“You’re going to get through this,” her mother said. “And someday you’re going to have a family of your own.”
Sandy wanted to believe, but at that moment there wasn’t room in her heart for a family other than the one standing in the driveway. Her mother kissed her on the forehead.
“Stay strong,” she said. “Take everything one day at a time. And remember, I love you.”
Sandy hugged her mother tightly, then planted a firm kiss on her left cheek.
“Thanks, Mama,” she said. “I love you too.”
Her mother wiped her eyes with the back of her right hand. Sandy got in the car, closed the door, and rolled down her window. As she backed down the driveway, the engine in the VW rattled like a giant sewing machine. Sandy waved one last time, then released the clutch and drove slowly away.
Every building and house Sandy passed was familiar to her. She knew many of the people who lived in the houses and a lot of the people who worked in the businesses. Her life was intimately intertwined with those in the nest where she’d been nurtured. Now she was departing on an unknown journey into a world of strangers with an uncertain end. She reached the city limits and pressed down on the gas pedal. The future rose to meet her.
The road from Rutland to Atlanta was two lanes wide. Near the halfway point was a locally owned convenience store/gas station. The store was familiar to Sandy because her father often stopped there to buy gas and snacks. She reached it and pulled off the highway. It was a sunny day. After filling up the gas tank, she went inside to pay and use the bathroom. A man she recognized from previous stops was at the cash register. Behind him a woman was stocking a shelf with cigarettes. Sandy paid for the gas with one of the crisp five-dollar bills her father had given her. After using the restroom, she paused in front of a drink cooler against the back wall of the store and tried to decide between apple and grape juice. Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned around.
An old woman with a wrinkled face, bright-blue eyes, and white hair pulled tight in a bun stood behind her. The woman was wearing a blue-print dress similar to the ones Sandy’s granny preferred.
“Excuse me,” Sandy said, stepping aside. “I didn’t know I was in your way.”
The woman continued to eye Sandy without moving.
“Go ahead,” Sandy said. “I’ll wait.”
The woman moved closer to Sandy and looked directly in her face.
“You’re Rebekah,” the woman said in a voice that cracked slightly.
“No. I’m Sandy Lincoln.”
The old woman pointed at Sandy’s abdomen.
“Like Rebekah, you have twin boys in there.”
Sandy gasped and stepped back.
“How did you—”
“Are you going to raise them?” the old woman asked.
“Uh, I was thinking about adoption.”
“Good, good.” The old woman nodded her head. “Just make sure that you separate them at birth.”
“Why?”
The old woman leaned in closer. Sandy caught a whiff of a fragrance she couldn’t identify.
“If they ever meet, one of them is going to die.”
Sandy felt her skin grow cold.
“I don’t understand.”
The woman stared directly into Sandy’s eyes with an intensity that made Sandy feel faint.
“Some choices bring life; others bring death. Choose well.”
The old woman turned around, walked down the aisle, and left the store. Shaken, Sandy placed her hand against the cooler to steady herself. After a few moments and deep breaths, she grabbed a container of apple juice and took it to the cash register. There was no sign of the old woman in the parking lot. Sandy handed a dollar bill to the cashier, who rang up the sale and counted out the change in her hand.
“Do you know the older lady who just left the store?” she asked.
The man turned to the woman behind him.
“Sue Ellen, do you know who that was? She came in but didn’t buy anything.”
“No,” the woman replied. “But I saw her looking at cans of snuff.”
“Did she bother you?” the man asked Sandy.
“Not exactly,” Sandy said. “But she said something very strange.”
“What was it?” the man asked.
Sandy shook her head. “Nothing.”
Outside, Sandy glanced around apprehensively. Two cars were at the gas pumps with men standing beside them. There were passengers inside the cars, but Sandy didn’t see anyone who looked like the old woman.
Sandy got in her car and drove slowly away from the station. At the edge of the highway she looked in both directions, not just to be safe, but to check for the old woman. As far as she could see, no one was walking along the shoulder of the road. Sandy pulled onto the highway and turned in the direction of Atlanta. She continued to search the roadside for a couple hundred yards but then gave up. The old woman couldn’t have gone any farther than that on foot.
The odd encounter at the store cast a dark shadow over the rest of the trip. The fact that the old woman somehow sensed that Sandy was pregnant was strange; the statement that Sandy was going to have twins was bizarre; and the dire prediction that if the boys ever met one of them would die was frightening. For Sandy, it was more uncertainty piled upon a mountain of existing ambiguity. And the haunting fragrance seemed to linger in the car. Only when she reached the outskirts of Atlanta with cars whizzing by on either side of the VW did her mind clear.
Linda lived in a small brick home a mile from Emory University, a liberal arts college for smart students who came from all over the country. With its cramped campus and the absence of a football team, Emory didn’t seem like a real college to Sandy. Passing the main entrance to the school, Sandy turned left into a neighborhood developed in the 1950s. She passed quaint, modest houses built on heavily wooded lots.
