by Unknown
By the time I had given a urine sample, a vial of my blood, and been weighed, it was after noon, and my stomach was beginning to growl. The morning nausea was gone, and I was ravenous.
Dr. Chapman came into the room where I sat clothed in a blue dressing gown.
“Mrs. Holland, it’s been awhile,” he said in a neighborly tone that was nearly devoid of chastisement, but not quite.
“Sorry about that,” I said meekly. “I didn’t realize it had been this long. You can call me Claire.”
He smiled, and then the whole countenance of his face changed. It became stern and soft at the same time. It’s hard to describe.
“I have your results,” he said.
I nodded and felt tears welling.
“The test was positive. You are pregnant,” he said.
I nodded again and tried brushing the tears away. Fresh ones replaced them. He reached behind his stool to a box of tissues, grabbed the box, and placed it in my lap.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Holland. I understand you were the victim of an assault,” he continued.
Again, all I could do was nod. I yanked a tissue out and savagely wiped my eyes. I was so sick of crying.
“You do have some options,” he went on. “It would be a very simple procedure to terminate the pregnancy.”
Still the tears came. My nose started running as well.
I shook my head.
“I...that’s not an option for me,” I managed.
“It’s an option for all women,” he said gently.
“I mean, I couldn’t do it,” I said. “I couldn’t let you...I couldn’t...What happened to me isn’t the child’s fault,” I finally eked out.
Dr. Chapman paused for a moment. “It’s not your fault either.”
He was right. But so was I. There was no escaping it—both statements were true.
“I will probably lose it anyway,” I whispered.
“Perhaps,” Dr. Chapman said as he looked at my patient file. “But you have had two second-trimester miscarriages, Mrs. Holland. It could be three or four months before this pregnancy is naturally terminated, if indeed you miscarry. Or you could possibly carry to term. There might also some risk for you, personally, in letting the pregnancy continue.”
“I know,” I said and sighed. “That never seemed to matter before...,” I continued absently.
“The situation was different then, Mrs. Holland. You were carrying children you wanted,” Dr. Chapman said. “That’s understandable.”
“I never said I didn’t want this child,” I said in return, hardly believing the words that came out of my mouth.
Dr. Chapman was silent as he processed this, and so was I. I was finally beginning to understand the depth of my sorrow. The tears that kept springing fresh from my eyes that day were tears not just of grief over a pregnancy I didn’t want but also over a child I couldn’t have. I wasn’t grieving for what I had, but what I didn’t have. And couldn’t.
I left the office with a due date, a prescription for prenatal vitamins, and the resolve that I wouldn’t come back to that clinic. It was too full of little memories my selective amnesia hadn’t stolen from me, like listening with joy to the steady, brisk cadence of my infants’ heartbeats. I also felt like Dr. Chapman thought I was somewhat foolish. He didn’t say this. Maybe he actually thought I was brave. But I couldn’t tell which. And that mattered to me.
Dan knew when he saw me emerge from the clinic’s back rooms that what I had told him earlier that day in our bedroom was true. As I passed by the reception desk, I heard a kind voice ask if I would like to set up another appointment. I said I didn’t and continued walking. The front-desk clerk watched me go with a quizzical look on her face, her pencil still poised above the appointment book, as if she hadn’t quite heard me correctly. Or perhaps she thought I hadn’t quite heard correctly. That woman does know she’s pregnant, doesn’t she? I could almost hear her say to the medical assistant next to her.
“June third,” I said simply to Dan as he started to ease the van out of the clinic parking lot.
He hesitated for a moment and then turned left, instead of right. Away from home, instead of toward it.
5
It seemed like Dan was driving with no clear destination in mind. He made several turns onto roads I was unfamiliar with, often at the last moment. But soon we were on a bridge that spanned the Mississippi River, and then in St. Paul, and I knew where he was headed.
Dan had proposed to me along the bank of the river at a park where he used to play Frisbee and touch football with his U of M buddies. It was a place full of wonderful memories for both of us. And it was captivatingly beautiful in October.
He surprised me by asking me nonchalantly if I was hungry, and of course I was. He turned into a drive-through burger place that he and I had eaten at dozens of times and ordered us cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. Just like old times.
We drove to our favorite spot, grabbed our food, and headed to a shaded table.
“I always loved this place in the fall,” he said.
And I told him I did too. And it wasn’t just small talk. We were both soothing ourselves with the calm beauty of a place where so many dreams and hopes had been shared between us.
I was immensely thankful that the only memories I lost were ones from the few months before the attack.
It scared me to think I could have awakened from my ordeal not knowing who I was or who I loved. Or who loved me. It was comforting to be where Dan had told me he loved me and wanted to marry me and that I remembered it vividly.
Patty, my therapist, had asked me how I felt about the memories I had lost, and I told her it was difficult to feel a sense of loss at all. I didn’t feel like I was missing anything. It was just time that had been taken from me. And I had been granted more of it, so what was the big deal?
