“What, with two fuckin’ jobs?” he scoffed. The grapevine was still alive and well in Bensonhurst, I thought. That figured. But it was none of his business that I had been throwing more into the pot at home and squirreling away deposit money for NYU.
“I need the money,” I repeated.
He hesitated again. I could almost hear the wheels turning in that dense head of his. I knew he’d never suggest selling my bracelets to get the money, and I hadn’t considered that because if he had found out I did, he would have a reason to confront me. I knew the day would come when I would get rid of them—maybe I’d toss them off the Brooklyn Bridge, I had thought—but it hadn’t arrived yet. Tony broke the long silence. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You better, ’cause this is serious.”
“Okay, okay,” Tony muttered. “Come over to the house in a coupla hours.”
My already queasy stomach did flip-flops when I showed up at Tony’s door. I knocked and Philip answered. I gazed at his sad face. With his scruffy beard and bloodshot eyes, he didn’t look too good, as usual. “Is Tony here?” I asked.
“He hadda go out,” Philip said. I was about to cry again. “Did he leave somethin’ for me?” I blurted. And then rage started to build within me. How could Tony put me in this position? I wondered. Having to ask for the money from his father. I was pregnant and didn’t want to see much of anybody, least of all someone in Tony’s family. It was hard enough to explain to Mom and Grandma why I was crying so much. I had never been a liar growing up and I hated having to lie again as I had for months. A lot about me had changed since I’d met Tony, I thought. I had to change back to the person I was before, I vowed. But I had to get past my crisis first.
Philip reached into his pants pocket and took out a wrinkled envelope. He handed it to me and I took it with trembling fingers. “Do you want to come in for some iced tea?” he asked. His gesture struck me as sad, and for a moment I felt sorry for him. His world, probably the only one he’d ever know, was confined to a leather armchair, dark bars, and smoke-filled card rooms. But I never wanted to see or be inside that house again. “No, thanks,” I said, stuffing the envelope into my purse.
“Do you have a message for Tony?” Philip asked.
“No, I don’t,” I lied once more. I resented what Tony had just put me through. He was such a coward, I thought. He couldn’t even face me but I just wanted to be rid of everything that had anything to do with him. I wanted to tell him that but I turned around and walked away. I was relieved it was over.
I headed for the subway and when I sat down on a molded plastic seat, something told me to open the envelope. The distress about what I had faced came right back when I found one hundred dollars in it. My rage returned then—how could Tony be such a creep? I asked myself. How? And how would I get over my ordeal? I decided I had no choice but to ask Janice if she could loan the rest of the money to me.
On the way home, I had an overwhelming urge to light a candle. I took a familiar detour to Our Lady of Guadalupe.
I looked up at the cross outside the church as I always did, but went to the pew in front because I wanted to be closer to the Blessed Mother. I knelt before Her statue and prayed as I had never done before. The last time I had looked at Her, I recalled, was after Tony had taken my virginity in his parents’ bed. The thought of that in church made me want to die inside. I adored the Blessed Mother and believed in Her, and felt ashamed about my recent past and my current condition. But I knew that She would help me and answer my prayers.
When I had finished asking Her for guidance, I went to light a candle for my family and my troubles and for the horrific decision that confronted me. Father Rinaldi came into the sanctuary and walked over when he saw me lighting a match. As always, he looked wonderful. “Hello, Father,” I said.
“Hello, Samantha. Isn’t it nicer here than in a hospital?” he asked.
“Sure is, Father.”
“How are you, child?”
I turned away from him and my hand shook as I lit a candle. “Everything’s good,” I said, and then admonished myself. How dare I lie in church! And to the purest of men! Hadn’t I sinned enough already? I decided if I was going to change, I had to start right there. I blew out the match and turned back to the priest. “Father, I need to talk with you … about … my condition.”
“What condition?”
I was afraid and felt as if the entire world was listening to me at that very moment. I cast my eyes down to the marble floor. “Father … I’m pregnant. And I don’t want to be. I never wanted to get rid of something more in my life.” I looked into his face and knew I had said something terrible to that holy man.
Father Rinaldi pursed his lips and put his sure hand on my shoulder. “Let’s talk by our Blessed Mother,” he said. “She will guide us.” He took my hand and led me back to the pew across from the statue. His voice and his touch soothed me.
“Is Tony Kroon the father?” the priest asked when we had sat down.
“Yes.”
“Do you love him?”
“Not anymore. I was crazy to ever get mixed up with him.”
“The church and I will help you and your child.” He offered assistance, I thought, instead of reminding me that he had told me to stay away from Tony. He’s so good, I said to myself. I wanted to be more like him—honest and pure and selfless. But I also knew that no matter how wrong an abortion was, I could not have a baby, least of all one with a crippled soul like Tony’s. I just could not. I squirmed in my seat. “Has he hurt you?” Father Rinaldi asked.
I looked away. “Yes, Father. In many ways. I’ve been wronged and done wrong and that’s why I know I can’t keep it, not under these circumstances; besides, who will take care of my sick mother and grandmother? They need me more than this baby. I just want to make this a bad memory and go on with my life … I need the money to get rid of it, you’re my only hope at this point.” I could tell that Father Rinaldi was beside himself, caught up in his own fear of me even asking such a thing.
