The ninth month, p.12
The Ninth Month, page 12
But all the boy does is shake his head. The look is not anger; it’s pity. He mouths some words. I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. Then he tries again. This time I get it.
“Be careful.”
I pat my stomach.
Not to worry. Not to worry. That’s right, bump. Mommy will always take care of you.
CHAPTER
34
IT’S A MIRACLE. IT really is.
At least it feels like a miracle to me. It’s not funny. It’s not crazy. I should not have arrived alive, but I did. And it makes me cry.
I make it safely down the East River Drive and actually make the turn off to 10th Street without crashing into anyone or anything. The bump and I are safe, but we are certainly not sound. I cannot drive another foot, another inch. To do so would be to challenge my incredible luck. I pull over and double park on First Avenue. I am at my parking garage, but I can’t pull in. I must stop. I turn the car off, and grab the flask from the car floor. There’s a tiny bit of vodka left. One slug. It’s gone. It’s sort of a celebration, right? But I’m still crying.
Then I hear the daytime parking attendant shouting.
“Miss A, are you okay? What happened to your car?”
I suddenly realize why he’s so concerned. My passenger-side door must be awfully scratched and dented from scraping against the guardrail.
“Oh, that? Uh… it was a hit-and-run,” I say. “Can you believe it?”
“How awful. Well, just leave it right there. I’ll pull it into the garage.”
“Wait just a sec. Let me get my things.” I almost said, Let me get my baby.
“Take your time, Miss Atkinson!” he yells.
“You are very patient with me,” I say. “Not everybody is.”
“It’s hard not to be nice to a lovely woman like you.”
Then I suddenly think… Lucky… the attendant’s name is Lucky. For some reason that makes me feel good. He’s Lucky, so I’m lucky.
He opens the car door for me.
“I’ll pull it into your usual space, Miss A,” he says.
See, everything is fine. Mommy had a little accident, but everything is fine. Bump is good and healthy.
I pat my belly. I take my time getting out of the car. Then, once I’m out, I stand still in that way that drunks have when they’re trying to pull themselves together.
I toss my head back. I straighten up. I take a few wobbly steps. Then I stop to watch Lucky drive my car through the garage entrance. A minute later he joins me on the sidewalk.
“Hey,” he says. “You left your pocketbook in the car.”
He hands it to me, and I say, “Thank you.”
I remove my phone, then hand the heavy bag back to Lucky.
“Hold on to this, will ya?” I say. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll get the bag when I get back.”
CHAPTER
35
THE FIRST FEW YARDS of my walk involve a lot of stumbling and pausing and stumbling some more, but then I seem to get my bearings. If I have a fear (and most drunks are fearless) it is simply that I’ll run into someone I know—a friend, an enemy, a buddy who might recognize me from a long-ago AA meeting.
I need a drink. But, in order to get a drink, I need a liquor store.
Damn it. Money. I don’t have any. I don’t have my wallet, either. Damn. Damn.
I must have left my bag in the car or the garage or someplace. Right? Yeah, that’s it. Maybe Lucky’s found it, and he’s rifling through it right now, stealing from me. I should go back and get it, but I can’t stop walking. What’s more, Lucky is one of the nicest people I know. What’s wrong with me? I’m surrounded by nice people—Lucky, Ted, Betsey, Frank—and I don’t appreciate them. They support me, encourage me, and I just can’t seem to handle it. Love? I was absent the day they taught that one.
I’m sort of near Ted’s Bar and Grill, but I don’t want Ted to see me like this. He’ll just lose it and then tell Betsey and she’ll be upset and… No, I’ll just keep moving. Plus, Ted knows that I was at my parents’ funeral, and he’ll have a million questions. He’s always asking me to talk about my childhood.
“C’mon, Em,” he’ll say. “Don’t keep it all inside. You never talk about old ma and pa. That can’t be healthy.”
Yeah, okay, Ted, I think. I’ll talk about them. I’ll talk about how relieved I was when I knew they wouldn’t be around anymore. Okay, a little sad, but mainly, relieved.
You see, Ted, if I talk about the past it’ll just break my heart. Hell, it might even break your heart.
I’ll tell you about how when I was eight years old, and they took me to Barcelona with them for an art fair, and how they were going to go to dinner with some important dealer, and said, “You order room service, Emily, and watch TV. We won’t be very late.”
What’s late? What’s very late?
I’ll tell you how they were gone for two days, that I was scared that they died or ran away, and I was left watching sitcoms in Spanish and ordering and explaining to the hotel manager who stopped by to see me that my parents were just “out, they’ll be back,” and how the creepy sunuvabitch manager touched my face and said that he would take care of me, and when he ran his fingers through my hair I pushed him away and locked myself in the bathroom.
Turns out, of course, that Liz and Lionel had a good reason to abandon me for two days. They “just had to go to Valencia to look at some wonderful Picasso ceramics. It was all very spur of the moment.”
I sat on the bathroom floor and cried, and my father laughed, and my mother made some stupid face, and then my mother said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Emily, don’t be such a baby. It was a rare opportunity. We had to seize it, and anyway, you had a hotel suite and television and room service.”
