My Name is Kate and I Just Killed My Baby

by Duane L. Ostler

for what must have been an hour, using all my willpower to drive all other thoughts from my mind except the question of whether he'd made his plane. I knew I had to keep out all other thoughts in case he came back, since I simply could not afford to lose control in front of him.

  Finally I decided he must have made his flight. I now had the house to myself, at least for the time being. But now, without anything for my mind to concentrate on, Mom's words came back to me full force once more. Without even bothering to wash the smears off my face I flopped down on Clarice's bed and just lay there, sobbing helplessly once again. It was the same old, familiar bed that she and I had jumped and played on ever since we were little kids, and somehow it felt soft and comforting.

  But no amount of softness or comfort could erase my mother's words that kept leaping back into my mind. "You stopped its heart! You stopped its heartbeat! You stopped its heart!"

  Before I knew it I was smearing Clarice's pillow with my tears and streaky makeup. My hand was throbbing from where I'd belted Bob, but I didn't care. What was a little pain, anyway? I'd stopped a heartbeat! Surely that was far more painful!

  The sudden realization made me sit up on the bed. Did Jonathon feel much pain when I stopped his heart? How much did it hurt him? How much WOULD it hurt, to have your heart stop? And how could a living being with a heartbeat not feel pain? The enormity of these questions seized my mind, and I flopped back down, balling again for all I was worth. I had caused so much pain! ME! I had done it! I had forced Jonathon to experience agony and then death. There are no words to describe how low and disgusting this made me feel.

  Time drifted by in the odd way it does when we lose track of reality. I must have dozed eventually, sometime after my tears dried up and I found it hard to cry anymore. I vaguely remember waking up and being surprised to see it was dark outside. Why was it dark? What was I doing in Clarice's room? Why wasn't I home in my own bed, with Oscar nuzzling up to me and trying to wake me up like usual?

  And then the memory crashed around my ears as Mom's words once more echoed in my head. "You stopped its heart! You stopped its heart! You stopped its heart!" I found that my tear fountain had refilled, so Clarice's pillow was once more subjected to a salty deluge. I had never known I could feel so low or disgusting, or so completely worthless as a human being. After a long time, I mercifully dozed again.

  And then it was morning. A stupid bird was chirping away annoyingly at the window, with a sound that pounded in my dull brain like a power drill. I sat up suddenly and looked around. Once again I experienced a minute of disorientation, wondering what I was doing in Clarice's room. Then of course, reality came back to me once more, as did Mom's echoing words in my head.

  But I knew I couldn't just lie here and cry forever. Mom and Dad must be worried about me, since I'd stayed out all night. I'd never done that before. I hastily grabbed my bag and pulled out my phone, starting to dial. Only then did I discover why I had not heard any of the many phone calls they had no doubt tried to make to me through the night. My battery was dead.

  I went over to Clarice's phone and started to dial. Her battery was nearly gone too, but it looked like it had just barely enough juice in it to make one call. I had nearly dialed all the numbers when I suddenly hesitated. The image of Mom's horrified, agonized eyes came into my mind, along with the sight of my Dad's haggard face.

  I dropped the phone with a clatter. I couldn't call them. Not now. I knew I would have to eventually, but I just felt too weak to call right now. I just couldn't handle it.

  There was another reason for my weakness. I'd had no food since lunch yesterday in the school cafeteria, and even then I'd just picked at my food since I wasn't hungry. I headed for the stairs to go down to the kitchen, but stopped when I caught a glimpse of myself in Clarice's bathroom mirror.

  What a sight! My hair looked like it had been supercharged to stand straight up on end by multiple doses of electricity. My face was so blotchy and streaked and swollen it looked like the belly of a fat zebra. My eyes were bloodshot, and my makeup had smeared and shifted around so much it gave my face the appearance of a circus clown.

  So, for the next hour, I finally took care of myself and tried to repair the damage. I showered and then borrowed some of Clarice's clothes to wear (she wouldn't mind, and fortunately we were the same size). Then, noticing her streaked pillowcase and quilt I had messed up so badly last night, I took them down to be washed. I was disturbed to find a pile of dirty socks and other clothes belonging to Clarice's Dad on top of the washing machine, which the poor man had been clueless about how to wash. I threw in the whole load.

