I like your shirt. It’s a pretty color.” The woman’s deep-blue V-neck chiffon blouse hung perfectly on her frame. The design was unique and the color set off her blue eyes. Chelsea had always been one to just blurt out compliments, even as a child. One of her father’s favorite stories to tell was the time she was six and tried to follow a man in a white fedora into the men’s room just to tell him she liked his hat.

  “Oh, thanks. . . .” the woman responded, and Chelsea could tell she’d made her feel awkward. Trying to bring the focus back to gelato, she asked the woman if she’d like a sample. With forty flavors in the display and three more in the back, she had plenty to choose from.

  “Actually, no. I . . .” The woman’s voice trailed off for a moment as she looked around the store. Chelsea studied her, wondering if she was okay.

  “I . . . I think I know what I want,” the woman said, turning back to her. “A small Cookies and Cream.” The woman still seemed oddly uncomfortable, so Chelsea decided to do what she could to help her have a better day. She grabbed up a spoon but instead of digging into the Cookies and Cream, she scooped out a little bit of the pale green gelato from its tub and tucked it delicately into a sample cup. The woman stared at her.

  “Coming right up,” Chelsea said. “But first, you have to try this. It’s the best one.” She handed the sample to the woman, who took it with her left hand. Chelsea noticed how the diamond on the woman’s wedding ring sparkled in the light coming through the window. The woman didn’t say a word but cautiously tasted the gelato. “What do you think?” Chelsea asked, hoping she didn’t hate it. “It’s basil. Sounds weird but it’s pretty good, huh?” The woman nodded and forced a smile, but still didn’t say anything. God, I’m making it worse, Chelsea thought as she quickly grabbed a new spoon and began to scoop the Cookies and Cream.

  “That’s a pretty necklace,” the woman said awkwardly, referring to the delicate gold chain adorned with a small heart-shaped pendant around Chelsea’s neck. Chelsea looked up, surprised by the compliment. “I’m guessing it had to be from your boyfriend?”

  Chelsea touched the pendant, running her thumb over the tiny point at the bottom.

  “No. It used to belong to my mom. My dad gave it to her on their wedding day. It’s my favorite thing I own.” Chelsea remembered how her father had given her the necklace after her mom passed. It had been several months since the funeral before he’d finally been able to bring himself to clean out a few of her things. As he sat on the floor of their bedroom, staring into her jewelry box, he’d cried. Chelsea remembered it vividly even though she was only seven years old. It was the only time she’d ever seen him get emotional. As he sorted through the costume bracelets, sparkly earrings, and delicate necklaces, he’d told Chelsea the story behind each piece of jewelry he’d given to her mother.

  When they got to the last piece, her father pulled the heart-shaped pendant from a little pocket inside the box and delicately clasped it around her tiny neck.

  “I gave this to your mom on the day we got married and I told her, I told her on that day, our last day as single people, that she’d have my heart forever,” her father had said, his scruffy cheeks were wet with tears. “You came from that love, Chelsea. You were born out of the love we had for each other.” Chelsea had held on to those words ever since. Whenever she was angry at her father for leaving for months at a time, or at her mother for leaving the world entirely, she thought about how she came from a place of love. Liebe überwindet alles.

  “Gifts from mothers are special,” the woman with the diamond ring said as she pulled a ten from her designer purse and slid it to Chelsea. She seemed a tiny bit more comfortable than before.

  “She didn’t actually give it to me,” Chelsea explained. “My dad did. After she died. But she wore it
every day and it makes me feel closer to her. For my next birthday, my dad said I could have her wedding ring. I’m going to put it on the same chain.”

  “When’s your birthday?” the woman asked. She seemed more at ease and interested in making conversation.

  “November,” Chelsea said, looking forward to the day she could add the thin gold band.

  “Let me guess. Twenty-two?”

  Chelsea shook her head and smiled, used to people guessing she was much older than she was.

  “I’ll be eighteen.”

  The woman’s hand moved to her throat and she seemed to suck in her breath a little. Chelsea was used to that as well. She half expected the woman to say what people usually did: “Wow, you’re so mature,” or “No way, I would’ve guessed you were a lot older,” but she didn’t say anything. And suddenly the awkward tension that was there before was back full force.