“Samantha, the church … me … I cannot give you money for an abortion. It would be unethical. I mean the mere word can strike me dead. It is not our belief.”
I just frantically hung on to his sleeve. “Well, it’s the only belief I have, Father, will you help me? I beg of you … I have to be rid of this and the life that I once had with this person. I’ve been hurt way too much.”
“Samantha, you are straining me so here. My heart bleeds for you and your thoughts. Do you hear what you are asking of me, as a holy man of the most highest? We must do confession immediately. These horrible thoughts have to leave you.”
“I don’t care about confession, I just want to be rid of this baby, I am sorry … so sorry.” I had cried so much I couldn’t feel my eyes any longer. I was so desperate.
“An abortion is a mortal sin, Samantha,” Father Rinaldi said. “The Church cannot condone that.” He squeezed my hand. “That’s not the answer, child. You must seek strength from our Holy Mother.” I turned back to him and to those eyes that had never lost their luster. “She will help you with what it is you must do,” Father Rinaldi said, and he guided my head to his shoulder. I clutched his black sleeve tighter as my tears of desperation and humiliation fell upon it.
We stood in front of Mary for over an hour, but who was thinking about time when I was consumed with a way out of this? I never stopped begging him to help me. Finally, in my last breath of hope and despair, I gazed upon him one last time.
“Wait here.” Father Rinaldi left to go to the rectory and, after what felt like an eternity, slowly came back with a look of death and despair covering his face. He leaned into me, grabbing me with all of his might, and placed something into my pocket. I looked at him knowingly and ran out of the church as fast as I could. A poor man was left clenching his fists in his heart and falling to his knees in front of Mary.
I had no time to think of what I had done.
It was a gloomy day and dark clou
ds filled the skies when Janice and I came up from the subway on Third Avenue in downtown Brooklyn, a stone’s throw from the bridge that seemed to be collapsing before me. I was so ashamed that I had even thought of asking Father Rinaldi, but by then Janice knew everything, and she had given me the last two hundred dollars.
We had forgotten an umbrella and the skies opened up after we had walked the few blocks to the abortion clinic and stood facing the all-white brick building on Thirty-ninth Street. A group of picketers held up signs proclaiming death for the abortion doctors. There was an array of detailed photos carried by these protesters with sayings such as “Don’t kill your baby” and “Let us help.” Yeah, right, I thought. Everyone was going to help me. I was in my own hell and had already chosen what I was going to do to put out the fire. At no point did I ever intend to keep this child. As religious as I was, Mother Mary would somehow have to forgive this sin. I could not raise Tony’s child; I would have hated the child and what I would eventually become. I knew this for sure.
When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be …
I pushed my way through the crowd with Janice following close behind as the words of the Beatles song swirled in my head, trying to keep me calm.
“Don’t be a murderer!” a woman screamed when I approached the door to the clinic. The door opened and I took the hand of a clinic worker who pulled me inside.
Someone handed us towels to dry off before we took seats in the crowded waiting room. By the traumatized look on all the faces, I assumed the pressure of the picketers outside must have gotten to everyone. Most of them were slumped in their chairs, staring blankly straight ahead.
“Wilson,” a nurse called out. A skinny black girl who couldn’t have been older than thirteen stood up and looked as if she’d have found a firing squad preferable to what she was facing. She disappeared behind a door as I took a clipboard from the unsmiling receptionist. “Fill in both sides,” the gray-haired woman told me. “Do you have cash?”
I nodded. “Do you want it now?”
The nurse reached a hand under the glass window as I pulled the three hundred-dollar bills from a wrinkled envelope. Tony’s comment at the racetrack months before about milk money bubbled up from my memory as I handed over the precious bills that could have been spent on better things. I tossed the empty envelope into a trash receptacle and went to a seat with Janice to fill out the questionnaire and waiver forms. I was grateful for the distraction; I didn’t think I could handle any conversation. I felt so afraid and ashamed of myself, I thought I’d burst into tears if she tried to console me.
I returned the forms to the receptionist and the woman motioned me through a door. After a wistful glance at Janice, who gave me a tentative thumbs-up sign, I walked into a back room where they took my blood and checked my blood pressure. Then I went to the ladies’ room to give them a urine sample so they could make sure I was pregnant. Afterward, I went back out to sit beside Janice, praying that it was all a mistake, that I had gotten a false positive and that the nausea had been caused by the upheaval in my life. But no such luck.
“Bonti,” a woman called out with a Spanish accent half an hour later. I hugged Janice and got up to cross a bridge of a different kind.
Janice pulled my arm. “It’s almost over and you can start again,” she whispered. “You’re gonna be okay, Sam.”
