by Lois Duncan
“I—I know what you’re saying,” Ann admitted. “Yesterday, in the science room, when I saw that stupid experiment of Gordon’s set up on the table as though it was so important—and I thought about Erika, missing out on her chance, just because she’s a woman—I got so angry.”
“Your anger wasn’t just for Erika, was it?” Irene prodded gently.
“It was for me, too. I’m missing my chance, too, because I’m a woman.”
“The baby won’t hold Dave down,” Irene said. “His life will keep on rolling along the way it always has.”
“It’s just not fair!”
“Gordon’s experiment no longer exists,” Irene reminded her.
“I watched Kelly smash it. At first I couldn’t believe what she was doing. Then when I heard the crash and saw the glass flying all over the place, it was like something was exploding inside of me.”
“You weren’t afraid then,” Irene said.
“No, I wasn’t. I grabbed up a rack with test tubes in it, and I started banging it against one of the tables. And the others—they were doing it, too—just banging and yelling! It was all so crazy! It wasn’t just for Erika—it was for me, for Laura, for Jane—for all of us!”
“That’s what sisterhood means,” Irene said. “We are all one. Your sisters’ pain is yours, and your pain is mine. That’s why I cannot bear to see you destroyed in this insidious way. Ann, listen to me—you cannot have this child!”
“I wouldn’t know how to go about—having it—taken care of.”
“You don’t worry about that. I can find out for you.”
“It wouldn’t have to be done here in Modesta, would it?” Ann asked nervously. “My mom knows so many people who work at the hospital.”
“There’s a clinic in Adrian. I’ll drive you. You can come back to my place afterward.”
“You sound like it’s all decided.”
“I think it is, isn’t it?” Irene said.
“No, not yet. I have to think about it. It’s too big to decide so quickly.”
“Fine, but you realize there isn’t much time,” Irene told her. “The sooner this can be done, the easier it will be. Every day that goes by increases the chances of problems. In another few weeks most doctors will refuse to help you at all.”
“I understand that, but I need to talk to Dave.”
“That is what you absolutely should not do,” Irene said firmly. “You’re under enough emotional pressure right now without giving him the chance to influence you further.”
“But it’s his baby, too!”
“It isn’t a baby at all.” Irene spoke slowly. “There will only be a baby if you permit there to be one. And that decision must be yours, not David’s.”
“It’s the most important decision I’ll ever make,” Ann said in a half whisper. “I don’t think I can make it alone.”
“You’re one of my girls, Ann,” Irene said gently. “As long as I’m here, you will never be alone.”
As she left the art room, Ann walked straight into Kristy Grange, who was hurrying down the hall. The two girls stumbled and clutched at each other for balance, and Kristy’s books tumbled to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Ann said, stooping to help gather them up. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Neither was I,” Kristy said. “Have you heard about what Mr. Shelby did?”
“No.”
“Niles told me just a couple of minutes ago. Coach Ferrara called a special meeting of the basketball team this morning. Mr. Shelby’s giving them money for new warm-up suits.”
“Where did it come from?” Ann asked.
“Where do you think? From our check! Not only that, but they’re getting new practice balls!” Kristy paused, and when there was no immediate response, said, “Don’t you get what I’m saying? He’s taken the money from the raffle and ignored the stipulation. There’s not going to be any girls’ soccer team—or any girls’ anything! The boys are getting every penny, just like they always have.”
“He can’t do that, can he?”
“He can’t, but he has. No wonder he wouldn’t talk to Paula yesterday. I’m going in to tell Irene about it now. We want to call a special meeting to discuss what we can do. We can’t let him get away with this, Ann!”
“I guess not,” Ann said.
“You guess not? What’s the matter with you?” Kristy said angrily. “Don’t you care?”
“I care,” Ann said. “I’ve just got something else on my mind right now.”
“You’ll be at the meeting?”
“No, I can’t. I’ve got to be by myself for a while and think.”
“I don’t get it,” Kristy said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull a Tammy and bail on us.”
“I’m not like Tammy,” Ann told her. “I wish I were. Tammy has feelings she can trust.”
She turned and started off down the hall, leaving Kristy staring after her.
Chapter 18
The first snow of the winter had arrived early and melted away quickly. Within twenty-four hours it had turned to slush and run off down the gutters, leaving children resentful and frustrated and adults relieved.
When it snowed again, things were different. Cell phones leaped into action as the children of Modesta called each other to spread the joyful tidings: “It’s sticking! It’s going to last!” Mr. Johnson arrived at his former home with shovel in hand to clear the front walk and driveway; Chris went outdoors to help her father, and Mrs. Johnson served them hot chocolate and homemade cookies. Eric Grange and his friends hauled out the sleds that had been stored in their garages since early springtime and sanded the rusted runners.
It was a wild, white world.
At a special meeting, the Daughters of Eve voted to send a letter to Mr. Shelby requesting that, if their contribution to the school athletic fund wasn’t going to be used as designated, it be returned to the club. Since the secretary, Ann Whitten, wasn’t at the meeting, Madison Ellis volunteered to write the letter.