She asked me if I missed my students. School had only been in session for a week when I was attacked. I had eighty kids on my class lists and knew hardly any of them. Was I supposed to miss them? She also asked if I was feeling anxious about going back. I didn’t feel anxious, I told her. I didn’t feel ready. She asked why. I told her I wasn’t going to go back until every trace of the bruising on my neck was gone. She nodded and wrote something down. Probably something like “Still in denial about what happened to her.” But I wasn’t in denial. I just didn’t want to provoke curiosity or pity regarding something that was no one’s business but my own.
It dawned on me then that when she learned I was pregnant, Patty was probably going to double her efforts to guarantee I was not on a path to suicide. It wearied me to think about it. I began to twirl my straw in my shake as I contemplated her likely response. I looked up to see Dan pushing his straw up and down in his shake and looking at me.
“We need to talk about this,” he said.
“I know,” I said, and waited for him to say it.
“I can’t raise this child,” he said softly. “If you don’t...if you carry this baby to term, we need to have a plan of what we’re going to do.”
I nodded.
“Do you understand where I am coming from, Claire?” he continued. “I know how much we both wanted more children, but I can’t pretend this child is mine. I would never be able to love it.”
He stopped then, unable to continue.
It was probably my turn to say something, but nothing seemed appropriate. I wondered what Patty would say if she were included in this conversation. Claire, how do you feel about what Dan just told you?
“It wouldn’t be fair to the child,” Dan added, when I said nothing in response.
I knew he was right, but it was not what I needed to hear.
“For Pete’s sake, Dan, let’s not talk about what’s fair,” I almost growled.
We sat there playing with our straws, pondering the problem of evil and our powerlessness to tame it.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, I’m sorry,” I replied. “I shouldn
’t have snapped at you.”
Several minutes of silence followed.
“I’m afraid of what would happen to us if we kept it,” he said, his eyes growing misty.
“I’m not afraid,” I replied, remembering a message from heaven delivered to me just hours before that I suddenly wished I had told Dan about.
“You want to keep this baby?” he asked, and I could sense the apprehension in his voice.
I knew that scenario was impossible. I knew the best thing for this baby was for it to be placed into a home with two parents who desperately wanted it. I knew this child, like any child, deserved the love of both a mother and a father. This child would not be like Katie and Spence, not to Dan. And really not to me either. I knew what was best. But knowing it wasn’t a comfort to me.
“From the moment this ordeal began, it hasn’t been about what I want,” I said, as tears began to roll down my cheeks. “You ask me if I want to keep this baby. I know I can’t. Should we give it up for adoption? I know we should. But it’s not about what I want, Dan. It will never be about what I want.”
He slipped off the bench on his side of the table and came to mine, scooting in beside me.
We were quiet for several minutes as I gathered my composure and stemmed the flow of tears.
“God, I wish this had never happened,” he said. And it really was a prayer.
“What are we going to tell the kids?” I moaned.
“We’ll find a way,” he whispered.
*
We stayed at our special place for a little while longer and then got back into the van for the ride back to the house. The kids would be coming home from school in less than an hour. They were expecting me to be there. Both Dan and I wanted to get home before they did.
On the way, I asked Dan if we could hold off telling anyone for a while. I think he was thinking the same thing. Both of us were supposing that in a few months’ time, there would be no troubling news to break to the kids. I dreaded the thought of another miscarriage, though I felt it would be best. I think Dan, on the other hand, was anticipating it, though he would not admit it.
I also told Dan on the way home that I was going to ask the school board for an extended leave of absence. A long-term substitute was already handling all my classes anyway, so I was certain that wouldn’t be a problem. He agreed that was a good idea.
Dan didn’t ask me why I didn’t make another appointment nor did he ask if I wanted to stop and fill my prescription for the prenatal vitamins. To borrow from Patty’s vocabulary, I think he was the one in a state of denial. And I actually didn’t mind. I didn’t want to validate this doomed pregnancy with vitamins and doctor visits. I wanted the next few months to pass quietly, without anyone knowing a thing.
The morning sickness would last another month and then go away. After that I would feel fine until the fourth or fifth month. Then I would notice drops of blood on the bed sheets or my underwear. I would call Dan. We would go to the hospital. My lowlying placenta would be expelled first, followed by a tiny body. I would cry. Dan would hold me.
Then it would be over.
I wasn’t afraid.
6
Dan and I made it home just minutes before Katie and Spencer. Becky, a true friend, simply dropped the kids off like she usually did. I knew she would call me later when the kids were in bed. Spencer’s “Dad! You’re here!” was in stark contrast to Katie’s “Dad, how come you’re home?” I think they had both been relieved when Dan went back to work the week before, the unmarked blue car across the street disappeared, and our home life took on a familiar shade of normalcy. They weren’t expecting Dan to be home at three fifteen that day, and yet there he was. Dan stole a glance at me sitting at the dining-room table with the day’s mail and thought up a quick half-truth.
“I just thought I’d spend the afternoon with you guys today,” he said.
“Too many cats in a bad mood?” Spencer said with a laugh—his and Dan’s private reason for anytime Dan was home early from the vet clinic.
“That’s right.” Dan ruffled Spencer’s sandy blond hair as he headed into the kitchen with him. Snack time.
