Off-Island

by Marlene Hauser

  Krista was astonished. The nurse was actually smoking a cigarette, sliding the pack from the front pocket of her white uniform. She even asked Krista if she wanted one.

  After considering it, she politely said, “No, thank you.” I just want to know if it hurts. Her gut felt hard and solid as a rock. She looked at each passing woman. None of them met her eyes. She heard the hushed whispers of counseling as one woman explained something to another, using a similar model to the uterus Dr. Blackwell displayed in his office. One woman spoke and the other woman listened, except for an impatient “Yes, yes, yes.” Krista counted ponytails. They all wore ponytails; even her own hair had been pulled back in a tight band, though she couldn’t remember doing it herself. She fidgeted with the loose ends pulled over her shoulder.

  It was ten forty-five. Krista asked Ruth about Dr. Blackwell. She started to ask about the procedure but the nurse stopped her.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Krista studied the women around her, the ones without private doctors. This place resembled a factory. Women in, women out. Just when Krista thought fear would overtake her and that she would leave – maybe Michael had been right – Dr. Blackwell arrived.

  “Hello, Ms. Bourne,” he said, “sorry to keep you waiting. Please get undressed.”

  Ruth reappeared. She handed Krista a brown paper bag.

  “Put your things in here.”

  Krista headed for a small dressing stall. She pulled off her sweater, her skirt, her socks and panties. Placing her hand on her belly she whispered a little prayer. Very soon, it will be all over. She wondered for the briefest of moments whose life it was she was taking. Her own? She willed herself not to cry. What would these other women think? Did it affect them at all? Did they also kiss the tips of their fingers and touch them lightly to their belly? Did they tell their Little Ones to wait? Idiot. What am I thinking? What would they think if they knew I was afraid? No, not just afraid, but scared out of my wits. This feels like a sin.

  The nurse tapped on the dressing-room door. Krista took her belongings with her into a green-tiled room. Two other nurses told her to use the small bathroom, to try and urinate. They took her clothes and positioned her on a steel-topped table. No one smiled. No one said hello or good morning. It was all business. No one said anything that was not strictly necessary. Krista watched a nurse fill a syringe, and recalled she detested needles. She tried to catch someone’s eye. She did not see Ruth. Wasn’t this the procedure? Wasn’t she supposed to be around? Krista wanted the comfort of someone’s hand. Michael. Where was he? Lunch, she recalled, and wished him luck. Dr. Blackwell darted in and out. She wanted to tell him she did not want to be knocked out. The two nurses strapped her legs into the stirrups. A green oxygen tank was rolled forward.

  “Doctor,” Krista said.

  He looked her in the eye and, with a professional nod, said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Krista took in the white ceiling. Her legs were tied down with black bands. They were strapped twice.

  “Count from one hundred backwards,” someone said.

  Krista focused on the ceiling. The last thing she remembered was the pale palm of the black nurse who took her hand and then the tears when she started to cry.

  *

  “Shock!” Krista heard the call like the cry of a gull, shrieking far off yet directly over her head.

  “Pressure falling—”

  She felt herself tumbling, turning, the speed of her descent startling. Her body asserted itself long before her mind. She sensed a tight knot, as if every ounce of her being had been drawn up and nailed to the center of her spine, only to be gutted. Muscle and bone ached. It was as if she had done battle and lost. She began to hear other things: voices, metal, pages being shuffled.

  “Oxygen!” someone shouted.

  “Miss Bourne,” another person asked, “where does it hurt?”

  Krista lay still in the fetal position, continuing to fall as if everything that bound her to life had been cut away. Who were these people? She opened her eyes. The light was excruciating, and she could not see their faces clearly. She felt nauseous and reached for her abdomen. She could only feel a complete and utter sense of loss, one for which she had been unprepared. For four weeks she had experienced the life expanding within her. Now she felt only death.

  “Adrenalin!” a male voice called out.

