by Daleen Berry
I know Eddie will never leave me alone, and it will only be a matter of time before I’m pregnant again. You know I can’t give these four children all the time and attention they need, so please forgive me for doing this. I have no other choice. I told these words to God, with no one else to listen to them.
Dr. Roper referred me to a colleague and the day of my consultation appointment, I couldn’t stop thinking about the impending surgery.
It’s his fault I have to do this. If only he would have listened some of those times when I asked him to wait. If only he wasn’t so selfish. If only . . .
I pulled into a parking space outside of the health department, stopped the car, and chastised myself.
That’s not going to get you anywhere. It won’t turn back the clock, nor will it change Eddie.
But I also knew he could have at least had the decency to do something himself, instead of forcing me to do this.
As I entered the building, I began running my four pregnancies through my head.
It’s been a constant since age thirteen.
I wasn’t sure where the thought came from, but suddenly it came to me, a long-forgotten high school memory from years earlier.
Running a comb through my damp hair after gym class, I realized I was going to be late for English. Again. Mrs. Tallman would mark me tardy, but I didn’t care. Coming out of the locker room, I nearly collided with Mrs. Niles. “Berry, you’re going to be tardy.” Her head seemed to shake perpetually, as if she never quite knew what to make of her awkward, adolescent freshmen.
“I know.” I rushed past her and then stopped.
“What’s the matter? Don’t know the way to class?” She couldn’t hide the laughter in her voice.
“Um, well, yes, I mean—,” I floundered. “Do you have a minute?”
I saw a faint furrow appear between her brows, before it vanished. “Sure thing. This is my planning period, so I’ve got plenty of time,” I saw white, even teeth as she smiled.
“I just have a quick question.” I swallowed hard and studied the floor, where a tiny piece of gravel had sneaked in behind the gym teacher’s back, daring to defy her spotless wooden planks.
Looking up, I spit it out. “Do you know what I can do? I mean, where I should go…” My voice trailed off entirely.
“You’re pregnant?” her tone wasn’t judgmental, but I sensed her surprise as she played with the pencil above her right ear.
“No!” I said quickly. “It’s just that, well … I think I may have something.” My cheeks flamed as I choked on the words.
“Piece of cake,” she said, and the small room seemed to fill with air again. “Let’s go see the guidance counselor, and she’ll give you a pass for your next class, so your tardy will be excused.”
I managed to suck in some much needed air. “Thank you,” I managed.
The next day Miss Garfield drove me to Kingwood. She chatted pleasantly, sticking to light topics. But my stomach was churning, and I kept wondering how many people saw me leave with the school guidance counselor.
If anyone finds out, they’ll know. I’ll be branded forever. They’ll think I’m a hypocrite, going to Bible meetings and refusing to cheat in class, while having sex behind everyone’s back.
The thoughts flew around my brain in a flurry, until I forced myself to focus. When we parked in front of the county courthouse, a forgotten scene from childhood drifted into my mind, and I remembered being on an exam table while a nurse held my arm.
“I came here for my shots,” I said to no one in particular.
“Yes, the office is still here, but they’re trying to get bigger quarters elsewhere,” Miss. Garfield said.
We parked and then mounted wide flagstone steps like anyone else coming or going from the old stone courthouse. Except they were checking property maps or paying taxes; we were there to see if I could be diseased. Inside the waiting room, I leafed through a magazine, thankful we were alone.
“Number two,” a voice called a few minutes later. “That’s you. I’ll be waiting right here.” Miss Garfield’s smile was still warm and sunny.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, head bowed as I walked toward the woman with the clipboard.
Later, back inside the car, sunshine streamed through the windshield, warming me with its rays. I couldn’t stop replaying the scene in the exam room. The nurse was older, with dark hair and a kindly nature that made me think she was someone’s grandmother.
“Do you have any symptoms, Sweetie?”
What if she’s the nurse who gave me my shots? What if she tells my mother?
“No, I don’t think so.” I folded and unfolded my hands.
“Miss Garfield said you didn’t think you could be pregnant, right?”
Not since I don’t even have a period, no, no chance at all.
“The thing is, you see…” As I looked into her knowing eyes, I suddenly realized she was an old hat at this, and felt my limbs relax. “I’m not sure what I need. I just know this guy, he started doing some things and I thought I wanted to, but then I didn’t, so …”
Her head bobbed in understanding. “So did he penetrate you at all?” she asked as easily as if I had a splinter.
“Yes, a little bit,” I bit my lip.
What do I say? How can I tell her everything he did? We did? What will she think of me? What will she tell Miss Garfield?
“Then we should probably test you for a few common diseases, and we’ll draw some blood and send it away to see if you’re pregnant. But I’m sure it will be negative.” She gave me a motherly smile. “Do you think you’ll need any birth control?”
I shook my head hard. “No, it was just that once and I’m not going to have sex until I’m married.”
Miss Garfield’s voice drifted across the car and interrupted my thoughts, preventing the scene from repeating. “Today’s trip will remain strictly confidential. Neither Mrs. Niles nor I will say anything to anyone, and nothing goes on your school record. The health department will contact me, but if you don’t hear anything, then you don’t need to worry, because that means everything is just fine.”
