Rosethorn (27 page)

Then who, Papa shook me, who. And when I told them he threatened to call the police, to have Alex arrested. No, Papa!  I screamed. Please don’t. Mama in between us, trying to placate Papa, trying to shield me. Then he’ll have to marry you, Papa said, I won’t let him make a whore of my daughter.

He won’t, I said.

Not telling him the rest, how Alex’s face turned white when I told him, how he took money from a box in his dresser drawer and gave me a fistful of bills, and told me we could take care of it in LA, he knew a place. And when I asked him if he’s taken girls there before, he wouldn’t look at me and told me it would be safe. I could be up and about in a couple hours.

No!  I backed away.

Be reasonable, he said, you don’t want to keep it. You’re just upset, I understand. But no one will have to know and we should do it now, before you get further along. It will only hurt a little.

What about us? I asked stupidly. And got my answer. I don’t even know if it’s really mine, he accused. It could be my brother’s. I could say nothing, not even to say that I made his brother use a rubber and that no one else had touched me. I could say nothing to bring him back to me.

He won’t marry me, I said to my parents. And he doesn’t want me to have the baby.

You’ve ruined your life, was the last thing Papa said before that horrible clutching of his chest, Mama screaming, the paramedics, the dreadful ride to the hospital, and then seeing him ashen and still on the hospital bed.

Worse than anything is the sorrow I've caused Mama. She has aged 20 years in the past weeks, with worry for Papa, worry for me, worry for what will become of all of us. Her husband is still weak and ill and her daughter is pregnant, abandoned by her lover. The bills have started coming in and Papa cannot go back to work, may never go back to work, the doctor warned. I'm mute and powerless, so tired all the time that I can barely function.

Mama has not crumbled in self-pity, as I have. Perhaps she is strong by necessity. I don’t know. I'm only glad that there is someone else making order out of this chaos. I haven’t the strength.

She is the one who found the cheap townhouse in Venetia, who is now a whirlwind of packing and cleaning, getting ready to sell this house. She was the one who took the inevitable call from Alex’s
parents, talking to them in a voice I have never heard before. I couldn’t bear to listen, and only imagined, by the tight line of her lips afterwards, what had been said.

I’m more than grateful that we’re moving away, even if it is to Venetia. We have some savings plus we’ll get some money back from the sale of the house. This will be enough until Papa is better. Mama will take a job and I will be at home to take care of Papa. Mama tells me the plans and asks what I think, to get me to perk up, take an interest in something, anything. I reply that it’s fine with me.

I go where I am told, do what I am told. I make no plans because I have no future.

April 10, 1987

A daughter. Today, I found out that Alex and I will have a daughter. I wanted so much to tell him when I found out. I was the only one by myself at the doctor’s office. Everybody else had her husband with her to place a protective arm, their faces shiny with anticipation and happiness, for it is supposed to be happy, isn’t it, the days when you hear the first heartbeat of your unborn child, the first time you see its form in an ultrasound. These are miraculous days that bring sudden, brief bursts of happiness that go away too soon when I realize Alex isn’t here to share them with me. That it will be the first of many such moments.

He hasn’t called, not even to inquire how we're doing. It’s as if last summer never happened, he had never loved me. He has disappeared and took with him any chance of happiness I will ever have.

April 30, 1987

I dream of Alex nightly now. I don't know what the dreams mean or remember what happens in them when I wake. Perhaps they help me not to miss him as much in the nighttime.

I wonder if he is even thinks of me, of his daughter. But he doesn’t even know he is to have a daughter, does he? He’s never called once to ask.

I feel so empty, so used, as if all that could be had of me was had of me, by him. I don't leave the house, I don't dress up anymore, I don't, no matter how hard I try, have a happy outlook for the future, I even go for days without washing myself.

I stand naked before the mirror. My breasts are full and my belly is swollen with signs of life within. Loose clothes can no longer hide how grotesque I am.

Alex doesn't have to own up to the consequences. His body's not swelling larger and larger each day so that all who see him will see that he has made a mistake, that he has been a fool.

May 15, 1987

I walk with Papa for hours, until he is tired. He is getting stronger every day. We don’t talk, just walk slowly to the library, to the store, or to the creek. We stop every once and while for him to rest and then walk some more. This is the most time I have ever spent in his company, but I’ve never felt farther away from him. Every second of every day I'm reminded how I have brought about his downfall and my own.

We don’t argue anymore about going to school in New York, about having a career in theater. Such dreams are out of my reach now. And so we don’t talk at all. I have finally become the meek and obedient daughter he has always wanted.

It is spring all around me, life is blooming, growing, youth and promise, even inside of me, a daughter grows. Life is all around me, but I am dead.

I wish I could spend the next four months asleep or hidden in a warm, watery world like my baby. I know I'm not alive. I only wake to eat and rarely venture from this house. I have let myself go. But I don't care at all.

I remember the night I drove home from LA and stopped by the beach next to the highway. I sat looking out into the sea, Alex’s betrayal playing over and over in my head. I should have walked straight to the water that night as I intended. It was dark, no one would have seen me. No one would have known for it was stormy that night. I and my unborn daughter would have perished quickly, swept out to the far sea. Perhaps fate would have taken pity on us and delivered us to some paradise afterworld.

I remember the girl I used to be. Why have I turned out to be this way? How?

