“Beautiful,” I said. It was the best two hundred and fifty dollars I had ever spent. Actually, it was the only two hundred and fifty dollars I had ever spent on anything, besides Will’s garage door.
“Okay! Your turn!” She dove onto the floor and reached under her bed. She pulled out a square box wrapped in shiny red paper and adorned with an elaborate bow. “Here,” she said, handing me the box. “I’m afraid it’s not as nice as your gift.”
“Don’t even say that,” I scolded her, sitting down on the bed with the box on my lap. I removed the bow, being careful not to damage it, and handed it to her. “I want to save that.”
Heather giggled and took the bow from me. I worked at opening the red paper at the taped seams, lifting the tape off slowly, trying not to tear it.
“Oh, just get on with it!” Heather cried out, ripping the paper frantically, destroying all my hard work.
“Hey, I wanted to save the paper,” I said.
“I’ll give you the leftover roll. Just open it!” I thought she may actually pee her pants from excitement—Heather loved giving gifts just as much as she loved getting them.
I popped the top off the unwrapped box. “Oh…” Inside was a book. On the cover was a picture of Heather and me in our bathing suits, standing on a dock. I knew that about two seconds after this picture was taken, Heather would turn and push me into the lake, cannonballing in after me. “How did you—”
“I made it online,” she said. “That’s why the whole cover is the picture. You can do all kinds of cool things online. Here, open it.” She pulled the cover open to reveal the first page. On it, in beautiful script, was written: For Lenna, My Best Friend and Sister Always. Love, Heather.
After reading her inscription, I turned the page. The first pictures inside were of us when we were ten—shortly after I first met Heather—at her birthday party. Heather was wearing a shamefully poofy pink dress and sitting in front of her pink cake. I sat next to her, smiling at her, not the camera. And next to me sat Will—smiling at me, not the camera.
I turned the page to reveal the next set of pictures. These were of us at our school’s Field Day. Heather had won a few ribbons that day. I hadn’t won any (I was never very athletic) and she had given me one of hers. I held it up proudly in one of the pictures, as though I had actually won it.
I turned the page again, and the next set of pictures were of Heather, Will, and me at the lake. Heather’s mom had taken the picture of the three of us laying on our towels in the grass. That was the day I had cut my foot on a razor-sharp rock on the shoreline. I remembered Will’s face when he had seen my foot bleeding—like he thought I might die or something. He had raced to our parents and told them what had happened. The cut turned out to be little more than a scratch, but he seemed pretty shaken up the rest of the day.
A drop of water fell on the page. “Oh no,” I said, wiping the page with my sleeve. I hadn’t realized I was crying.
“That’s okay,” said Heather. “It just adds to the book.”
“No.” I shook my head and wiped the tears from my face. “No, I ruined the page.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just a little drop.”
“I’m so stupid. I ruin everything.” And with that, I put the book aside and buried my face in my hands.
Heather wrapped her arms around me and rocked us in a maternal way. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Everything’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” I sobbed.
“Of course it is,” she insisted.
“No, you don’t understand.” I pulled away from her. “I don’t think you’re going to want to be my friend anymore.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“And I’ll understand,” I added. “I won’t be mad.”
“I’ll never not want to be your friend. How could you say that?”
“Because,” I buried my face in my hands, “I did something really stupid.”
“I’ve done lots of stupid things. And you’re still my friend.”
“But everyone will know about what I’ve done,” I cried. “And it will be embarrassing for you to be around me.”
“I don’t care what other people think,” she said, and I knew she was telling the truth. “Just tell me what you’re talking about, and we’ll work through it.”
I looked up at her understanding face. “I’m pregnant.”
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Then her face grew sad. In the short period of time she sat there staring at me, I tried to decipher her every emotion and predict whether she would still want to be my friend. It was impossible—I was no good at reading people. Obviously. Finally, she looked away and sighed deeply. “That explains a lot.”
I nodded in agreement.
“How long have you been pregnant?”
“About eight weeks.”
I could see her trying to think back eight weeks, trying to figure out what had been going on at that time. “I went to a Halloween party with Brittany,” I told her. “Aidan Bettner was there.”
“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. “Is he the father?”
I nodded. “Yes, but he doesn’t want the baby, of course. He tried to get me to have an abortion.”
Her face crinkled up in disapproval. “Are you?”
“No! Never!” I couldn’t believe she asked me that. Actually, I guess I could believe it. “I’m putting the baby up for adoption.”
She nodded. “What about your parents?”
“They’re being really supportive,” I said. “It only happened once and they believe me. It was just a mistake.” I hadn’t meant to sound defensive, and I hoped she didn’t take it that way. I just wanted to know what was going on in her head. Was she mad or disappointed or disgusted? I guessed she could have been all three.
“I believe you too.”
“You do?”
“It’s not my place to judge you, Lenna.”
“Yeah, but everyone else will. And they’ll judge you for being friends with me. They might even think you do the same things as me if they see us together. I don’t want this to affect you at all.”