That’s when I rewound the reel inside my head, stashing it away forever.
I never told Mom about seeing the nurse.
It was another nurse’s voice that brought me out of my reverie today. “Mrs. Leigh, you can go back now,” she said.
We stepped into an exam room, followed by a petite, dark-skinned man. “Mrs. Leigh? I’m Dr. Mundi.” He glanced at my chart, and then over at me. “There are some risks involved with this surgery, which is called a tubal ligation. Naturally, whenever anesthesia is used there’s a risk of death. It’s that simple. Other than that, though, there’s the risk of infection.”
I listened closely as he outlined the various methods of performing the surgery. “I understand,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Good, but I should also tell you that usually I don’t perform this type of surgery on someone your age. You’re only twenty-one, and you could want more children when you are older.” He smiled knowingly. “Of course, you already have four, so that may not happen. But have you considered how you would feel if one of your children died? Say, your son? Have you and your husband talked about him having a vasectomy, instead?” He glanced down at my chart again, but I wasn’t sure what to say.
“It’s a very minor operation compared with this one, and there isn’t a risk of death, because no anesthesia’s involved. Your husband would just go into the doctor’s office, they’d perform the procedure right there, and he would be fine after a few days. But this surgery has a recovery period of several weeks.”
I shook my head, forcing myself to find the right words. “You don’t understand. I have no choice. My husband refuses to accept responsibility for birth control, and he won’t let me use any, either. You’re right, four kids in five years is a lot—especially for someone my age, and if there had been anything at all I could have done to prevent that, I would have. That’s wh
y I’m here now—because if I get pregnant again, I’ll lose my sanity!” I expelled everything in one long breath.
I was tired of protecting Eddie, of keeping “our secret,” of taking the blame for being pregnant so many times. I had to be honest. Hating that I had to give up my right to ever have children again gave me the courage I needed. It was plain and simple. Black and white.
“As for the vasectomy…” I hesitated, not sure how to continue. “Well, my husband and I did discuss that. It isn’t an option, at least not where he’s concerned. He said someone told him it decreases a man’s sex drive, and he doesn’t want that to happen.” At Dr. Mundi’s dubious expression, I smiled thinly. “I know it’s not true, I’ve already done the research. But try to tell him that.”
“So instead, he would prefer that his wife—you—be put under anesthesia, despite this being a much more dangerous operation? It sounds like he could do with a decrease in his sex drive.” Dr. Mundi shook his head. “I’m sorry. I understand what you’re saying. And normally, I wouldn’t even consider it. But for you I will make an exception.” His smile was full of compassion.
The surgery took place one week later. I was in the hospital from early morning until late that same day. When I came out of the recovery room, I hurt from my waist to my thighs. Dr. Mundi said the pain medication would help, and gave me a prescription. He told me to get lots of rest, not to lift anything heavier than a milk jug, and to not overdo it when I began getting up and moving around.
During the days that followed, I became aware of how angry I was that Eddie had “stolen” my procreative powers, and my animosity continued to build.
It’s his fault. He’s such a selfish jerk. He could have had a vasectomy, instead.
At the same time, the knowledge that I couldn’t get pregnant again lifted a weight from my mind, actually allowing me to begin enjoying sex. Well, some sex. With Eddie, I would never enjoy the weird sex he preferred. But it was a start, and one that wasn’t lost on him. We began sharing jokes about little things, even confiding in each other, and it felt like we might become friends.
We went an entire month without a single argument, and even made a date to go camping one weekend. Mom babysat while we headed to Tygart Lake, where we made friends with a couple who invited us to join them on their motorboat. I watched, mesmerized, as they took turns waterskiing. When they offered to teach us, Eddie promptly refused, but I jumped into the water, eager to try the sport.
After donning the skis, I floated on my back and tried to relax as I grasped the rope handle with both hands. The first time, the handle flew from my fingers after I found myself being dragged, face first, through the water. The second time, I managed to hold onto the handle and was pulled into a standing position before, disappointed, I fell and sank into the water again. But on the third try, I came out of the water easily, and quickly began gliding along the water’s surface, turning first one way, then another, until I could jump over the boat’s wake when the small craft changed directions. By the time the day was over I was exhausted but exhilarated.
When the weekend ended and Eddie and I returned home, we both felt rested. I hoped we had been given a second chance, and believed peace would prevail.
But it didn’t. It couldn’t. Any newfound peace was only a temporary calm before the storm—one of many cloudbursts to come. Because in time, Eddie’s job fizzled out again and he was added to the growing number of unemployed coal miners in West Virginia.
Still, we had our blessings. Slade grew rapidly, marking each developmental milestone earlier than normal. Very bright, he imitated our every word or movement. He was the happiest baby, adored by three sisters whose world he made go round, and who catered to his every whim and want.