She delivered it by hand to his box in the office.
Suddenly, with the second snowfall, Modesta came alive with the anticipation of Christmas. Colored lights appeared as if by magic in blinking strings down Main Street, and stores throbbed with the strains of “Silent Night” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” Salvation Army Santas materialized on street corners, tinkling their silver bells, and Mrs. Underwood hung a massive wreath of holly on her front door, explaining for the eighteenth season in a row, “This wreath means a lot to us! We named our own daughter after it.”
The Senior Honor Society was sponsoring the winter formal, which was to be held on Friday, December 15, the last day of school before the holidays.
“It’s such a shame Peter is sick,” Mrs. Ellis remarked sympathetically to her daughter. “It’ll be hard going to all the holiday parties without a date.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Madison told her. “I’m going to the dance with Craig Dieckhoner.”
Tom Brummell invited Kristy Grange.
Gordon Pellet invited Erika Schneider.
On Friday, December 8, the Daughters of Eve had a group dinner and early gift exchange. The get-together was held at Irene Stark’s apartment.
When Jane Rheardon returned home at 10:20 p.m., she found Mrs. Geiger, the woman who lived next door, waiting in the living room.
“Don’t take your coat off, Janie,” her neighbor told her. “You’re going to be going right out again. Your mom’s had an accident. She’s at the hospital.”
Jane froze, her hands poised over the second button of her jacket.
“What happened?”
“She was carrying dinner in from the kitchen and slipped on a spill,” Mrs. Geiger said. “She fell and hurt her hip.”
“Where’s my dad?” Jane asked.
“He’s already over there. They let him ride with your mom in the ambulance. He wanted to get hold of you, but he didn’t know where you were. He asked me to wait and b
ring you over to the hospital when you got home.”
“He knows my cell phone number,” Jane said.
“People get confused when they’re upset. Your poor daddy is about out of his mind, he’s so worried over your mom.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Jane said shortly.
Mrs. Geiger drove her to the hospital and went in with her. Mrs. Rheardon was in surgery when they got there. Jane’s father was in the waiting room, leafing through a magazine.
“It’s a fractured hip,” he told them. “They’re operating now to remove some bone chips that got wedged down into the joint socket.” He addressed himself to Jane. “She fell in the kitchen. There was grease spilled on the linoleum floor.”
She didn’t look at him.
“You know how careless your mother can be about things like that,” Bart Rheardon continued. “She never cleans things up when she ought to. It’s a wonder something like this hasn’t happened before now.”
They sat in the waiting room, Jane in silence, her father and Mrs. Geiger making stilted conversation, until a white-clad doctor came in to inform them that Ellen Rheardon was out of surgery and was being transferred to the recovery room.
Jane got up from her chair and went out into the hall. When her mother was wheeled past her, she stepped in close and stood, gazing down at the slack face.
The eyes were closed, the lashes a sooty fringe against the pale cheeks. The mouth hung open. The left side of the jaw was puffy and purple.
“Mom?” Jane said tentatively.
“She won’t be out from under for a while yet, honey,” one of the nurses said. “You’d best go on home and get some sleep and come back in the morning.”
Jane walked outside to use her cell phone.
“It’s Jane,” she said when a woman’s voice answered. “Irene, could I please come back to your place? My dad almost killed my mom, and I need somewhere to spend the night.”
Saturday, December 9, was a gray day, and cold. The snow, which had softened slightly the day before, had refrozen during the night, and the roads were slick and icy. Few people ventured out unless they had to.
Mrs. Schneider spent the morning happily snipping and stitching as she made adjustments to a formal dress they’d purchased for Erika to wear to the dance.
“I told you she had a boyfriend,” she told her husband with satisfaction.
At the Johnson home, Mrs. Johnson sat at the dining-room table, addressing Christmas cards. Kelly came and stood behind her, reading over her shoulder.
“Are you writing notes in all of them?”
“I thought I should. It’s one way to let out-of-town people know about your dad and me.”
“What about our tree?” asked Chris, who was sprawled on the sofa with a book. “Is Dad going to take us out to the woods to cut it?”
“What do you mean, ‘it’?” Kelly said. “You mean ‘them,’ don’t you? He’ll have to cut two trees. He’s got his own place to decorate.”
“Okay—‘them,’ ” Chris said mildly. “Is he, Mom?”
“I don’t know,” their mother said. “I was thinking about getting an artificial tree this year. There wouldn’t be those needles all over the rug, and after Christmas we could just collapse it and store it in the attic.”
“Sounds sensible,” Kelly said. “An artificial tree for an artificial family.”
“Kelly—” Mrs. Johnson lowered her pen and turned to look at her older daughter. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to find the right words.
“What is it?”
“I think—after Christmas—” Mrs. Johnson said slowly, “it might be good for us to get some professional counseling. All three of us, you and Chris and me. We’re not adjusting the way we should be.”
