Falling Up

by Melody Carlson

  “I'm so sorry, Dad,” I say quickly. “Let me explain.” I pull out a kitchen stool for him. “Just sit down and take a deep breath. I'll tell you what's up.”

  He still looks worried, but at least he sits down and appears to be breathing.

  “Look,” I tell him in a calm voice, “this is the truth. The test really wasn't for me. And the person who used the test swore me to secrecy. I can't tell you who it is. But…” I consider another option. “I'll bet you could guess.”

  Suddenly he looks hopeful. “It's really not you, Kimmy?”

  I firmly shake my head. “No way, Dad. It is most definitely not me. I promise you.”

  Relief washes across his face. And I can tell he's wondering who really used that test. “Well, I know it can't possibly be Natalie. That girl is so firm in her convictions, and I've even heard her talking about it numerous times. And as a dad, I must admit it is reassuring to hear. Your mother was always very impressed with that too.”

  “Right…” I try to keep my expression blank.

  Dad looks slightly perplexed, and I know he can't begin to guess who used the kit. “Maybe it's not important that I know who it was, Km. As long as I know it's not you.”

  “That's fine with me.”

  “And while we're having this little talk, I need to tell you how sorry I am for having been so detached lately” He shakes his head. “I just don't quite know how to function yet. Every little thing seems so difficult. I feel like I'm climbing a mountain sometimes, but the top is nowhere in sight.”

  “I know it takes time to get over this, Dad.”

  He kind of smiles. “Well, that surprise in your wastebasket really threw me for a loop last night. Maybe it's a bit like electroshock therapy, because I actually feel better now. I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I am that you're not the one who used that test. I'm not sure what I would've done if you had actually been pregnant. A man can only take so much.”

  “You and me both.” Then I laugh. “But I do feel sorry for the girl who did take it. She's really devastated.”

  “Her parents probably are too.”

  Or they will be, I'm thinking. At least her mom. That is, if Natalie ever tells her—not that she has a choice exactly Still, it won't be easy.

  Eleven

  Monday, June 3

  It's about nine o'clock in the morning when I wake up to the sound of the phone ringing. I consider letting it go to the machine. This is my official first day of summer vacation, and I really had planned to sleep in. But thinking it could be Matthew, since he told me he'd call today, I decide to go for it.

  “Kim?” says a vaguely familiar woman's voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “It's Grandma, dear. Is your father there?” She sounds urgent and slightly breathless.

  “No. He's at work. Is something wrong, Grandma?”

  “Well, I, uh, I don't know for sure.

  “What do you mean?” Now, I don't know my grandma all that well, other than she's dad's mother and she lives in Florida and is what Dad calls “eccentric” and what my mom used to call a “real character.” Consequently her dramatic vagueness doesn't seem all that strange.

  “Your Uncle Garth said your father called yesterday. I was out playing bingo, having a rather good game if I do say so. But Garth seemed concerned. He said the phone call was important, some kind of an emergency, I believe.”

  “Emergency?”

  “Yes. But then you probably know how Garth can be. Sometimes he runs off like a chicken with his head cut off, so he might not have gotten his facts straight.”

  I can almost imagine this since I've heard that my Uncle Garth is somewhat eccentric too. “Yes, I suppose that's possible.”

  “Say, did you get my card, Kim?”

  I force my sleepy mind to think and finally remember the card she sent right after Mom died. I know it was meant to be a sympathy card, but it was actually a get-well card. Although I suppose they work pretty much the same. “Yes,” I tell her. “Thank you very much.”

  “We would ve come for the funeral, but like I said in the card, I was having foot surgery that very same day. And my toes have been giving me such trouble. I just couldn't put it off. I know that Patricia would understand. Besides that, there's Garth, and well, he doesn't like to travel by plane much. But believe you me, you and Allen were both in our thoughts and our prayers. You must know that, I'm sure.”

  “Yes, I know, Grandma.” But now I don't know what to say. I'm not even sure why she called. “Uh, maybe you should try calling Dad at work.” Then I give her the number.