Katie dropped her book bag by the stairs and then started for the kitchen too. She stopped where the kitchen and the dining room met and looked at me.
“Are you feeling better, Mom?” she asked.
It took me a moment to remember that when she left that morning—a pocket of time that already seemed ripe with age to me—I had been throwing up in the bathroom.
“I am,” I said and smiled. Not exactly a lie.
“You look a little tired,” she said, cocking her head in worry.
“I’ll be fine, Kate, really,” I said. “So how was your day?”
She sat down in a chair across from me and told me about the math test she took, what the cafeteria had for lunch that day, and that Shelley Gifford had let a boy kiss her behind the gym. She was properly disgusted, and I couldn’t help but smile. And feel relieved, if only for a moment. Her innocence and naiveté were so soothing to me. I hated her knowing and understanding what had happened to me. I didn’t want her to know I was pregnant on top of everything else.
The phone rang then, and Dan poked his head around the doorway.
“It’s your mom,” he said, communicating with his eyes a reminder of what we had agreed to on the way home: Tell no one. I could tell he was wondering if that meant our parents too. I didn’t know what to communicate back to him with my own eyes. How could I know? We were making this up as we went along.
“I’ll take it upstairs,” I said, leaving him to hang up the other end and wonder.
My mom had called almost every day since the attack. She and my stepdad, Stuart, had been on an archaeological dig in Egypt when they got word that I had been hurt. They both wanted to drop everything and come to Minnesota, but I had insisted they stay at the excavation and finish. Just the week before, they had returned to their home in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
“Claire, it’s Mom,” she said like she always does. I’ve always thought that funny. Like she thought I wouldn’t know her voice.
“Hey Mom, how’s it going?” I said, stretching out on Dan’s side of the bed in our bedroom.
“Well, that’s what I was going to ask you,” she said, like she was disappointed I had asked her first.
“I’m doing okay.”
“We’ve got everything settled here at the University. We don’t have to go back out in the field for a while,” she said. “Why don’t we come out and see you kids?”
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her. I did. I just didn’t want company. Not yet. And that’s what Stu was to me. I was fond of Stu, but he was a part of my mother’s life after me. She met him when I was away from home as a freshman in college, and they were married that same year. Stuart was incredibly smart and funny and a gifted archaeologist, but he still felt more like a gentle hearted, next-door neighbor than a stepdad. I didn’t want him in the inner circle of those who knew the worst about what happened, even though I knew he already was. We were good friends. I thought having them visit me for the sole purpose of sharing my trauma would alter that.
“Mom, I’m doing fine. Really I am,” I answered. “You’re coming at Thanksgiving, and the kids will be out of school then. There really isn’t a whole lot to do, what with Dan at work all day and the kids in school.”
“We wouldn’t be coming up to do things,” she said, a bit miffed. “We would be coming up to be with you.”
“Mom, I just want my life to get back to the way it was,” I said with a sigh. “I need for it to. And so do Dan and the kids. I need for things to be normal. It isn’t normal for you to come in October.”
“I feel like we’ve done nothing to help you,” she said after a pause. “I hate being this far away when there’s trouble.”
She was sniffling. And no doubt remembering the miscarriages and that she had been in Israel and Cyprus with Stuart at some of my darkest hours.
“Why don’t you come here for a few days?” she said. “You could just watch the leaves fall and not think about anything.”
I had to admit that was the first thing she had said that sounded tempting.
“I’ll think about it, Mom,” I said. “I promise I will.”
“You could bring Katie. It could be just us girls. We could send Stu and Matt on a dig in Tibet.”
I couldn’t help smiling. She was joking, of course, but the funny part was that both Stuart and Matt would’ve jumped at the invitation. My brother, Matthew, had taken to Stu like a duck to water. He had always loved looking at Stu’s artifacts and digging around in the buried remains of a four-thousand-year-old hut. He didn’t remember our father at all, and by the time my mom met Stu, Matt was fifteen and starving for a father figure. Matt was now a professor of ancient cultures at the University of Michigan, the same place where Stuart taught budding archaeologists. To be truthful, I was probably a little jealous of their close relationship. Matt called Stu “Dad,” and I still just called him “Stu,” even though he was never anything but kind and gracious to me.
“Let me think about it, okay?” I said.
“You’re not back at school, are you?” she suddenly asked.
“No, I’m still on leave. And I will talk to Dan about Kate and me coming out.”
“All right,” she replied and then felt the urge to add: “Claire, you should just take a break from teaching this year. You really should. You’ve been through so much.”
“I might do that. Dan and I talked about it today.”
“Well, there you go,” she said. “I think that’s wise. Well, I better be off. Matt is coming over for supper, and I don’t have a thing in the house.”
“Not even a date for him?” I said, sitting up on the bed and feeling content that I could share this long-standing joke that my mom was a persistent, though unsuccessful, matchmaker for my thirty-four-year-old single brother.
“Oh, Claire, that’s not funny,” she said, but I knew she was grinning. “If I could just bury an intelligent girl in the sand, and he could dig her up, all my dreams would come true.”