“You don’t mean ‘we,’ ” Kelly said. “You mean, I’m not adjusting. You and Chris are doing fine. You’re having a good time playing the martyr, and Chris is milking it to get more from both of you. If you think I’m going to go to some shrink so I can be more like you guys, forget it, Mom. I don’t want to be ‘adjusted.’ ”
“I just can’t bear to see you so bitter,” her mother said. “Other children seem to survive a divorce in the family and still keep on loving their parents and feeling good about their lives.”
“Other ‘children’ may not realize how terrible the world is,” Kelly said.
Late in the evening, more snow began to fall. Ann Whitten’s mother went out to the woodpile at the side of the house and brought in some logs and built a fire in the fireplace in the den. Mr. Whitten sat in front of it with his stocking feet propped up on a footstool, letting the flames warm his toes.
After a while, Ann, who’d been resting in her bedroom, came into the den, drawn by the scent of the burning wood. She dropped a light kiss on her father’s scratchy cheek and settled herself on the floor beside his chair.
“Feeling better now, baby?” he asked her fondly.
“Yes, a little, thanks. I must have eaten something weird at the potluck last night.”
“The stomach flu’s going around, I hear.”
“I guess it is.”
“David called twice already this morning,” Ann’s mother said. “He said he’s been trying your cell and just getting voice mail. I told him you weren’t feeling so good and were lying down awhile. He said for you to call back when you could.”
“I don’t feel up to it now,” Ann said. “I’ll call him later.”
“Is there something wrong between the two of you?” Mrs. Whitten asked her. “You haven’t been spending much time together lately. I thought winter was when farm people always had plenty of time free.”
“Lovers’ spat?” Ann’s father suggested playfully.
“No, nothing like that.”
Ann leaned her head against her dad’s side, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. The flames in the fireplace leaped and fell, and the orange light danced. Mrs. Whitten was knitting, and the click of the needles seemed to keep time with the crackle of the logs.
“This is going to be a sweater for your cousin Debbie’s baby, if I ever get it finished,” she said. “I’d forgotten how long it takes to make something with these little needles.”
“When’s Deb due?”
“Sometime in January.”
“Is she happy about it, do you think?”
“Your Aunt Bonnie writes she’s been in maternity clothes since her second month. So everybody would know. You know how Debbie was when she was little, always fussing over a cradle full of dolls. That girl’s never had a dream in her head except to be a mother.”
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Ann said, “You lost a baby, didn’t you, when I was around three? Do you think about it much?”
“I used to,” her mother said. “Not anymore, though. It’s been so long now.”
“Was it a girl or a boy?”
“I wouldn’t let them tell me. I thought if I knew I’d start seeing its face in my mind, looking in carriages and strollers at other people’s babies, thinking ‘That’s the way it would have looked if it had lived.’ It was easier not knowing. That way it didn’t seem so much like a real person.”
“Why did it die?”
“Who knows?” Mrs. Whitten said. “Doctors didn’t know as much about such things back then. I always figured God just didn’t mean for it to get born. His plan was to take it back with Him, and that’s how it was.” The knitting needles stopped clicking. “Is anybody ready for some lunch yet?”
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” Ann said.
“Is there any of last night’s stew sitting around out there?” Mr. Whitten asked.
“There sure is. Would you like me to heat you up a dish?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice to get a ‘yes’ to that one.”
The couple smiled at each other, and Mrs. Whitten set the knitting carefully down on the arm of her chair and got to her feet. A moment later they could hear the clank of pans in the kitchen.
&n
bsp; Mr. Whitten tightened his arm around his daughter’s shoulders.
“Annie,” he said softly, “this is your own life you’re leading. Nobody else can live it for you. You’ve got to decide things the way you think they’ll be best.”
Ann looked up at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what you think I mean.”
“How did you—know?”
“I’m your daddy. I’ve been around you a long time. I’m not likely to sit here blind when my daughter gets sick every morning and goes around looking like the world’s coming to an end.”
“Mom—?”
“She doesn’t want to know. That’s all right. Your mom has enough to worry about with me sick without taking on an extra other thing right now. She’ll stand by you, though. She’ll always be here to help you. The thing is, she can’t face it now to talk about.”
“What do you think I should do?” Ann asked him.
“I can’t tell you, Annie, and nobody else can either.”
“There’s a friend who thinks I ought to have an abortion.”
She expected a violent reaction, but she didn’t receive one.
“That’s one answer, I suppose,” her father said. “They’re safer these days. You can even go home the same day.”
“Do you think it would be wrong?”
“What I think doesn’t matter,” Mr. Whitten said. “It doesn’t matter what your mom thinks either, or what this friend of yours thinks. I don’t know about Dave. I guess what he thinks ought to matter some, but then again, maybe it shouldn’t. It all comes down to you. You’ve got to make a decision you can live with, and once you’ve done that, you’ve got to accept it and go on from there.”
“It’s not fair,” Ann said miserably. “Why do I even have to decide this? It’s because I’m a girl, that’s why! Look at all the guys out there, sleeping around, and not one of them ever has to worry about who ought to live and who shouldn’t get born.”