  After that I spent the next hour washing all the dishes he had amazingly dirtied since Clarice's mother left (every dish in the house--some of them multiple times!) and cleaned the kitchen. And then as if that weren't enough, I went on a real cleaning binge, going through the house and doing all the chores Clarice's mother usually did. Somehow mundane tasks such as washing and cleaning brought a feeling of normalcy back into my dull mind, and helped push out the horror of the last day.

  But one cannot clean forever. And by mid afternoon I had done all I could do. Mom's words "You stopped his heartbeat" started jumping around in my mind again, and I knew I couldn't just sit there and watch TV. I also knew I wasn't quite ready to go home yet, or even to call.

  What was I to do? School was almost over for the day. Clarice was obviously not home, so I couldn't see her. I would NEVER be seeing Bob again. I wasn't as close to my other friends, and didn't dare just show up at their house, since I knew they'd ask all kinds of questions about why I'd missed so much school lately, and why I'd been acting so dead when they saw me in the halls.

  So what was I to do? Where was I to go? Who could I turn to? My pastor? No. He would instantly tell my parents, and I wasn't ready for that. Aunt Minnie in Monroeville? No. She would just call up Dad.

  I'm not sure when the idea first came into my mind. It was a crazy idea, really. But in a way it wasn't crazy. It was the last place in the world I should have thought of going, yet in a bizarre sort of way, it was the most logical place for me to visit in light of all that had happened. After all, that doctor who'd called me before my abortion had seemed very kind and caring. Of course I'd left my car at home so I'd have to catch a bus to get there. But there were plenty of buses.

  I grabbed my purse and headed out the door, my mind fixed on going down to the abortion clinic.

  April 29

  If anyone other than me ever was to read this stinking journal, they'd think I have a sick mind. Why on earth would I go back to the scene of the crime? Why go to the abortion clinic where Jonathon was taken from me--where I'd stopped his heartbeat? You'd think that would be the last place in the world I'd want to go.

  But somehow, I was simply drawn to it. Maybe it was Jonathon, pulling me. Maybe it was a morbid sense of wanting to engage in self-torture by going back to the place where I'd done the most awful thing of my life.

  Or maybe, just maybe, I was simply searching for understanding and sympathy from people who shared my experience, and who knew about it. And I had no idea where else to find such people.

  It took a lot longer to get there on the bus than it did when I drove my car--almost two hours! But I had nothing better to do, and nowhere else to go so time really didn't matter anyway. I just sat on the bus, staring blankly out the window, seeing nothing. I tried my best to keep my mind from repeating what Mom had said about stopping Jonathon's heart, but it wasn't easy. I counted stop signs, red cars, out-of-state license plates, and even garbage on the side of the road in an effort to keep my mind busy and away from those awful words.

  And finally I was there. This time I didn't fuss or delay going in once I got there. I just walked right up and blazed in the door. My mind was too dazed to care anymore about appearances, so I felt no shame as dozens of women's eyes turned on me as I entered.
r />   "Can I help you?" asked the receptionist at the desk. Her simple smile made me feel better already, even though she was a different receptionist than before.

  "I'd like to talk to someone about my abortion," I said simply.

  She looked at me, confused. "You mean you want to talk to someone about having one?"

  "No, I've already had one," I said quickly, starting for the first time to feel a bit self conscious since everyone in the reception room was hearing every word I said. "I just want to talk to someone about it."

  She was still mystified. "Has there been an allergic reaction?" she asked. "Or do you want to talk about your bill?"

  "No, there's no reaction," I said in growing exasperation. "And the bill's been paid. I just wanted to talk about it. You know--about how to make sense of it, and everything."

  Now she understood. "Oh, I see," she said, looking down at her desk in momentary confusion. "Let me check with one of the nurses here and get back to you. Just have a seat. It won't be long."

  I scanned the room, looking for a seat as far away from everyone else as possible. I didn't want another "Dearie" lady talking to me and telling me about how wonderful an abortion was. Most eyes in the room looked at me with curiosity. No one said