I keep walking, almost a slow trot. I might pass out, but I know I won’t. I think my body is doing a fantabulous job of processing all the booze in my system. If I can ignore the headache and the perspiration, I’ll be fine.
As I get close to Ted’s place, I turn and walk south, in the opposite direction. My speed picks up.
I begin to run. It’s not the first time that I’ve “run drunk,” and I know I’m not the only person who’s ever done it. Come to one of my AA meetings. There are plenty of us—runners, boxers, lacrosse players.
I run faster. The neighborhood begins to look familiar. The tenements of the Lower East Side begin turning into fancier buildings. Now I’m on a classy block. Brownstones. Iron gates, elegant signs of doctors and lawyers. One of the signs says:
GREYSTONE WOMEN’S HEALTH
COMPLETE GYNECOLOGY AND CONSULTATION
Yes. Of course. This is that block. This is that sign.
I’ve been here before.
CHAPTER
36
I WALK PAST THE medical office. Then I turn around and walk past it again. I stop and examine the sign, as if I expect more lettering to appear. Like, WELCOME, EMILY, or GO HOME AND THINK ABOUT IT, EMILY.
Then I do it. I have to do it. I walk up the stone steps and I walk into the clinic. I pat the bump. My eyes fill with tears.
I think we might be saying good-bye, little one.
I walk into the reception area. This elegant room—with ornamental molding and dark, highly polished wooden floors—was once probably some wealthy family’s parlor.
A beautiful, short-haired, middle-aged Asian woman sits at an ornate desk, the kind of desk that looks like fake French to me.
The woman asks the expected question, “How can I help you?”
Because I’m not quite certain what my answer should be, I remain silent for a few moments and take that time to survey the space. The reception room is a combination of styles—living room (elegant blue-and-white striped wallpaper), doctor’s waiting room (black leather sofas with steel frames), Elle, The New Yorker, and People magazines (in neatly stacked small piles), and typical office (a very big PC at the reception desk, a printer). Even the signs that say: NO CELL PHONES, PLEASE and PAYMENT IS EXPECTED AT TIME OF VISIT are designed with typography meant to be gentle, soothing, warm.
There is no one in the room except me and the receptionist. She speaks again, no impatience in her voice.
“So, how can I help you?”
As I speak, I know that I sound ridiculous.
“Yes, you can help me if you want to,” I say.
“Well, I certainly want to. We certainly want to.”
Either she is one of the nicest people to ever sit at a receptionist’s desk or she is a natural performer. Maybe both. I know from experience that a person can be many things at once.
Then she says, “Do you have an appointment?”
“Well, I don’t, but maybe I could have one,” I say quickly.
“No problem, none at all. How about we talk for a little bit? Have a seat right here,” she says as she gestures to a big brown leather chair facing her desk.
I look around the room nervously as I sit down.
“No one is scheduled here for the next thirty minutes. So we can have all the privacy you need.”
I nod, and my face feels hot and my hands feel sweaty and I think I know why I’m sitting here in this chair in this office but I’m really not so sure and this receptionist has probably had the same conversation she’s about to have with me with a few hundred other women and I wish I could have a drink, even a beer, yeah, a nice cold beer.
“Let’s start with the most important question,” says the woman. “Are you pregnant?”
I want to say, Uh, well, duh. I’m not here for an ankle injury. But instead I say, “Yes, yes, I am pregnant.”
It occurs to me now that this woman is so pleasant, so nice that a visitor could not possibly be mean to her.
“How far along are you?” she asks.
She’s not writing anything down. Somehow that makes it feel more like a conversation between friends.
“About four months, I think.”
“And who’s your ob-gyn?”
“Dr. Craven,” I say.
“Jane Craven?” she asks. Then she adds, “Dr. Craven is wonderful.”
“Yes, she is. Wonderful, that is.”
“I don’t think we have a referral for you from Dr. Craven. Do we?”
She says this without consulting her computer. Has she memorized all the names of all the patients and their referrals?
“No,” I say. “I was… well, I was just walking by and I saw the sign outside, and I saw it once before, and I know this sounds crazy, as if I saw a sign that was advertising a shoe sale or a new moisturizer, and…”
“Please, no reason to be embarrassed. That’s why they make signs. For shoe sales and for pregnancy advice.”
Is this woman hypnotizing me? I am feeling so calm.
“Now, the next thing I need to know. What’s your name?”
Simple enough, but suddenly the calm disappears, and I’m afraid to tell her my name. But I can’t think of a fake name to give her. Oh, what’s wrong with me.
“Emily,” I say. “Emily Atkinson.”
Now I wait for the inevitable. Are you married? Are you and the father on good terms? Do you know who the father is? Have you spoken to any other person or group about termination? Are you crazy? Are you nervous? Are you stupid? Are you sure?
But none of those questions explode at me. She speaks simply.
“Okay, Emily, my name is Margaret Lem, and when you have a moment—either here or at home—I’d like you to fill out this form.”
She hands me an iPad.
“I… I can take this home with me, this iPad?” I ask.
“Certainly, but you’ll have to return it,” she says.
Trust. It’s all about trust. I’ve been out of the city for a few hours and everything in it has changed.
