Look at You Now (3 page)

My mother spoke. “I am Dooorrrooothy Pryor, and as you know this . . . is Liz. We are grateful for the accommodation on such short notice.” The woman looked at me curiously over her reading glasses for a long moment and then asked my mother, “Why is she crying?”

Dorothy, in the way only she could, said in a matter-of-fact tone, “She's pregnant.” She said it long and slow, making her point.

The woman paused. “Well, yes, that
is
why she's here. But why is she crying?”

Dorothy paused, and then, “I would guess she's crying because she's terrified, Ms. Graham. She just turned seventeen years old, she has to leave her friends and family, she has to hide from everyone
she knows, miss her last months of high school, and of course she will have to labor and
biiiiiiirth
a child.” The Charlie Brown–muffled-parent voice had disappeared. I could hear my mother again, loud and clear.

Ms. Graham appeared miffed. She looked at me over the edge of her glasses, sitting low on her nose now, and handed me a tissue. She went on to explain what I could expect for the next several months. Ms. Graham described the “facility” as a place where unwed mothers, some “in trouble,” some just “unfortunate,” come to receive the care and assistance they need during pregnancy. It was now a government-run facility.

“Many of the girls in this facility are wards of the state,” Ms. Graham said. “They've come from juvenile detention homes and/or foster care. They all come from households surviving below the poverty line, which allows them to come in for the care they need for the duration of their pregnancies. This is a locked facility; the girls cannot leave the premises. They have specific times when they can go outside, but we have worked very hard to make it a place where they feel welcome.”

The silence was deafening as we both absorbed Ms. Graham's words. Was this a prison? Was that how badly I'd messed up my life? My mother finally asked, “Can you explain to Liz what we spoke about on the phone?”

Ms. Graham began. “Yes. Here is how it will work: You will have access and free rein to go anywhere at all times. You will have a badge that gives you this access but you must show it to the guards. Your parents have been clear about not revealing your last name to anyone; therefore, no matter what happens, do not reveal your last name. You will be Liz P. while you are here. It is not often—actually, never have we had a resident such as yourself—someone who is in hiding from her community and family—so we are working it out as we go along. You obviously will be the only resident to have access, meaning you are not technically on lockdown. Your father has provided money you might need while
here, although there are not too many places to spend it. There are beautiful grounds, which you cannot see at night, but in the morning you can look for the paths we have through the surrounding grounds outside. There is also a schoolhouse up the hill, which the girls walk to and from daily. They attend school for a few hours in the mornings. The cafeteria is in the basement; the food is not great, but you will find things to eat. There are vending machines at the end of the hall. You also have pay phone privileges. You will be in a single room for as long as we can offer that to you. At the moment we are clear, but we may have to allow a roommate in, as the girls filter in and out all the time. There is a doctor on the premises, with whom you will meet every week for your OB checkups. The hospital where you will deliver your baby is right next door, easily accessible, through a secure hallway under the building.”

Ms. Graham kept talking. She sounded strict, like a boring high school history teacher, but there was something else about her. I could feel little drops of kindness, maybe even a softness as she spoke. “There are chores required for the residents who live here, and you will not be exempted from them; it felt wrong not to have you participate. They involve sweeping, emptying garbage, cleaning bathrooms, things like that. Your name will be on the white chore board in the lounge area—with a television, couches, et cetera—on the wing where you will stay. It is not much but the girls spend most of their day there. I am the social worker here; you will report to me once a week to let me know how you are doing. There is a woman in charge of your wing with whom you can consult if you have any issues. There is a chapel behind the facility that is open all hours. There is also a discipline system on your wing for girls who don't fulfill their responsibilities or who partake in any sort of violence or harm to fellow residents. These girls have had challenging lives; they are also emotional and they're pregnant. Some of them have had altercations, but for the most part they are well-adjusted and grateful to be here where
there is a warm bed and food to eat. Smoking is allowed in the lounge and cigarettes can be bought in a machine in the basement. When is your baby due?”