I choked back tears as I joined a nurse in a consultation room, awaiting a counseling session that never came. Instead, she recited instructions in a monotone voice. “Here’s the key to your locker, number sixteen. We’ll be giving you some gas …” The nurse quickly corrected herself. “I … mean sodium pentothal.” “Gas” made me think of Grandma’s stories about Auschwitz. “I wouldn’t think about driving anywhere right after,” the nurse continued. “Is someone here who can help you?”
“My friend is waiting for me,” I said. What if I were alone then? I wondered. Thank God for Janice, I thought. The nurse gathered some papers and opened the door. “Will it hurt?” I managed to squeak out.
“Oh, not much,” the nurse said. “You’ll probably have a little discomfort, but I wouldn’t worry about it.” I wouldn’t either if I were standing where you are, I thought. I’d heard doctors talk about discomfort before, a softer word for the shitload of pain I was expecting. But didn’t it serve me right? I chastised myself. How dumb had I been to get myself into this position?
The nurse directed me to an elevator and I went up one floor to a hallway of lockers. The walls were dingy, the metal lockers were scratched with unintelligible graffiti, and mine had what looked like pink Teaberry chewing gum stuck around its lock. I fought a powerful urge to cut and run.
I didn’t want to kill a baby, my baby. I believed it was a sin. But what other choice did I have? I tormented myself.
Several women were doing what I was doing—fumbling in front of an assigned locker and avoiding looking at anyone. They were alone with their thoughts, which probably included the men who were waiting in comfort while they suffered. That didn’t seem fair to me. I saw Tony’s face in my mind’s eye, the father of the seed that was growing inside me. He was already the worst boyfriend in the world, not really caring for me at all. It was all about him, I knew. He didn’t and couldn’t love anyone. I knew he would make a terrible parent.
I took off my white T-shirt and peach-colored pants, folded my clothes with care, and placed them in the locker. I removed the blessed mother I always wore around my neck, kissed it, and put it in my purse, which I then placed on the shelf. My throat felt thick and I trembled as I put on a thin, honeycombed blue robe and paper slippers and dropped the key into a pocket.
Another nurse appeared and ushered me down the hall to a small, cold room in a row of rooms that probably looked the same and had the same purpose. I felt weak and hopeless as I looked around. I wished I were getting ready for a facial instead of a revolting procedure. It appeared that all the girls were lined up, like an assembly line. It had to be the most degrading thing I ever had endured. The ominous steel table with stirrups waiting for my feet dominated the room, and the instrument packets and needles on metal stands glowed in the harsh overhead lights. I shivered.
The nurse left and I took off my robe, put on the paper skirt and torso cover she had handed to me, sat on the table, legs dangling over the side, and faced the door. It had been left ajar, and I caught glimpses of clinic personnel and heard them rushing in and out of doors like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. But I knew I wasn’t in some fairy tale.
The nurse who had brought me to the room came back and prepared me for the procedure without saying much. With curt commands, she instructed me to lie down and put my feet in the stirrups. “The doctor will see you now,” she said when she had finished, and she left the cold room.
She returned a moment later with a young, good-looking man with short, brown hair and a white coat who stood over me without an introduction. “Relax and breathe.” He tapped my arm for a fresh vein and inserted the sodium pentothal. I so wanted to see my grandmother, the woman who had loved and nurtured me so much, standing in the corner of the procedure room. I wanted to tell her I was sorry.
I gritted my teeth as I contemplated all that I had done over the previous months, the mess I had made of things. My mind raced, flitting wildly from one heartache to another, and then for some reason it settled on Psalm 23. I had first discovered it when I was thirteen in a Bible at church. This felt right. The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …
I had a hard time opening my eyes. Was something wrong? I wondered. Had they decided I was too young for an abortion? My memory of my mother’s words when she was trying to scare me had all come true: Lifebuoy soap and a wire hanger my mother ha
d used for her first two abortions on a kitchen table and a few hot towels. She was lucky to still be alive. I guess it was only fair that history would repeat itself and bestow that ungratefulness upon me. Would I have to face my mother and grandmother and tell them the truth? I tried to clear the fog that filled my head. I needed to find a button to contact the nurse and explain to her that I had to have an abortion, and then I felt a searing pain below.
As I made sense of what had happened, I was wheeled into recovery. I wasn’t pregnant anymore. It was over, but I sure as hell still felt terrible. I sat up too fast and vomited all over my scrubs. My stomach roiled and I had a putrid taste in my mouth. I really wanted a drink of water but that wasn’t permitted. The nurse changed me quickly and left the room. A thin stream of blood ran down my leg.
I wiped the blood and changed my sanitary pad with a new one the nurse had left for me. I felt dizzy, weak, and very cold. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there and stand under a warm shower but my head was spinning. Take it easy, I told myself, and I took my time lying down on the cold, hard surface.
I wondered how long they would leave me there. When would someone come back? What if I passed out? What if I bled to death? I fretted. It was a possibility, I reasoned, because the clinic was so busy.
Forty-five minutes later, I couldn’t bear the torment any longer and decided to leave. I took my time sitting up and putting on my robe and slippers, and then I moved on shaky legs out of the room and down the hall. I leaned against my locker for a moment and wished it were the one at New Keiser High.
Brooklyn Story Page 26