  “It’s four fifty,” Chelsea said as she opened the register to gather the woman’s change. As she handed it back, she saw the gelato was beginning to melt down the woman’s hand, and quickly handed her a few napkins.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, and then added, “I’m sorry about your mother.” Chelsea could tell she was genuinely sympathetic.

  “Thank you,” Chelsea replied. Believing the conversation was over, Chelsea started to turn away, so she was caught off guard when the woman asked her another question.

  “Was it recent?”

  “No. I only had her around for seven years of my life, and that’s not a lot of time to make memories . . . but the ones I have are really good.” Chelsea wasn’t sure why she added the last part. She tended to overshare. It was a habit she was trying to break, but this time, she sort of felt that the woman needed to hear it. As the door to the shop opened with a jingle and a few more customers entered, the woman dropped the quarters into the tip jar nestled next to the register and smiled.

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  “Have a nice day,” Chelsea responded, and moved back to the other end to help the next person. She watched the woman walk out and noticed that the pretty lady in blue glanced back over her shoulder at her and smiled again. Chelsea smiled back, feeling a strange connection to her. Despite the tornado of craziness the past forty-eight hours had brought, there was just something nice about their simple exchange. Two people who would probably never see each other again found some fragile thread of commonality. Strange how the world works, Chelsea thought.

  Five hours later, Chelsea was perched at the edge of an uncomfortable chair, waiting for her name to be called. She looked around the waiting room of the pregnancy clinic and let her gaze land on the only other patient there. The woman had short, cropped black hair, and wore a simple gray maternity shirt stretched tight over her pregnant belly. I’m going to look like that soon, Chelsea mused, and glanced back down at the form on her clipboard, trying not to stare. I’m going to need to buy maternity clothes. I wonder if you can get those at the thrift store.

  Chelsea tapped the toe of her chunky platform sandals nervously up and down on the paisley carpet. The form had a box for her name and age. If she put her real name and age, would they contact her father? Liz had said they wouldn’t, that everything is confidential, but Chelsea wanted to be sure. She hadn’t decided when or how to break the news to her dad and she didn’t want him somehow finding out from someone besides her. Hesitating, Chelsea slowly printed Brianna Walters in the name box and for the age, she put 19. “Brianna” was the name of the only girlfriend her dad had that she ever liked, which unfortunately, didn’t last long, and “Walters” was the last name of her favorite teacher back when she was still in school. Mr. Walters. He taught algebra and always made the students laugh, and for the first time in Chelsea’s life, she actually liked going to math class.

  A door leading back to the exam rooms opened and a nurse in blue scrubs stepped out.

  “Denise?” the nurse said, looking down at a file. “Dr. Shollenbrook is ready to see you.” The woman pushed herself up out of her chair, set her magazine aside, and disappeared into the bowels of the building. Chelsea looked back down at her form. Why so many questions? Is this your first pregnancy? Yes. Are you under the care of another physician? No. Do you smoke? No. Do you consume alcoholic beverages? If so, how often? Chelsea paused.

  Oh god. Her thoughts flitted back to the tequila shot she’d done at the Lucky Lady. Her heart skipped a few beats. What if she’d permanently screwed up her baby because she’d been drinking? Frantically trying to do the math in her head, she counted back. How many times had she been at the Lucky Lady since she’d met Jeff? They’d known each other for a little over three months. She could’ve theoretically gotten pregnant the first time they’d had sex. She’d been to the bar two, maybe three times a week and had at least one drink every time she went. Dammit, Chelsea silently cursed herself. I’ve probably had about thirty drinks. That was thirty chances to mess up her kid. Please don’t let my baby be sick or hurt because I did that. Please, please, please let this baby be healthy.

  Yes, she checked the box. Frequently.

  When it was Chelsea’s turn to go in, a nurse handed her a plastic cup and told her they needed a urine sample to confirm her pregnancy. She gave them the sample and then went back to the waiting room again. Maybe they’ll come back and tell me I’m not pregnant, that the test Liz gave me was wrong and this is all a mistake, she thought. Disappointment crept in at the thought. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d come to terms with the fact she was pregnant, and despite Jeff’s reaction, she was excited about having a kid.