Linda’s house was at the end of a short cul-de-sac. There was a steep drop-off into a ravine at the rear of her property. A tiny stream flowed through the ravine, then disappeared into a large concrete pipe. Leaving her luggage in the car, Sandy walked to the front door. There wasn’t a doorbell, so she clanged a brass knocker. A few seconds later, her aunt opened the door.
Linda, with her blue eyes and formerly blond hair, bore a physical resemblance to Sandy’s mother, but the petite woman was more wiry than Julie Lincoln and filled with nervous energy.
“Come in,” Linda said, giving Sandy a quick hug. “You’re in the big city now where no one knows you’re pregnant, and no one would care if they did. Where’s your luggage?”
“In the car.”
“It won’t walk into the house by itself.”
Linda’s brusqueness was a dominant trait, and she showed little restraint in sharing her opinion about anything with anybody. She and Sandy carried the suitcases inside. Linda led the way through the small living room, past the kitchen, and down the hall to a guest room that contained a full-size bed, a wooden nightstand, a chest of drawers, and a closet concealed by sliding doors. A simple white bedspread covered the bed. It was a utilitarian room. Linda opened the closet door.
“I cleared out a space for your clothes,” she said, “and the top two drawers of the chest are empty.”
“Thanks.”
Linda’s two cats entered the room, meowing.
“Peaches and Lillo think this is their room, but I moved their litter box to the laundry room. If the door is closed and they start scratching, carry them there. They’ll figure out the change in a few days.”
“I wouldn’t mind if they slept in here. Mama won’t allow animals in the house.”
“Well, there’s no use having a pet if it’s not part of the family, but I’d rather get them used to the laundry room.”
Sandy didn’t argue.
“I’ll leave you alone to unpack.”
Sandy took out her clothes and put as much as she could in the two drawers and in the closet. The things that wouldn’t fit, she left
in one of the suitcases. Although cozy, the house felt lonely, especially when compared to the hustle and bustle of her home in Rutland. The cats returned to the room and brushed up against Sandy’s legs. She ran her hand down their silky backs.
“It’s okay if they visit.” Linda’s voice startled Sandy. “It’s only at night when you go to sleep that I want them in the laundry room. I should have made that clear.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to put on some tea. Come into the kitchen when you’re finished.”
Sandy placed her prenatal vitamins on the nightstand. The pharmacist in Rutland had mistakenly put Julie Lincoln’s name on the bottle, and when they picked up the prescription, the revelation that Sandy was pregnant was an embarrassing moment. The pharmacist’s daughter, a member of the JV cheerleading squad, had looked up to Sandy like a queen on her throne. Now the queen’s crown was shattered, the throne cracked.
Sandy entered the kitchen as the teapot started to whistle. From the breakfast nook windows she could see the wooded backyard. There was a row of birdfeeders on posts just outside the window. Several brightly colored birds were eating a snack.
“Do the cats go outside?” Sandy asked.
“No,” Linda answered as she lifted the teapot from the stove. “Birds and cats can’t coexist peacefully in the same backyard. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“None of that ma’am stuff around here,” Linda replied. “It’s Linda, plain and simple. You’re not going to make me feel like your granny.”
Linda poured the water over tea bags into mismatched cups. It was an act completely foreign to Julie Lincoln’s universe.
“I assume you want sugar,” Linda said.
“Yes, ma—” Sandy stopped.
“Good.” Linda glanced up.
She sat at the table with Sandy, who dropped two cubes of sugar into her cup.
“Where do you get sugar cubes?” Sandy asked.
“The health food store,” Linda replied briskly. “Now I’m ready for your questions.”
Sandy picked up the steaming cup, but the tea was still too hot to drink.
“What questions?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you have loads of questions. Let’s start with why I told your mother that you should place your baby for adoption. Thousands of women are streaming into the shiny new abortion clinics that have sprung up like mushrooms over the past year. Did you study the decision by the Supreme Court in Roe v. Wade?”
“We went over it in my honors history class.”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Honors history? And you didn’t read the decision?” Linda sniffed. “You should have. It shows how ignorant lawyers are when it comes to basic biology. How far along are you in your pregnancy?”
“About ten weeks.”
“Did you know that by the end of week five your baby has a brain and a spinal cord? The heart starts beating and pumping blood by the end of week six. And at seven weeks the baby may only be a quarter inch long, but she has nostrils on her face and arms with tiny paddles for hands.”
Sandy thought about the conversation with the old woman at the gas store.
“Do you think I’m going to have a girl?”
“Who knows, but I think women deserve equal time in the language.”
Sandy had heard her father accuse Linda of being a feminist, a first cousin to the communists. Sandy was more interested in boys and cheerleading than political and sociological labels. Linda took a sip of her tea.
“The Supreme Court ruled that an unborn baby has no protection during the first trimester of the pregnancy and doesn’t become a person until she’s old enough to survive outside the mother’s body. That’s illogical. If all the grocery stores in Atlanta closed, most of the people in the city would starve before they learned how to grow their own food. Does that mean we’re not people because we’re not as self-sufficient as my parents were on their farm in Dawson County?”