She nodded, deep in thought. “Yeah, some people might feel that way.”
I started crying again. “So,” I said. “I’ll just leave you alone then.” She looked up at me, like I had just startled her out of a deep sleep or something. I picked up the book. “Is it okay if I keep this?” I asked, gripping it to my chest. “It’s so special to me, and I’d like to have something to remember you—”
“Lenna!” she exclaimed, seemingly on the verge of laughter. “For goodness sake, just give me a moment to process all of this!” She grabbed my arm and pulled me back down on the bed next to her. She giggled. “Stop being such a drama queen. ‘I’d like to have something to remember you by,’” she mimicked me, still giggling. “You’re so silly.”
I gawked at her. “How can I not be a drama queen? Did you hear what I said? I’m pregnant!”
“Yeah, I heard you. And yeah, that sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“But, it’s not the end of the world,” she said, her ubiquitous smile back in its rightful place.
“I’m just worried about what people will think when they see you with me, and my stomach’s all huge and fat, and they’ll be all like, ‘Look there goes that slutty girl, Lenna. I bet her friend is just as slutty as she is.’”
Heather laughed. “You’re so paranoid. Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean people will think you’re a slut.”
“Yeah, right.”
“And just because I’m friends with you does not mean people will think any less of me. And if they do, I don’t care anyway because I know who I am. And I know who you are.”
“Who am I?” I asked her. “Because I just don’t know anymore.”
“Maybe you should ask God that. Not me.”
“I don’t feel like talking to God these days,” I finally confided in someone. “And I don’t think he wants to talk to me e
ither.”
Heather frowned. “That’s worse than you being pregnant. How can you get through this without God?”
I forced a smile and grabbed her hand. “I have you.”
She shook her head soberly. “That’s not enough. Not even close. God’s calling you, Lenna.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not,” I repeated with more emphasis. “I’m sure he’s disgusted with me for what I did, and that’s why he’s putting me through this.”
Heather shook her head. “You are so wrong.”
“How do you know?”
“Cause I know God, and he’s not the vindictive type. He’s using this to call you to him.”
“You just don’t understand.”
“Yes, I do. I see things so clearly. God’s all like, ‘Lenna, pick up the phone.’” She held her thumb and pinky up to her ear like a telephone. “And you’re all like, ‘No, God. I’m too busy being angry and pitying myself.’”
“Hey,” I butted in, offended not just at her words, but at her terrible deep-voiced impersonation of me.
She ignored me. “And God’s all, ‘But I’m not angry. I miss you.’ And you’re all, ‘No you don’t. You’re such a meanie,’ hurting God’s feelings. And God’s all—”
“Enough!” I called out, ending her imaginary conversation. “I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I do.”
She stared at me. “Then let’s pray together.”
My stomach knotted up. “I better get home. My parents are waiting for me.”
She nodded. “Uh-huh. You’ve always been a terrible liar.”
I rolled my eyes. “And you do a terrible impersonation of me.”
“I think it’s spot on.”
~ ~ ~
Christmas at home was quiet. Normally my grandparents would have made the two hour drive to spend it with us, but my grandma had just had hip surgery and was still recovering. I was relieved they couldn’t come. I didn’t want to see the looks on their faces when they found out about my pregnancy, though they might have already known.
My mom spent the whole day cooking a rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, roasted veggies, and pumpkin pie—our traditional Christmas dinner. After opening our gifts that morning, my dad and I sat on the couch in front of the fire watching A Christmas Story, or at least trying to watch it. The sounds of my mom banging pots and pans around, running the mixer, and yelling out “shoot” every time she burned a finger or cut herself invaded the living room. I asked her several times if she needed help, but she consistently said no; the kitchen was her domain, and she was a total control freak when it came to cooking.
My dad and I sat about a foot apart through most of the movie until toward the end, I finally built up enough courage to close the gap between us and lay my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me and sighed. After a minute, I realized how quiet it was. I turned around to look into the kitchen and make sure my mom hadn’t slipped and hit her head or something. She was okay; she was just standing there, a spatula in one hand dripping some white goop all over the floor, watching us with a goofy smile on her face. I smiled at her and turned back to the movie.
Next thing I knew, she was standing in front of us with her camera. “Say Merry Christmas,” she said, and we obeyed as the camera flashed.
“This is a picture for your frame, Lenna,” she said, walking back into the kitchen.
“Really?” I asked, not excited at the prospect of my tired, already bloating face being forever memorialized in the frame I had gotten them for Christmas. It was a small, silver-plated frame with Love, Lenna inscribed on it. I had wanted to write To My Mom and Dad. Love, Lenna, but nine letters were all I could afford after buying that necklace for Heather. I had also wanted to buy an eight by ten frame but ended up with a four by six. It was a pitiful gift, but my parents seemed touched by it. Then again, it didn’t take much to do that.
They had gotten me a new scarf, silver bracelet, and matching earrings. My mom usually went crazy buying me new winter clothes at Christmas, but that would have been silly this year; they wouldn’t even fit me in another month or so.