  “Garth thinks you ought to come out here to visit us,” Grandma tells me before she hangs up. “He thinks you'd enjoy the gators.”

  “Alligators?”

  “Oh, yes. We have dozens of them, coming right onto our property. They're as friendly as can be.”

  “Friendly?”

  “Goodness, yes. Sometimes I throw kitchen scraps out to them, and they just gobble them up. Leftover fried chicken is the best. Why, I've even named a few.”

  “Fried chickens?”

  She laughs. “No, darling, the gators. I've got Gloria and Bill Gator, named after the famous gospel singers. And then there's Mr. Farley; I named him after the postman.”

  “I hope you're careful, Grandma. I've heard alligators can be quite a problem.” I don't mention that I've also heard that it's illegal to feed them in some areas, since I suspect she probably knows this.

  “Oh, I respect them and they respect me.”

  “That's good.”

  “But I do think Garth is right.”

  “About?”‘

  “About you coming out here to visit us, Kim. You haven't been out here since you were a wee little thing, and I'll bet you don't even remember that.”

  “I remember some,” I tell her.

  “Well, its high time you came again.”

  I kind of laugh now. “Okay, Grandma, I'll think about that.” Then we say good-bye. and I wonder why on earth I'd ever want to go out to Florida where my grandmother feeds kitchen scraps to the local alligators in her own backyard. I can just imagine her in her bright-colored muumuu and bedroom slippers. Good grief.

  I'm barely out of the shower when the phone rings again. Running to get it, thinking this must be Matthew this time, I am surprised to hear Nat's voice on the other end. I'm usually the one who calls her these days.

  “I've made a decision,” she tells me in a flat-sounding but determined voice.

  “Yeah?” I'm not sure what exactly she's referring to, but I'm guessing she wants to tell Ben, or maybe her mom, about what's going on with her. And if you ask me, it's about time.

  “And I need your help, Kim.”

  “Okay,” I tell her. “What's up?”

  “I can't do this alone.” Now her voice cracks slightly, and I think she's starting to cry.

  “I'm here for you, Nat. Just tell me what you need me to do. I want to help you through this.”

  She sniffs and then continues. “Can you give me a ride today?”

  “Sure,” I say, knowing this means I'll have to cancel on Matthew. “Just tell me when and where.”

  “We need to leave here by one. I'll fill you in on the rest of the details later, okay?”

  “Okay. I'll be ready at one.”

  Now I'm curious as to where were going. Is she going to make an appearance at Ben's house? What if his parents are there? Or maybe she has it all figured out so they'll be at work. And as uncomfortable as it sounds, I guess this is the sort of news that should be communicated in person—face-to-face. Poor Nat. I pray for her to be brave as I get dressed.

  I do a few chores around the house, and when Matthew doesn't call me by noon, I call him and leave a message saying that I won't be able to do anything with him until later, if at all. Not that he seems to care much, since he hasn't bothered to call me yet.

  Finally, Nat and I are driving down our street, and I ask her where it is we're going.<
br />
  “Downtown,” she tells me with a wooden expression.

  Now this throws me, and I wonder if this means she's going to tell her mom first. But I don't question this. I can tell she's having a hard time already. She doesn't need me to make it any worse.

  When we are downtown, I start to turn in the direction of where her mom works, but Nat tells me to take a right instead. Without questioning this, I obey

  “Just three more blocks,” she says. “On the left side.”

  As we get closer, I realize where it is we're going.

  “Nat?” I say in a slightly high-pitched voice. “Are we going to Haven?”

  Now everyone knows that (despite their slick ads about women's health, birth control, and whatnot) Haven Women's Clinic deals mainly in abortions—I've heard that they perform them right up into the third trimester. In fact, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if Natalie s church has protested here in the past.

  “They do pregnancy tests,” she says, almost as if she's rehearsed this line.

  “But you already know you're pregnant.”