I marveled at how a baby born into such a chaotic household could be so pleasant. I decided it was God’s gift to me, for overcoming the inner struggle that had left me weeping on the bathroom floor, intent on taking Slade’s little life before he had a chance to suffer like we had been suffering for years. I knew what a privilege it was, just to play some small role in my beautiful baby boy’s life, and I thanked God every day for giving me both Slade and the discernment to realize that in spite of everything, life really was worth living.
And I knew, with God’s strength and guidance, I could overcome anything.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The girls were growing tall and filling out, like the fragrant, butter-colored daffodils that grew in bunches against the hillside in our back yard.
Nearly a year had passed and my body had long since healed from the surgery. But my mind hadn’t. Anger and resentment continued building because of being forced to give up not just a body part, but my right to bear children. I just wasn’t sure what to do about it.
It was only reasonable, especially given that no matter how much work I did, Eddie always made sure I did more. Lately he had been doing that a lot, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t have a job, or because our marriage was growing worse. But whatever it was, I started coming home after my cosmetic shows to find him sitting like a zombie in front of the TV, and if I asked, he refused to help me around the house with anything. He was extremely critical, so I just decided it was easier doing it all myself.
Most of the time, I did it all, too. But other times, I just couldn’t keep up. Like the night I returned home following a show I’d gone to earlier that day. I expected Eddie to feed the kids, but he thought otherwise. He was already angry when I arrived, telling me there wasn’t any food in the house and they were hungry.
“You’re going to work before you play, young lady!” he snapped.
“What do you mean?” I set down my case and hung up my keys.
“Just what I said. The kids are hungry and there’s nothing in the house for them to eat. So you can figure out what to do about it before you do anything else.”
“Eddie, there’s food in the freezer. You could have thawed some ground beef and fixed burgers or even a meatloaf. You can cook, too.”
“That’s not my job and you know it!” His lips snarled as he glared at me.
From experience I knew he wanted an argument and nothing I said or did would pacify him. I threw my arms up in the air. “All right, you want me to take care of it? Okay, I will. I’ll just go back into town and buy all the groceries we’ll need for next week.”
“No, you’re not going back into town. You’re not going to leave me with the kids all night long.”
I sighed, fighting the urge to sarcastically tell him just how pleasant he was treating me. “Well then, what do you suggest I do?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You figure it out.”
In the end, I drove to a small convenience store a couple of miles away, and found something I could fix quickly. Returning home, I hugged my hungry children and hid in the kitchen, as eager to be out of Eddie’s sight as he was of mine.
Then it happened: Eddie simply said he wanted to leave, that he’d wanted to for six years, and he hadn’t even loved me until long after we married. His words didn’t come as a surprise, but it still hurt to hear him say them out loud. Eddie’s admission also freed me from the delusions I began having after the first time we were intimate together, forcing me to see the truth.
I know. I’ve known all along. The only thing is, you’ve never loved me. You don’t love me now—and you never will. I just put up with it because that’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what God expects me to do.
But he didn’t leave. Instead, I wondered how I could ever come to terms with the many confusing beliefs that were part and parcel of who I was. If I couldn’t do that, I knew I could never leave him because—unlike Eddie—I had planned it and I would do it. All in good time.
In the meantime I worried about bigger things, like staying alive. Once Eddie’s unemployment ran out, we were just like everyone else we knew: stuck between a dollar and a dime, with families to support and no job to do it with. I knew it was only a matter of time be
fore everything came spilling out, wreaking the same kind of havoc the one-hundred-year flood had, when it devastated our county a few months earlier. It washed away houses, bridges, vehicles, a railroad trestle and even people, while leaving behind furniture, cars, broken pieces of lumber and twisted masses of metal.
Our own lives began unraveling at the seams just as the rebuilding work began taking shape. The chaos inside our home increased, leaving behind debris of its own. We faced a growing mental strain that probably would have overtaken us all, had Eddie not found work building an addition on someone’s house. But the situation worsened after Eddie came home with a shiny Ford truck. He was supposed to trade in his big old Dodge for something more reliable and easier on fuel. Instead, he walked through the door with a vehicle that left us $4,000 more in debt.
“How on earth are we going to make the payment?” I asked.
Eddie grinned. “That’s the beauty of it, you see. Because I’m a coal miner and we have such good credit, we don’t have a payment for three months.”
I just stared at him. What planet was he living on? “What if you don’t go back to the mines by then?”
It was all the fuel he needed. “All you ever do is complain and whine! Just get off my back, and leave me alone. If you’ve got a better idea, then I’d love to hear it!” he yelled.
“I’m just worried about making the payment. I know this odd job is supposed to last awhile, but you’re only making $7.50 an hour. Besides—” I began.
“Just shut up. Shut the hell up. Don’t open your mouth and say another word. You’re just a spoiled little brat, who thinks it’s so easy to support a family!” Eddie stomped away, slamming the door behind him on his way to the basement.
I sighed. I was always the bad guy. Just once, I wished he would grow up and accept some responsibility for his actions—instead of blaming me. During the last few months, we had gone without cleaning supplies, toothpaste, tissues and even toilet paper (although never at the same time) and other household items.