“Uh, no.” Sandy sipped her tea. It had a sharp, bold flavor. “I just didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of abortion.”
“Your intuition was right, but you need to know there are good reasons for your feelings. You can’t go through life making decisions without knowing the facts. The mush in your head needs to be taught to think in an analytical way.”
As during their phone conversation, Linda’s words sounded critical but didn’t come across in a judgmental way.
“That isn’t going to happen at the school you’ll attend,” Linda continued. “You’ll probably make straight As without much effort, but it’s going to be my job to teach you how to think.”
“Will I be safe at the school?”
“You’ll need to keep to yourself and avoid socializing off campus with other students. There are security guards on duty in the halls and cafeteria.”
Even though she’d taken a sip of tea, Sandy’s mouth went dry.
“Is it the only school in Atlanta that accepts pregnant girls?”
“Within a reasonable distance of the house. It’s good that you can drive your car and avoid riding the bus. The adoption agency is on Roswell Road in Sandy Springs. The ob-gyn who treats many of the women placing their babies for adoption has an office in the same building.”
“I thought you were checking out several agencies.”
“And I settled on this one. I screened four caseworkers at two agencies and made arrangements for you to meet with the best one I talked to.”
“Thanks for doing that.”
Linda picked up a thick book that was on the corner of the table.
“Here’s your first homework assignment. This is a text currently used in the human physiology classes at Emory. The first two chapters should bring you up-to-date on your pregnancy. Before you go to bed tonight, I want you to write a six-paragraph summary that includes a history of the study of fetal development through the latest research. There are amazing in utero pictures in the text. Do you know what in utero means?”
“No.”
“You will by tonight. Do you know how to type?”
“Yes, I took typing in eighth grade.”
“There’s a typewriter you can use in the study across from the guest room. Double-space. I don’t need the eye strain. No typos. Use correction tape if you make a mistake. I’ll be checking your grammar too. You begin classes at the school on Tuesday.”
Linda finished her tea and left the table. Sandy watched the carefree birds for a minute and then opened the textbook.
EIGHT
Sandy got out of her car and checked to make sure the doors were locked. She’d parked beside a vehicle that had a white door, a red hood, and splotches of rust everywhere else. On the other side of Sandy’s car was a motorcycle with a skull-and-crossbones design on the gas tank. Walking to the school entrance, Sandy heard a boy whistle. She didn’t turn around.
Built in the 1930s, the school building was a former junior high saved from destruction by the city’s need to provide education for students who, for a variety of bad reasons, couldn’t be placed in the regular school system. The tiles on the floor were discolored and cracked. The lights in the classrooms were archaic glass globes. The walls were painted hospital green. Many of the lockers in the hallways were missing latches. Sandy had learned the location of all her classes with the help of the guidance counselor who had set up her schedule the previous day.
She slipped into her homeroom class and sat in the front row. The teacher was a black man in his thirties. He was wearing a white shirt, black tie, and black pants. A group of boys were clustered against the back wall. Several of them looked old enough to be in their early twenties. About ten other students were scattered across the room.
“Hey, foxy lady!” a male voice called out.
Sandy kept her eyes forward.
“I’m not talking to you,” the male voice continued. “You’re no lady.”
“And you’re a p
unk,” a female voice responded.
“Quiet,” the teacher said, glancing at a clock on the side wall of the room.
The teacher called the roll. Before he reached Sandy’s name, the door opened and a short Hispanic girl with long dark hair entered the room. She shyly approached the teacher and handed him a slip of paper.
“Take a seat,” the teacher said.
The girl looked around. Her eyes met Sandy’s, and she sat in the desk beside her.
A few names later, the teacher called, “Sandy Lincoln.”
Sandy lifted her hand slightly.
“Here.”
“Got it,” a different male voice said.
The teacher ignored the boy and continued the roll call. When he finished he looked at the clock again and announced, “Eight minutes until you’re dismissed to your first class. You may talk, but don’t leave your seats.”
Sandy rearranged the books on the desk so the chemistry text for her first-period class was on top. The dark-haired girl beside her didn’t have any books. Sandy leaned over.
“Are you new to the school?” she asked.
The girl nodded but didn’t speak. Sandy took a bold step and asked the question again in Spanish. The girl’s eyes lit up, and she responded so rapidly that it took Sandy a second to understand her answer.
“What’s your name?” Sandy asked.
“Angelica.”
“Where are your textbooks?”
“I don’t have any.”
Sandy raised her hand.
“Nice fingernails,” a male voice said.
The homeroom teacher looked at Sandy.
“What is it?”
“Angelica doesn’t have any books or know her classes.”
“Who did you talk to in the office?” the teacher asked the Hispanic student.
Angelica shrugged and looked at Sandy, who translated, then listened to her response.
“Señora Jansen,” Sandy replied.
The teacher rolled his eyes.
The Choice Page 7