I lean forward and speak quietly in this still-empty room.
“Look, Margaret. I want an abortion. I want one now… or as soon as possible,” I say.
“We have a simple, careful procedure here, Emily, and you’re going to be happy we have it. We’ll make an appointment for you to come back and see one of our doctors or doctor assistants. You’ll get a full evaluation, and we’ll proceed with whatever it is you decide upon.”
“Well, I’ve decided,” I say.
I’m afraid that if I don’t do it this minute that I’ll never do it.
“You know, Emily, whatever you decide, an abortion is one of the safest surgical procedures in the United States. And we do everything we can to keep it that way.”
“But you see…” I begin.
She holds up her hand. “Emily, please. Let’s say you’re correct, that you are in your fourth month. You still have about eight weeks left to terminate.”
“No, you don’t understand…”
“I do understand, and we can’t move forward until we get some information from you, and we need important information from Dr. Craven. Then you’ll have your examination and your consultation, and, Emily, there’s something else stopping us right now.”
“What’s that something?” I ask.
Margaret Lem keeps her voice calm, as gentle as it’s been during the entire discussion.
“I have a feeling that you’ve been drinking, and I think our people here will want to address that.”
I see her comment as a weird opportunity to present myself as a totally screwed-up person. “You see,” I say loudly. “I’m not meant to be a mother. I’m not meant to have a baby, to raise a child.”
Then I touch the bump. I rub my belly as if I can actually bring peace and calm to the situation inside. Then I begin to cry.
Margaret reaches across her desk and takes my hand. She holds it just for a moment.
“Call or email Dr. Craven. Tell her that you’ve been here, and we’ll set up an appointment.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll be back.”
“Good,” she says. I take the iPad. I smile at Margaret Lem. I head toward the door.
I’ll be back. I’ll be back. I’ll be back.
I think.
CHAPTER
37
I SIT ON A BENCH in Tompkins Square Park. I watch the drug addicts sleeping on the lawn. I watch the nervy fat rats scurry over the addicts. I watch pairs of downtown hipsters—men and women, women and women, men and men, young and old—cuddle and kiss and hug and laugh and cry.
I watch for anyone suspicious who might be watching me.
Suddenly I have an overwhelming urge to talk to Betsey. If I don’t tell someone about everything that’s happened—the funeral, Greg the stalker, the treacherous drive back, the trip to the abortion clinic—I may just collapse.
I’m nervous as hell. I’m high as a kite. I’m a million miles away from the wagon I’m supposed to be on.
Don’t be angry, little bump. I haven’t done anything yet. We’re still together.
Speed dial: Betsey.
“Where have you been?” she says. This is followed by the usual exclamations, the words I’ve heard a thousand times from a thousand people: “I left messages… Why didn’t you call me back?… Are you all right?… This is so thoughtless… I was so worried…”
“I had to go to a funeral in Connecticut.”
“Whose funeral?”
A perfectly reasonable question.
“Some people I knew.”
“What people?”
“Just people, friends, sort of.”
I could just tell her whose funeral I attended, but this is one of those things that… since I should have told Betsey when Liz and Lionel actually died… it seems strange to tell her now. Then there’d be explaining. Then she might become suspicious that I held back. Then Betsey mercifully changes the subject.
“Where are you now?” Betsey asks.
“On a bench in Tompkins Square Park. It’s a beautiful day. A really beautiful day.”
There is a pause. And now comes the evidence that there’s no fooling Betsey.
“Emily, I’ve got to be at the hospital at eight o’clock. I don’t have a lot of time to spare. So I’ve got a question.”
“Shoot, Bets.”
“Are you drunk?”
How the hell can she tell?
I don’t answer.
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Well, I was at this funeral. And I just had a half glass of white wine. That’s all.”
If I told her the truth about the amount of booze I consumed, Betsey would somehow transport herself through my phone, show up in Tompkins Square Park, and throttle me until I couldn’t breathe.
“You. Are. A. Fucking. Asshole. Emily.”
Then a deadly silence. Betsey’s hung up. I press Redial.
Betsey greets me by saying, “Let me repeat myself. You are a fucking asshole. Your slurry pronunciation, your thick, loud voice. They both tell me that you had a lot more than a half a glass of white wine.”
“You may be right,” I say. “Now that I think of it, it might have been half a glass of red wine.”
“Look, this bullshit is not funny. You know what I’ve said. If you decide to kill yourself, you’ll also kill your baby.”
I cry, and I try to hide the fact that I’m crying. I pat the bump. Then I gently massage it. Then I tell her.
“Bets, stay with me while I tell you something.”
“What?”
“I just stopped by a medical office where they perform abortions.”
“You went in? You talked to them?”
“Yes. I went in. I talked to them. And I thought about it. And they were very nice. I mean… the woman at the front desk was very nice… not judgmental at all… And, Bets, I would have done it, I think, if they had let me. But they make you get some sort of counseling, and they do some tests, and… and the woman at the desk said that she thought I had been drinking.”
Betsey’s voice changes quickly from anger to concern.
“Are you going back, Emily?”
A pause. A pause so long that Betsey repeats the question.
“Are you going back?”