“I love my scarf, daddy,” I said, my head still lying contentedly on his shoulder.
He gave me a quick squeeze. “Good. Not that I had anything to do with picking it out.”
“You don’t think I know that?” I looked up at him and smiled.
“If I had gotten it, it probably would have been frilly pink with little fairies or princesses…” His voice faded away. “Or something like that,” he added in a whisper. My stomach tightened, and I turned back to the movie.
“Why don’t you two get cleaned up for dinner?” my mom called out from the kitchen. “It will be ready in ten.”
I left my dad on the couch and walked up to my room. I washed my face, brushed my hair, and even put on some lip gloss. I removed the pajamas I had been wearing all day and put on a pair of jeans and a sweater. I also put on my new earrings and bracelet. I looked at myself in the mirror. I liked the jewelry, but it was impossible to get excited about anything these days. I turned away from myself, grabbed my new scarf and tore the tags off. It was probably eighty degrees in the house from the combination of both ovens being on—which only happened at Christmas and Thanksgiving—and the fire in the living room, but I wrapped my new scarf around my neck anyway. I picked up the end and admired the striped, colorful pattern my mom had chosen.
I made my way to the dining room, where my mom was putting the last of the dishes on the table. “Everything looks delicious, mom. Thanks for all your hard work.”
She smiled. “You know I love to do it.” She reached up to touch my earrings. “They look nice.”
“Thanks.” I took my seat and waited for my parents with my hands folded under my chin. I gazed out the dining room window where the gray sky was already turning to black. It never snowed on Christmas, and this year was no exception.
My dad, clean shaven and wearing a blue, button-down shirt, finally entered the dining room. “You look nice, dad,” I said.
“Thanks, sweetie. So do you.”
He and my mom took their seats at the large table. My dad sat at the head, and my mom and I sat on either side of him, opposite one another. I scanned down the table, taking in the ridiculous amount of food my mom had prepared for three people. Well, three and half, I guess.
“Lenna.” My mom looked at me, and my stomach rolled over. I knew what was coming. “Why don’t you pray this year?”
I took a deep breath. “Okay.” I tried to fight the nausea. The last thing I wanted was to be sick for my mom’s beautiful Christmas dinner. My mom and dad grabbed hands. I put one hand in my dad’s and reached across the table to put my other hand in my mom’s.
“Um…” I began. But nothing would come to me. It was like I had forgotten how to pray. It was that wall—the wall I had built to close myself off from God. I couldn’t even make myself do it under pressure.
“Dear Lord,” my dad began in my place, but I didn’t listen to the rest of the prayer. Instead, I thought about the things Heather had told me the day before—how God was calling me and wanted me to talk to him. She had been wrong. I couldn’t even pray.
“Amen,” my parents said in unison, and I echoed them a second later.
After dinner, I told my parents I was tired, kissed them goodnight, and went up to my room, where I changed into my flannel pajamas and slipped into bed. I lay there for an hour, loneliness blanketing me like my flower-covered duvet. The emptiness—the nothing—that had been invading my soul for so long threatened to overwhelm me.
I reached under my bed and pulled out the small, purple, stuffed seahorse I had bought while doing my Christmas shopping. I didn’t know why I bought it. I pushed the button on its tail. A soft lullaby rang out from the baby toy. I laid the seahorse on my belly.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered to my baby and cried myse
lf to sleep.
~ ~ ~
Christmas ended, and I looked forward to the solace of being able to confine myself in my bedroom for nearly two more weeks. I looked forward to this more than I had looked forward to Christmas itself—nobody at school or youth group staring at me, wondering what the heck was wrong with me. Nobody asking me, “Lenna, where have you been?” or “Lenna, is everything okay?” Nobody expecting anything good or productive out of me.
My parents left me alone over the break, except for my mom trying to get me to do things I didn’t want to do. My mom tried get me to look over the adoption files with her. I asked her to read them and give me a summary at the end. She seemed disappointed. I reminded her that Melissa told us we could move at our own pace, whatever was comfortable for us. And I was comfortable moving at a tranquilized sloth’s pace.
My mom tried to get me to go to an adoption support group. I made it as clear to her as I could that I did not need a support group—I was handling this whole thing just fine on my own. My mom tried to get me to read those stupid baby books. My mom tried to get me to go to church. My mom tried to get me to pray with her. Why couldn’t she just see that all the things she was trying to get me to do interfered with the things I was trying to do: sleep, cry, and stare out my window for long intervals.
And then, when I tried to get my parents to do something—let me take the spring semester off of school so I could continue wallowing in my depression in the privacy of my own home—they became furious. They weren’t going to let me hide from this.
Yeah, right. Like I ever could.
Chapter 9
Winter is cold, dreary, and dark, which pretty much summed up my mood as I stared out the Chemistry room’s window at the gray clouds, wishing I were anywhere else. I was growing weary of Brittany’s daily interrogations, which had been consistent since we had gotten back from winter break six weeks ago. Thank God we only had one class together.
The Day We Met Page 7