My mother answered, “Her baby has to be delivered before her high school graduation date, which is June first.”

“I see. Well, let us hope that happens for her.”

The Katharine Hepburn voice was gone. The hardcore, end-of-her-rope Dorothy had emerged. “That has to happen for her,” she said. “It took a lot of cooperation to get her high school to agree to the school credits transferring and to keep all information off the records. The only unbending requirement is that she be physically present for graduation. Liz will be going off to college in the fall, but not without showing up to receive her diploma. Her high school was incredibly accommodating. Liz, you should feel very grateful.”

I was having trouble breathing. I whispered, “I'm grateful, Mom.”

“When the time comes, Mrs. Pryor, we will see if inducing labor for Liz would be something the doctor can recommend.”

The Katharine Hepburn voice returned. Dorothy was back in control. “I thank you, Ms. Graham, thank you again for
everything
. This will be an adjustment, but we have no choice. Please call if she needs anything, day or night. And, Ms. Graham, as I told you on the phone, Liz will be giving this baby up for adoption immediately after the birth. In fact, she has made a promise that she will not look at, touch, or ask about anything other than the sex of the child. We need to make sure she follows through on that; in the end, it will make it easier for her.”

Ms. Graham looked over at me, as though she needed confirmation. I nodded, and then watched as my mother reached for her white cashmere scarf. As she wrapped it around her neck she said something else, but her voice sounded muffled and far away. I was sinking underwater and had nothing to grab on to to stop myself. She was leaving, I was staying, and I'd never ever been more terrified. It was the same feeling I'd had as a young kid, when she
dropped me at school in kindergarten. And then again in the beginning of the year in first grade, second grade, and third grade. I had cried and whimpered my way through school in the early years away from my family, away from my mom. Something inside me couldn't seem to catch hold of myself.

“Lizzie?” my mother was saying. “I have to go; your sisters are at home alone. I have a lot of people with a lot of questions that I have to somehow figure out a way to answer. And a long drive back.” I sank further and further down to what felt now like the bottom of the black sea.

“Can you show her to her room and help her set up, Ms. Graham?”

Ms. Graham nodded as my mom grabbed her purse and her camel hair coat. I followed the click, click of her heels out of the office and into the hall. With her back to me, she pressed the handle of the steel door that led to the outside world, to the snowy night and the long drive home. When she turned to face me I saw her eyes well up.

“You'll be okay, sweetheart. I'll come back this weekend and we'll go somewhere nice. I feel terrible leaving you here, but I know it's the right thing. Remember to pray, Liz. Ask God to help us through this.”

She hugged me close; we stayed like that a long time. I was sobbing hard until she finally backed up and took my face in her hands.

“I love you, Liz.”

“I'm sorry, Mom, I'm sorry about all of it,” I said. She squeezed me tightly. “You'll be back Friday?” I asked.

“Friday it is.”

The door slammed shut behind her. I stood in her wake for what felt like an eternity, and then made my way back to the woman's office. Ms. Graham asked me how long I'd been playing the guitar. She was trying to be nice, but I couldn't answer; I was still crying.

One hallway led to another, then down a few stairs to another
heavy door with a lock on it. Ms. Graham took a ring of keys out and opened the door. We entered a corridor that had an odd odor and flickering lights. She turned to me and said, “You will be fine here; you just have to give it some time.”

We turned and entered a good-sized room with paneled walls and a thumping ceiling fan going round and round. This must be the lounge. There was another door on the opposite side of the room leading out to what looked like a hall with rooms. The hall in this wing must have made a U shape, and the lounge was in the middle with two doors. There were several young pregnant girls sitting around, most of them smoking cigarettes. The room was thick with smoke. A TV with an antenna held together by tinfoil sat crooked against the main wall. There were two shabby couches, a recliner, and several chairs scattered around. There was one lone window oddly placed in the wall in the back, mostly covered by a dreary-looking curtain.