  “Miss Bourne,” a vaguely familiar voice asked, “where does it hurt?”

  Krista turned her head, saw the doctor’s dark hair, the white uniform coat and the sweater beneath. She could not distinguish the face. She touched her belly again. Nothing else existed. Then she felt her pulse, wrapped in the black Velcro grip of an orderly taking her blood pressure. She turned her head again, struggling to regain consciousness. Faces appeared as if through gauze. In that instant, she knew what it was she would do. She would never go back. Her body took over. I’m not coming out. I’m not coming out. Krista lost consciousness.

  “Emergency!”

  A scuffle ensued. Her knees were forced away from her chest, her arms from over her heart. She cried and felt ready to attack. She would claw, bite. She felt the place where her body had reared up against the instruments and she recalled now why she ached. The nurse motioned everyone away. The gesture triggered a wave over Krista’s closed eyes. Her lids stirred heavily. She could see but it seemed a veil had been placed over the scene. Who was this woman? Her face was warm, eyes kind, but Krista ran the tip of her tongue over each incisor anyway. She was as prepared as any cornered wounded animal might be to fight with whatever strength she had left. Where was the fetus?

  “Miss Bourne, tell me where it hurts.”

  “Everywhere,” Krista answered.

  “Show me.”

  There was another flutter of activity. Someone whispered.

  “Miss Bourne,” the woman said, “do you know a Michael Parks?”

  The gauze before her eyes faded away. Krista could see again. She took a deep breath.

  “That’s it,” the woman said, “nice and easy.”

  Krista forced her legs down, felt the sanitary pad belted to her body, and willed herself to sit up. Michael.

  “Miss Bourne, Mr. Parks is waiting for you.”

  She lay still, making an inventory of her body. Hands, feet, toes. What was missing? What remained? First thing, she thought, I must get up. I have a plan.

  “Mr. Parks,” the woman said, more insistently, “is in the waiting room.”

  Krista sat up. The nurse and the medics left.

  “We thought you’d never stop crying,” the woman in the opposite cot said as Krista pulled her clothing from the paper bag and started to dress.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been crying for ages. Since they brought you in.”

  “I don’t remember,” she said listlessly.

  “You were. It scared them. Me too. Think you were doing it for all of us.”

  “I did cry a little,” Krista said, “just before I went under. I think I recall, before – no after – the injection.”

  “You didn’t have a local?”

  “No.”

  “You were lucky. I watched the whole thing.”

  “Watched it?”

  Krista saw that she was standing in the center of the room, between two parallel rows of beds containing women in varying states of consciousness. Many of them were crying silently. Some were not. Krista thought through her plan. She had to get home first, get the car. But where… where would she do it?

  “Take some juice,” a nurse said, without looking up from the desk where she sat filling out forms.

  “Yes,” Krista answered, picking up the plastic cup. Another woman, still in her hospital gown, spoke on the phone. Did Krista hear her correctly? She was making a tennis date. The courts. In an hour. Krista dropped the remains o
f her juice into a metal waste can. She felt nauseous. Michael. She saw the corridor from which she had walked earlier, and just when she thought she might faint, she heard that familiar voice ring out once more.

  “Miss Bourne. There you are. Mr. Parks is this way.”

  The woman ushered Krista to an exit and into the waiting room through which she had first entered the clinic.

  “Thank you,” Krista said as she now recalled this woman.

  “For what?”

  “For holding my hand,” she said, “before I went under.”

  The nurse touched her shoulder sympathetically and then went through the swinging door back to the clinic, leaving a brief stirring in the air behind her. Michael. Krista saw him then. He smiled. She saw the three-piece suit, the briefcase and the gold watch. How far, she thought, he had come since that first day in Central Park in his cycling shorts and T-shirt. She recalled that promise of a first telephone call. He had not failed her then, and he did not fail her now.

  “I had to come,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Don’t be angry with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Let’s go home.”

