Driving With Dead People (19 page)

The counselor went over different options.

“You can have the abortion without anesthesia. This can be uncomfortable and traumatic. You could also have it with anesthesia. It would be easier on you psychologically. The problem is that it’s expensive—five hundred dollars.”

I put my head in my hands. I was totally fucked.

“The only place with anesthesia is in Louisville, Kentucky. They won’t do it in Ohio if you’re under the age of twenty-one without parental consent.” (Louisville was five and a half hours away.) “You have to wait three weeks to make sure you’re absolutely doing the right thing. That’s our policy.”

“Three weeks?” I gasped. “I can’t wait three weeks.”

“Well, you’ll have to. Usually they’re booked up three weeks in advance anyway,” she said.

I wanted to die. All I could think was: If I ignored what was inside me, it would grow into a person. I didn’t feel like I could wait one more hour, let alone three more weeks. I scheduled the procedure with the anesthesia for three weeks to the day and left Planned Parenthood in a stunned haze.

I pedaled my bike into traffic, not caring about the horns honking or the rain that was now peppering my face. I was in a panic to get to Patrick. He would tell me this wasn’t possible, that it was some kind of mistake. I rode my bike up his driveway, walked into his house, opened the door to his bedroom, and straddled his sleeping body, pinning him under the covers.

“You lied to me.”

“What?” He was trying to focus his sleepy eyes.

“I’m pregnant. You told me you were sterile.”

“I did not,” he said.

“Yes, you fucking did,” I replied. “You fucking cried about it on my fucking shoulder.”

“Whoa. I’m not sterile? Well, that’s good news for me, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes and tried to sit up, but I still had him pinned down with my legs.

“I’m totally fucked, Patrick. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. I need five hundred dollars by the end of this month and someone to drive me to Louisville.” He rolled me off him.

“We’ll think of something,” he said. “We’ll work this out. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to my brother. Meet me in front of the admissions building after theatre history and we’ll talk then.”

I stopped my bike three times to puke in the gutter as I rode back to my dorm to grab my books. Each puke reminded me of what I didn’t want to know. I ran upstairs, threw some toast in the “community” toaster, and went into my room to change my clothes. When I came out, the toast was burnt. I ate it anyway. Then puked again.

In class I heard nothing of the lecture, just noise coming out of Dr. O’Malley’s mouth, like the grown-ups in
Peanuts
cartoons. Patrick had not shown up for class. Finally, after theatre history, I walked to the admissions building. No Patrick. I stood there for ten minutes. I finally threw my notebook on the ground and sat on that, still waiting. Forty-five minutes later, I realized he wasn’t coming. I went to my room knowing I was on my own.

I hated myself; I hated everything about me. I was a smart person and yet I’d gotten myself into this situation in the dumbest, most obvious way, all for a one-night stand.

I jumped into the shower and glanced down at my stomach. I expected it to be sticking out even though I was only four or five weeks pregnant. Instead, it was concave from all the puking. I put my face under the hot shower and let the water run into my eyes and nose and mouth. Everything was a blur. I needed five hundred dollars, a car to drive to Louisville, Kentucky, and someone to sign me in so they’d give me anesthesia. I was fucked. There was no one in the world I would tell about this…no one.

I couldn’t even imagine telling JoAnn. As close as we were, the pregnancy seemed too seedy and irresponsible to disclose to the one person I’d always looked up to and emulated. I wanted her to believe I was an upstanding person—smart and independent. The shame and embarrassment overruled my asking for support.

That night I showed up at the theatre, pale and terrified. I ran into Patrick in the hall. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“I can’t help you. I talked to my brother and he thinks you’re framing me. It’s probably not even mine. I won’t help you.” He walked away and began talking to a group of friends who were standing outside smoking. I watched him through the glass doors. I wanted to slit his throat.

I couldn’t focus on him, at least not until I found the money and had the procedure. Once this was out of my body, I would deal with Patrick. I had other things on my mind. It was opening night.

I walked into the theatre. Mr. Whitfield smiled at me. “Monica, you’re doing a beautiful job. Your character really seems like she’s dying. Not easy to pull off,” he said.

“Easier than you’d think,” I quipped, and walked past him to the dressing room.

Mom and Jim had just arrived to see the play. I had to give a great performance and then spend the weekend with them, puking and showing them the campus. It was going to be a nightmare.

The show opened and, in front of Mom and Jim, I said again, “I was so much stronger before I got pregnant. Before the baby, I was strong.” I wanted to stop the play right then, step out of the stage light, and tell them how scared I was and what a mistake I’d made and how the world was ending. I wanted them to comfort me and tell me they still loved me and that I would get through this. But instead I pretended to die of tuberculosis. The play ended with a standing ovation.

I wish I could have told them. Jim would certainly have understood; he would have been supportive. But my mother was now in direct competition with me morally and academically. She’d brought her report card down to show me that she was still a 4.0 student. “And what’s your average?” she asked. Mine was a 3.75. “Must be hard competing with a genius,” she teased. I was too nauseous to care.

At the opening night party I won an award for my performance. I threw the trophy into the garbage after my family left, because I knew it would always remind me of being pregnant. Plus, this was the beginning of my punishing myself. I stopped eating real food, choosing crackers and water instead. I would not allow myself to watch television or go to a movie. I refused invitations to parties or dinner. I worked out day and night, jogging, lifting weights, and abusing the StairMaster, trying to get the baby to die. I wanted it dead, gone, away from me. Regardless of how nauseous I was, I punished myself, driving my body into the ground.