  “Yes, but remember you said I should have a checkup.”

  “With your family doctor.”

  “Well, I can't take that risk. My mom might find out.”

  “But you're okay taking the risk of being seen walking into this place?”

  She doesn't answer. And I have to ask myself, am I okay being seen walking into this place? Despite the vacant parking spots on the street, I notice a sign for “additional parking” and decide to park in back.

  “Natalie,” I try again as I turn off the engine. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

  “I'm having a checkup.” She climbs out and slams the door. “Just chill, Kim. This is hard enough without you making it any worse.”

  And so I keep my mouth shut, but I'm glad to be wearing my dark glasses as we walk through the back parking lot and enter through a back door that I suspect has been situated there just for people like us. I cannot believe that Natalie really wanted to come here. And I cannot imagine what her mom or people at her church would think if they knew.

  She goes up to the reception area and tells them she has an appointment. They give her some forms to fill out, and we both go and sit in the waiting area. Okay, now here is the embarrassing truth—I don't want to be sitting in this chair. I don't want to touch anything. I don't want to be here at all. This place feels horribly evil to me. It's wrong. Totally wrong.

  I glance over at Natalie, but she's completely composed, focused on filling out the form. And I know I better just keep my mouth shut. This is her life, not mine. But man, do I want to scream! So much so that my throat is actually starting to ache.

  Finally, she finishes the form and returns it the receptionist. She comes back and sits down, crossing her legs and arms, almost as if to protect herself.

  “Natalie?” I say quietly, almost a whisper. “You don't have to keep this appointment, you know. We could just leave, slip out of here, and you could go to another doctor, a regular doctor, maybe even my doctor, and—”

  “I don't have money for that,” she snaps.

  “Maybe I could help you—”

  “No.” She turns and looks at me with angry eyes. “I told you I really need your help today, Km. And what you're doing right now is NOT helping. Do you get that?”

  “But, Nat—”

  “Kim!”

  I glance around, curious as to whether we're drawing attention since our voices have gotten louder, but the other people, mostly women and a few children, seem absorbed in their own lives and problems. We don't matter to them at all.

  “Natalie McCabe?” calls a woman.

  Nat looks over to the door and nods, then slowly stands, looking back at me with wide blue eyes.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” I ask meekly.

  She just shakes her head. “No, I'll be okay.”

  “But, Nat—”

  Then she walks away, goes through the door, and I'm left here to wonder, to speculate, to imagine. Okay, is this really just a “checkup” appointment like she said, or is it possible she's actually going in there to get an abortion? I've heard that women just walk into this place, have the procedure, and then walk out like it's no big deal. Is it possible that Nat is doing that today?

  But how can that be? She's not even an adult. You can't get your ears pierced or a tattoo without parental consent. You can't even get an aspirin from the school nurse without a note from home or the doctor. How could it be that Nat might be having a dangerous surgical procedure, one that some people consider murder, and I'm the only one who knows about it? The mere idea is so freaky that I'm starting to feel sick to my stomach.

  Finally, I am so antsy and worried I can no longer sit still. I get up and start pacing. I read all the notices on the bulletin boards. I pick up a dog-eared parenting magazine and absently thumb through it. I consider using the restroom just to waste time, but the idea of touching anything in there, or here for that matter, is really getting to me. It's like I can feel a great big case of obsessive-compulsive disorder coming on. God, help me!

  I feel like I can't breathe. It's like I have to get outside or I'm going to suffocate. I start to head for the front door but then remember that the street is out there, someone might see me, so I hurry to the back door instead. When I get out to the parking lot, I practically gasp to catch my breath.

  “Looks like you need a cigarette break too,” says a woman who's sitting on a bench by the back door as she lights up a cigarette.

  “No,” I tell her, moving away. “Just some fresh air.”

  I go over to the Jeep, unlock the door, and then just stand there. Its not like I can get in and leave. I lean over slightly, forcing myself to take some big deep breaths. And I tell myself that I'm acting totally stupid. Natalie is not getting an abortion. She is just getting checked. Lighten up, Kim!