  “Brianna?” the nurse said when she returned. “Come on back.”

  “I guess that means I’m really pregnant,” Chelsea said as she followed the woman back to a room.

  “You definitely are. Take everything off, put this on, opening to the front.” The nurse pulled a mint-green hospital gown from the cabinet and handed it to her. “The doctor will be in soon.”

  Chelsea put on the gown and, pulling it tightly around her, climbed up on the padded table covered in white paper. She looked around at the blue walls and the paintings of pregnant women. They make pregnancy look elegant and beautiful, she thought, as she squinted to read the artist’s initials painted in the corners.

  Chelsea pulled her phone from her purse and looked for a text from Jeff. Still nothing. Should she text him and tell him where she was? Would he want to be here for this? Chelsea started to compose a text: Hey. I just wanted you to know I’m at a pregnancy clinic right now and . . . She stopped. He’d said he needed space and she didn’t want to piss him off by sending him a text too soon. And deep down, she had an inkling that even if she did tell him where she was, he wouldn’t want to come meet her there. It was better not to tell him, she decided. That way, if he didn’t respond to the text or if he texted back something critical, her feelings wouldn’t be hurt. She tucked the phone back into her purse.

  Fifteen minutes passed before the doctor, a tall African American woman, entered and introduced herself. Chelsea instantly liked her. She was calm and friendly and professional-looking. The doctor didn’t congratulate her on the pregnancy, nor did she make any negative comments about Chelsea’s age. She simply rolled a big white machine over and sat down on a stool.

  “I’m going to do a sonogram,” she explained. “It doesn’t hurt at all and it allows me to see your fetus, kind of like an X-ray but completely safe for both you and the baby.” Chelsea nodded and waited for the doctor to smear some cold, clear gel on her abdomen, then leaned back while Dr. Shollenbrook slid a device around as she stared at a monitor.

  “Nine weeks,” Dr. Shollenbrook said. “See right there? Those are the baby’s feet.” Dr. Shollenbrook smiled warmly and tapped a spot on the screen with her short, clean fingernail.

  Chelsea studied the pulsating blob. Nothing about what the doctor pointed at even vaguely resembled feet, but Dr. Shollenbrook knew more than she did about the whole thing, so she accepted it wi
thout question.

  “Cool,” Chelsea replied, ready to ask the more important question. “Is it a boy or girl?”

  “Still too early to know that,” the doctor said and pulled the stethoscope from her ears. “At around twenty weeks we can determine the gender. We calculate your due date based on your last period.”

  “Oh, okay.” Nine weeks. That meant she got pregnant a little over two months ago.

  “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

  Chelsea’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, of course!”

  Dr. Shollenbrook turned up the volume on the fetal doppler, a small plastic device that looked like a white walkie-talkie connected to a microphone. She touched the microphone end to Chelsea’s belly and a faint thumping began to emanate through the tiny speaker. Chelsea smiled in awe as she listened to the rhythm of her baby’s heart. After a moment, Dr. Shollenbrook sat back and asked the question Chelsea had been anticipating would come eventually.

  “Does the father know that you’re pregnant?”

  Chelsea could feel her throat tighten. “Yes,” she said without elaborating.

  “Does he want to be involved?” the doctor asked gently.

  “I don’t really . . . I don’t know.” There. She said it out loud. Even though it made her feel embarrassed. This doctor must think I’m an idiot to get pregnant with some guy who wouldn’t want to be around his own baby, she thought. But Dr. Shollenbrook didn’t frown or give her a sympathetic smile. She just adjusted the back of the little gold earring in her ear and wiped the ultrasound gel from Chelsea’s stomach with a paper towel.

  “Are you close to your parents?”

  “My mom died of cancer when I was little but I’m pretty close to my dad.” Chelsea knew her father, despite his problems, would be there for her no matter what.

  “Good. Well, we have resources—financial and educational—to help young women like yourself. I’ll let you get dressed and then we’ll go over them together, all right?”