  To die, Krista thought as Michael hailed a yellow cab.

  Chapter Four

  Dr. Blackwell’s office remained full of smiling pregnant women. It was the last place Krista wanted to be.

  “Michael,” she begged, “let’s just go home.”

  “Kris,” he pointed out, “the nurse said Dr. Blackwell wants to see you. No excuses. You almost went into shock. Do you realize that? The seriousness of it? He needs to see you. I want him to see you. Hang in there. It won’t take long.”

  “Room four. Dr. Blackwell will be with you soon,” the receptionist told them. It seemed she knew what had happened and hadn’t the heart to wear her disapproving expression. Krista acquiesced, leaning heavily on Michael and letting him lead her.

  Dr. Blackwell’s examination was quick, routine, gentle. In fifteen minutes he had not only checked Krista but also fitted her with a new diaphragm.

  “Hold this up to the light occasionally,” he said, “to check for cracks.”

  So that’s how life gets in, Krista thought. Through the cracks.

  “You look fully recovered,” he enthused, as if congratulating her for something. “Let me see you on Monday. Just pop in and, of course, refrain from intercourse for the next six weeks. Lose the weight you’ve gained, especially if you are going to keep dancing. You are a dancer, correct? I know you have not gained much, but you will feel better if you do. If you bleed at all, even a small amount, call me straight away.”

  In the taxi Krista felt faint. The color drained from her face as she rested it against Michael’s shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you tell Dr. Blackwell?” Michael demanded.

  “Tell him what?” Krista asked.

  “That you don’t feel well.”

  “I’m okay. I just want to go home.”

  “Kris, where does it hurt?” he insisted, his forehead creased with worry.

  “I can’t talk right now. I’m too hot. Too tired.” She rolled away from him and tilted her head back against the seat. “I need to vomit,” she said, “only there’s nothing left to vomit.”

  Krista managed a laugh then, as if to say, “Michael, relax, I’m okay.” Her face felt as if it might crack.

  “Do you want to stop?” he asked.

  “For what?”

  “Something to eat.”

  “No,” she answered, rolling back towards him, pulling her knees up a little. “I really just want to go home, and to sleep. I feel groggy. Out of it.”

  He took her arm and looped it through his. “Everything will be fine.”

  Krista closed her eyes. She knew all the stops and starts, the rights and lefts, that preceded the townhouse on Bank Street. Michael opened the door to the cab, holding it with his elbow and briefcase while supporting Krista with his other arm. She felt weak, drained.

  “You should eat,” he said. “That’s all I want to say.”

  “No,” she said again as she undressed, dropping her clothes where she stood and crawling between the cool sheets. Michael set two mugs and the teapot on a tray.

  “Are you sure?” He couldn’t think of anything else to do for her.

  “Do you know what I really feel like?”

  “Corned beef on rye?”

  “Oh, God.”

  “No?”

  “I feel as if I’ve been deboned or submerged or – I can’t explain it – I feel I can’t feel.” And with that, she passed into the deep sleep she craved.

  Michael turned off the water he was boiling for tea. From the living room he thought he heard her whimper. It sounded like a child’s cry, muffled and far away. He walked to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, removed his already loosened tie and lay down beside her.

  Krista first descended deep into sleep, then felt herself rouse into a sort of semi-wakefulness. She awoke abruptly, fighting hard to recall where she was and with whom. More sleep. Stirring again, she saw Michael and remembered everything. Would the memory of this day ever fade? She worked her way back into a numb sort of slumber. She didn’t want to see, hear, feel. Then the images came – a loose scalpel, a wheel from a pram, a child’s face. They flew at her, coming from seemingly nowhere. What have I done? She felt she couldn’t breathe. Her heart beat painfully fast. It hurt. This was different from any exertion she’d experienced as a dancer. She was terrified. The anesthetic could no longer deaden the images – the blood, the spittle and the soft baby toes – that came whirling at her through her desperate sleep.