That week I ran offstage in the middle of a scene and puked in a trash can. Mr. Whitfield grabbed my arm after the performance. I was mortified.

“You feeling okay?” he asked.

“Flu,” I said, walking quickly to the dressing room.

Three days later, he called me into his office.

“Monica, I think there’s something going on. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“I’ve been watching your work, which is outstanding but really raw. I wish you’d let me help you with whatever you’re going through.”

Tears welled up. I felt like a child. “I got myself into something monumentally stupid, but I’m taking care of it.”

“Are you pregnant?” he asked. I hesitated. “You know you wouldn’t be the first person this has happened to here,” he said, encouraging me to talk.

I nodded.

“Is the person who did this with you helping?”

“He told me it was my problem.”

“Do I know this person?” he asked.

“No. He’s on the soccer team,” I lied. Patrick was helping with the play and I didn’t want to put Whitfield on the spot.

“I’ll help any way I can.” He grabbed a box of Kleenex and handed it to me.

“I don’t need help,” I assured him. “My parents know and they’re being supportive.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Remember, if there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it.” I attempted a smile. He placed his hand under my chin and gently kissed my forehead, just as a father would do.

The next day I didn’t get out of bed. I didn’t get out of bed the following day either. I called school to say I was ill. The third day when I couldn’t get out of bed, I called Planned Parenthood and asked for my nurse. I had weighed only 105 to begin with, and had then lost eight pounds.

“Hello?” she said.

“This is Monica Peterson. I can’t wait another week for the abortion. I’m suicidal. I can’t get out of bed and when I do I want to die. I have to move my appointment. I have to have the procedure sooner.”

“I’ll talk to Louisville and call you back,” she said. I hung up.

There was a surge of energy that was going to propel me through. I was going to push up the date of my appointment, find the money, and get out of this excruciating mess.

I picked up the phone and called Dad. I hated to do this to him, since he was already paying for college—even though he reminded me constantly that he was only paying because the divorce papers ordered him to do so. Still, I was mortified to have to ask for anything more.

Dad knew I had health issues. My kidney infections would lean in my favor.

“Hello?”

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Monica.”

“How’s the weather up there? It’s raining here, about forty-three degrees outside.”

“It’s cloudy. Dad, I’ve had an emergency come up and I’m going to need a minor medical procedure, but they won’t take my insurance. I have to pay up front and then send in the insurance form. Could you maybe loan me some money?”

“How much do you need?”

“Five hundred,” I said without leaving a pause. “I need five hundred, Dad. I’m really sorry. I wouldn’t ask unless it was a real emergency, which it is.”

“That’s a lot of money.” (My heart sank.) “I don’t know if I have that much lying around.” I waited silently.

“I’ll send you a check in the next couple of days,” he finally said. I felt tears starting down my cheeks. “It’s not your kidneys again, is it?”

“No, Dad, it’s not my kidneys,” I said.

“Well, do what you have to do,” he said.

“Thanks, Dad. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I’ll pay you back by the end of the semester. I promise.”

I’d won an acting scholarship, which was supposed to be used to travel during the summer, but I would give it to my father now. I didn’t care.

I hung up the phone just as Planned Parenthood called me back. I was having the abortion in three days. I needed that check to make it to me by then. I called Dad back.

“Dad, I’m really sorry to ask you this, but could you put the money directly into my checking account down there? I don’t think I can wait for the mail.”

“What’s all the hurry?” he asked.

“Please, Dad, just put it into my account. I’ll pay you back. Thanks.” And I hung up the phone. I was a despicable person, but I was desperate and I needed that money.

On the morning of the abortion, I got up at four thirty a.m., dressed in gray sweatpants and a white sweatshirt, and grabbed my backpack with my wallet containing five hundred dollars in cash plus an extra twenty for gas or food. The bathrobe and slippers they told me to bring were shoved into a brown grocery bag.

I rode my bike over to Patrick’s. He had said I could borrow his car, but his car wasn’t there. He was at his new girlfriend’s house. I rode over there. Nothing was going to stop this day. I banged on the door, and Patrick finally opened it. “I need your car, asshole. If you don’t give it to me, I’m going in there and telling your girlfriend why I need it.” He turned and walked back into the house. When he came back, he threw his keys at my feet.

“Fuck you,” I said, walking away.

I had never driven five and a half hours by myself. I felt much younger than eighteen, and the morning was so dark. I was petrified and my hands were freezing and shaky, trying to grasp the steering wheel.

Patrick’s piece of shit car rattled to a start and I pulled out onto the road. All I could think was,
When I see this road again, I will not be pregnant anymore. When I see this road again, I’ll be okay
. His gas tank was empty.

I got gas and then followed the written directions I had figured out the night before. I was terrible at reading maps. Thoughts kept racing through my head:
What if I die during the procedure and my parents don’t know where I am? My great-grandfather’s sister, Great-Aunt Nettie, bled to death after an illegal abortion. What if it doesn’t work and I’m still pregnant afterward? What if God holds this against me the rest of my life?

I arrived at the clinic five and a half hours later. I was exhausted and strung out from no sleep and fear. I needed someone to sign a form saying they’d take me home so I wouldn’t drive after the anesthesia. I looked around the waiting room and picked a guy with a kind face. “I need you to sign me out, please.” I stared straight at him. “I need you to say you will drive me home, but you won’t need to drive me home. I have to have someone sign.” He actually did it. I don’t know why, but he signed for me.

I sat down in the waiting room. There were no other hurdles blocking the abortion. I was there, I had the money, I had a person say he would sign me out—it would be over today. A brunette nurse called my name and I walked into the next room.