As Ms. Graham began trying to get the girls' attention, I noticed a very young girl with a horrible scar running down the entire side of her pale face. All the girls looked up at me, except for the girl with the scar. Ms. Graham pointed at each girl as she spoke.

“This is Nellie, Tilly, Amy, Hadley, Marina, Elaine, Doris, Wren, and that over there is Deanna.” A few of the girls waved. “This is Liz; she is a new resident.”

The white chore board on the wall had my name on it. The other girls had their first initials and last names, but mine was my first name and last initial. One of the girls was sitting in a beaten leather La-Z-Boy chair reclined all the way back, a big girl with dark brown skin wearing huge red hoop earrings that looked like bracelets. Her pregnant belly hung heavy over her jeans. She was eating a bag of Doritos while holding a cigarette and a can of Orange Crush. Ms. Graham stepped away to fix the TV, which the girls were all saying was broken. I took another look at the black girl in the recliner. She caught me and said, “What are you looking at? You stay the fuck away from me.” I nodded and then looked down at the floor.

I followed Ms. Graham through the room, out the other door, and down the hallway. Mine was the last room at the end of the hall, on the left. Ms. Graham turned to me. “Remember, your day to see me is Tuesday, Liz. Every Tuesday you will come to my office at one o'clock. But I'd like you to come by tomorrow and we can see how you are getting on. If you need me for anything, you can ask Alice how to get ahold of me; she is your resident supervisor.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think you're going to be okay tonight?”

“I don't know.”

She was gone, and I was alone. The room had two beds, two dressers, and a long window along the wall at the head of the beds in the room. The bed frames were steel, the room mostly cement and brick. I couldn't bring myself to open my suitcase. It would be like opening the doorway to hell, and I knew I wouldn't survive. Crying had become like breathing. I took off my long winter coat. It was a full-length gray wool cape coat my mother had given me for my birthday the year before when I turned sixteen, which felt like a long time ago. I laid the coat out on the bed and sat on it. The cinder-block walls were painted a dirty cream color, and the floor was gray linoleum. The dressers were built into the wall and had several drawers. I took a long time deciding which side of the room I should use; maybe the side you couldn't see when the door opened would be the best. My mom had put a jar of peanut butter and a box of Wheat Thins in my tote that morning. I pulled them out and placed them on the dresser on my side of the room. I pushed my suitcase and guitar to the side I'd chosen. I saw my stuffed dog Henry's ear hanging out of the outside pocket of my suitcase and pulled him out. I'd brought him along at the last second early that morning. Henry had the same goofy look on his face he'd always had. I thought about all the places that silly dog had been with me and wondered if I should put him back in the suitcase to spare him from this place, but instead I placed him on the bed and looked at him. And for just a moment, everything felt like it was going to be okay. Henry was the one reminder of life before this place.

Maybe it was all a dream, a horrible nightmare, and I was going to wake up in my room at home to see my Madame Alexander dolls on the shelf and hear my little sisters, the twins, fighting in the next room. But you always know it's not a dream when you find yourself hoping it's a dream, again and again and again.

I got sick to my stomach later that night. I threw up several times in the bathroom that was attached to the room. It was clean and sterile-looking, like one in a hospital. It had those steel handles mounted on three walls, the ones you see in homes for old people. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I splashed water on my face; it was hard to look at myself. When I did, the voice in my head reminded me that I was a horrible person, and I could think of nothing to defend that. I
was
a horrible person.

I had no idea what time it was, but time was meaningless anyway. My tears wouldn't stop no matter how hard I tried. I looked out the window at the cold trees in the darkness, and then noticed the lock latch. I unlocked and opened the window about a foot and took a deep breath from the freezing cold outside, as though I'd discovered a secret place from which I could steal oxygen. The cold tore through me and stayed in the room. I curled up like a baby on the bed, looked out at the tree nearest the window, at the way the snow sat so perfectly on each branch, and wondered if anything was ever going to look beautiful again, and finally fell asleep.