  She began to awaken. She felt herself to be in the center of a whirlwind. As she rose through each spiral, she saw a face, a figure, a scene she did not want to recall. The turning she experienced was the slow, weighted twisting of a cockpit. She perspired. Her own weight increased. The sun was blinding. The air hot, thin. And somewhere below, Daddy was telling her to spot Ilsa’s apple tree. If she could just see the house, that apple tree, the white blossoms, the yellow center… She struggled.

  Krista could no longer determine if she was awake or asleep. Have I gone mad? Her breathing came in hard, fast intakes that seemed beyond her control. Her eyes darted around the room. She felt surrounded by something opaque, wet, hard and glistening. She did not recognize the room. Was this the inside of the shell? Was this the shell I promised to save Daddy, the one he never came to collect? She ran her palms blindly over its surface, searching for a way out. When she finally saw it – a thin filament of gold – it immediately disappeared.

  Krista sat bolt upright. Michael lay beside her, lost in sleep. Something came to mind, and she fought hard to recall where she recognized it from:

  … like a Hoover… same idea… vacuums the walls of the uterus… drawing it up, through and out the tube. Start to finish? Six minutes. May feel a stitch, a slight cramp, nothing different than a bit of premenstrual discomfort. Perhaps some spotting… But all in all, painless.

  Painless. Painless? Krista kept her knees to her chest, cradled in her arms. Painless? I feel pain, I feel gutted, she thought. And the pain in her gut was equaled only by the pain in her heart. She held still, as if keeping a tenuous balance, as if the slightest motion would send her toppling in any number of directions. She searched for the ceiling, the thing she once called the inside, the cool galaxy of sapphire blue. There was nothing, only a memory, a peeling ceiling half filled with cardboard stars. And in place of the comfort it had once brought her, now there was nothing but emptiness.

  She would rather die, she decided, than continue to feel this. She didn’t want to know this pain. She didn’t want the memory of this pain, and she feared it would be with her forever. How can I live? she asked herself. She watched Michael. He rose, opened the blinds and let in the late aftern
oon sun. In blue jeans and a polo shirt, with his hair freshly brushed, he looked as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed. She listened to the sounds from the bathroom, imagined him throwing water over his face, then cupping a mouthful to gargle. His summer flip-flops slapped the hardwood floor.

  … six minutes… all in all, painless.

  “Sleeping Beauty,” he called out, “tea?”

  She held still. Tea? I want to die. But not here, she decided, not in Michael’s bed, beneath Helen’s apartment, in D.B.’s house. But I do want to die. I could, she thought, die now, from complications. Bleed to death. She refused to answer Michael and feigned sleep. I have the right to die. Decisions, she thought, my own decisions. She turned, pulling one pillow towards her chest and the other under her head.

  “Are you awake? What do you want?” he asked anxiously, bending over her.

  “Nothing. I don’t want anything.”

  “Krista, you have to eat. It’s been over twenty-four hours, you’ve suffered a significant amount of stress.”

  “I don’t want to eat, okay?”

  “I made tea. Jasmine with honey.”

  “Stop it, Michael.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop babying me.”

  “Do you want tea or don’t you?”

  “I want to sleep.”

  “So sleep.”

  Again, Krista closed her eyes. Waiting, she felt Michael enter and exit like a phantom, touching her forehead lightly, sitting silently on the edge of the bed. A gaping darkness, a hunger for which she could not find the words, began to loom all about her. The very room seemed dangerous, as if she could step off it into infinity. She felt the extreme turn of events, the catapult from fullness to nothing. She felt as if all the blood had been flushed from her veins.

  “Okay,” Michael said in a singsong voice. He pulled the blanket over her chest, rousing her in the same instant, “it’s time for you to rejoin the living. You have ten seconds to say, “Yes, dear, I’d love a cup of tea,” or, without any hesitation, I will begin the force feed.”