Chapter 6: The Elephant in the Room

Things were going well. I had a place to live, a job, a college enrollment. I was still living on my savings, so I was eating instant noodles most of the time, but frankly, my mother’s cooking hadn’t been that much better. I spent forty dollars of my money on a couple decent outfits I found at Goodwill and a vintage clothing store. My youth, combined with the vintage look, gave me a professional image that I cultivated. I’d already brought in my first listing and there was interest.

But I’d intentionally ignored the reason I fled in the first place. I was nearly three months pregnant and I was beginning to feel it. I needed to make the big decision. Was I going to be a single mother, or was I going to the clinic that I’d been past twice. The abortion clinic. I didn’t want to be an eighteen-year-old single mom. I wanted to have a life.

But my sweet angelic daughter had been everything to me. She was smart and funny and happy. How could I rob her of her life before it had begun? I admit that I’d had some help the first time around. My mother and Jesse’s mother, who filed the birth certificate, had been involved from day one. They competed with each other to take the baby. It wasn’t always happy, and there were times I had to compete for my own child. If I chose to give birth now, even that weak support structure would not be available. I’d be alone.

The questions haunted me around the clock and I knew that I had to make the choice soon. I believed in the right to choose. I believed a young woman in my position should be able to control her own future and terminate an unwanted pregnancy. But I’d met this child. I’d cradled her in my arms and sang lullabies to her. I knew how she turned out. Of course, there was no guarantee that she’d turn out the same raised in a different environment, but she could.

“It’s your choice, you know.”

“Willa?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“What’s going on? How can you be here?”

“The power of dreams. You need to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I would never hurt you, honey.”

“Mom, it’s not my life that’s getting lived over again. It’s yours. You can choose to have an abortion. You were raped. You’re alone. You don’t have the means to support a child. You’ll have to put her in daycare and then work twice as hard to afford that. You believe in abortion under those conditions.”

“I believe in abortion if it weren’t for the fact that I already know you. I’ve known you for twenty-four years. I know what a wonderful and loving young woman you’ll become.”

“You’re only eighteen. The daughter you knew is sitting at home with an envelope containing your will and a list of possessions and bank accounts in front of her mourning having lost her mother. She’ll never be able to tell you about her boyfriend. You’ll never see her get married or have children.”

“That timeline continues? Are you all right?”

“Who knows? I’m just a fetus. I might not even be Jesse’s. You jumped to the conclusion that it was all just like the last time. I could be Allen’s.”

“I know that’s not true. I knew for sure I was pregnant when I was with Allen.”

“That fifteen-year-old freshman? What was his name?”

“Carl. That would be a hoot. But I’d never strap him with my mistake. He’d try to do the right thing and he’s just too young.”

“So were you. I’m just saying that you can’t assume everything is the same as it was the last time you went through this. You already changed that history. You didn’t marry Dad. You didn’t even tell Grandma and Grandpa you were pregnant. You fucked a lot of boys. Got that out of your system?”

“Enough to know they were all pretty much alike. Except Allen, but what a cad. Can you imagine being married to a guy who takes a break every few weeks to pop another eighteen-year-old? He was a great lover, but he’s never going to change. I don’t think I could put up with that.”

“All I’m saying is you get to choose. I might grow up to be the world’s worst kid. I might even be a boy. It’s only your choices you have to live with. Not mine.”

“I love you, Willa. You will always be my baby.”

“About that, Mom. Uh ... If you decide to bring me into the world, could you maybe not name me Willa? That was disgusting.”

I sat in the clinic. The doctor had examined me, confirmed I was pregnant and was healthy. Then a nurse came in with a brochure.

“We’re required by law to give you this information and have you sign the consent form before we can proceed. You are over eighteen and don’t know who the father is, so we don’t have to contact your parents or husband. You should, though.”