  But I can still feel my heart racing, and I know I'm on the verge of tears. The idea of Nat in there, doing God only knows what—well, it's just too much. It makes me feel sick and hopeless and really, really sad. And more than anything else, I really want my mom right now! I want to run to her and tell her what Natalie's doing and how its upsetting me and how I just can't take this anymore. I want her to put her arms around me, stroke my hair, and say “Kimmy, its going to be okay Everything's going to be okay” But she can't do that anymore.

  Finally I get inside the Jeep, and leaning my head against the steering wheel, I try to pray. But it's like the words are stuck inside of me. I try and try to pray—but I can't. And finally I just break down and cry. For a long time.

  When I stop crying and look at my watch, I'm shocked to see it's nearly three o'clock. I lock up my Jeep and hurry back inside, worried that Natalie's appointment is over and that she thinks I've abandoned her, so she's gone off and called a taxi. And when I get back inside, I don't see her anywhere. So I go to the receptionist.

  “I'm here with my friend, but I had to go out for a while. Can you tell me if she's finished her appointment yet?” Then I give her Nat's name.

  Thanks to some kind of privacy policy, the woman refuses to tell me anything regarding Natalie. So I go back and sit down. Surely, Nat would've checked the parking lot before trying to leave without me.

  About fifteen minutes later, Natalie comes out. I hurry over to her, worried that she might be upset— especially if she's just gone through an abortion, which is my greatest fear.

  “Are you okay?”

  She just shrugs. “Lets go.”

  When we're in the Jeep, I ask her again. “Is everything okay, Nat? That seemed like a pretty long checkup.”

  “They have lots of questions and stuff,” she says without looking at me. “And plus they were busy.”

  “So, did they do a pregnancy test?”

  She nods. “It was positive. Big surprise.”

  “And so?”

  “So what?”

  “So, is that it? You
know you're pregnant for sure…and now what?”

  “I have an appointment for next week.”

  “An appointment?” I'm trying very hard to remain calm. I've already had my little breakdown. Nat doesn't need to see me falling apart.

  “You know,” she says. “To get rid of it.”

  “Get rid of it?” My voice sounds like a five-year-old.

  “Yes, Kim. I've decided it's my only option. I will get rid of it. And no one will ever have to know. It's really the best way to go.”

  No one will ever have to know? What about me? But I don't say anything. I just try to get us safely home. By the time I pull in front of Natalie's house, I am feeling numb. I don't just mean emotionally numb, although that would make sense, but my fingers are tingling, and I'm worried that something might actually be physically wrong with me.

  “Thanks,” she says as she opens the door. “Sorry I had to drag you through this with me.”

  I force a very pathetic smile. “It's okay, Nat. I said I was here for you.”

  “And next week?” She looks at me hopefully

  Everything in me wants to scream and shout, NO! No way! Never! Forget it! But she looks so hopeful— more hopeful than she's seemed in months. So I simply nod and say, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Of course, by the time I get in my house I am asking myself, why on earth did I agree to go with Natalie next week? Am I freaking nuts?

  Feeling the need to talk to someone, I try Matthew's cell phone number but just get the message service. I don't want to leave a message. So then I try his house, since I'm thinking he might just be hanging out and have his cell phone off. But his mom answers and says he's not home.

  “Oh.” I'm trying to decide whether to leave a message or not.

  “He's out playing golf with his grandfather,” she says in a very uptight voice.

  “We were going to do something today,” I say, “but I had to go out. Just tell him I called, okay?”

  “If I see him, which isn't likely. But I'll leave a note.”

  I thank her and hang up. Then, still feeling kind of stunned by the events of this afternoon, I just walk around the house in a bit of a stupor. I try to pray again, but the words are choppy and stilted, and I don't even know what to say Then I try to play my violin, but even that feels all wrong. Finally I sit in front of my computer and attempt to answer some letters.