Where has the day gone? Nighttime already? Alone time already? Where has my life gone?

May 26, 1987

I felt her move today!  A strong kick to jolt me temporarily out of my sadness. Here, I am, she seemed to say. I’m a fighter, she was telling her mother. A mother. In less than four months I'll be a mother. Me, a child herself.

Mama and I started poring over baby name books after dinner, saying out loud each potential name to see how it will sound with Vasquez. She laughed at my long list of names, saying how I have months to choose. It has been the first time in a long time she's laughed. Even Papa seemed lighter, happier tonight. They don’t say so but I think they are getting excited with the prospect of a baby in the house. Their grandchild.

Whoever she is, she is the brightest and happiest thing in this house and she hasn’t even appeared yet.

June 17, 1987

The baby moves so much nowadays, so active and full of life, much more than I. For this I am glad. Not one word from Alex.

I suppose it’s obvious he wants no part of us, Serafina and me. We're on our own. I can accept the fact that it's over between us but not even to wonder.

What shall I tell my daughter when she starts asking questions? Will Sera blame me?

Serafina, my bright and burning angel. I write to you as if you are already here, as if you will someday read my words and understand. Whatever happens, I loved your father and he loved me, once.

June 23, 1987

Ma said it was all right for me to start buying things for the baby. So we went to the store. I never spent a more wonderful time buying things. I bought little shirts and jammies and booties and towels, a blanket, a little bonnet and cap... Oh it was so wonderful thinking that soon, in a few months, my baby will be wearing them. It's weird, anticipating a person to be.

However while waiting in line by myself, I was oohing and ahhing over my purchases when I look up and there's Alex's mom standing right in front of me. I opened my mouth to say hello but she turned around again. I knew she didn't want me to say hello to her, would have been happy if she and her friend had never seen me, seen my large belly, the baby clothes, all the evidence of her son’s refusal to accept responsibility.

I could have confronted her. Were I my old self, my defiant self, I would have. Instead I was imprisoned by my meekness, my silence. I haven’t any pride for accusations.

June 26, 1987

Last night, Alex's parents and my parents talked at their request, without me. Their purpose was to suggest the option of putting the baby up for adoption. Debbie had even found a couple among her friends who had desperately been trying to have a child and would be willing to adopt my baby.

My parents told them repeatedly that it was my decision and that although the circumstances of my pregnancy are unfortunate, they will welcome their grandchild when she arrives.

Debbie, Ma told me, seemed intent on finding a sign that this baby was unwanted. Both of them were silent when Ma firmly said that they and Alex were very much welcome to be a part of the baby's life.

It shouldn't have devastated me to find out that Alex’s parents don't want to be a part of the baby's
life. They're so eager to give away this child. They look at me and the baby as just a stupid mistake on their son's part, a disgrace, as two insignificant details to be eradicated. I cry for Serafina, because I do want her, I do love her.

Does he know what his parents are proposing? Does he even care? I already know the answer, but still, in spite of everything, I hope.

If he only felt you growing inside of him, felt you moving, he wouldn't for a minute seriously consider giving you up.

They gave a letter to my parents, a letter from their friends, to give to me. There's a picture of a white couple attached. They looked nice and rich, with their expensive knitted matching sweaters and open smiles. The letter said that they’ve been trying for a child for years, that they were educated and would be able to provide a wonderful life for my child, lavish love and care. He’s a doctor and she's a homemaker who loves to bake chocolate chip cookies and banana bread. I stopped reading and murmured to Mama in a low voice-But I too bake chocolate chip cookies and banana bread and let the letter fall to the ground.

I know I should be angry that they've already made plans to give my child away and didn’t even have the courtesy to consult me, but again I'm too weak for anger.

July 2, 1987

I'm walking down the bank of the creek. It's eerily quiet except for my footsteps. It's twilight, the end of a very long day. There are only the tall weeds by the water, the leaves and overhanging branches to witness my farewell. I walk to the edge and peer down to the dim image on the surface. From the edge, I slowly walk to the center and wait until the ripples die out. I feel you moving inside me, my unborn daughter, and wonder what it would be like to just disappear. 

I have thoughts of walking to the water, often. I would not want anyone to know.

Yesterday, Debbie told me stop calling their house, to stop harassing them. I just want to talk to Alex, I told her. I’m not going to let you ruin his life, she said.

What could I say to that? That such a thing was the last thing I would want, that all I wish is to hear his voice? I couldn’t even say to her, just tell him that I still love him, that I’ll wait for him. She told me that he won’t be home for the summer because he was in Connecticut with Natalie, his girlfriend.

No clever retorts from me, no witty comebacks, no fire, no spirit, just defeat. And stay away from Daniel, was the last thing she said to me before hanging up. I laughed at that, but she didn't hear me. I would have told her if she had stayed on, that there was no danger of that. Had she been there the day when Daniel came up to me and called me a whore and other hurtful names. I didn’t think he could be that cruel, but I deserved it, I guess. I loved you so much, Stella, he said, screaming at me with tears running down his face. I hated myself more once I saw how much I had hurt him. I'm poison to everyone.

July 26, 1987

I was looking back at old diary entries. How different my life was last year, my future so bright. All that I had ever wanted was so near that I could taste it---studying and living in New York, a career in the theater, dancing and singing and acting, traveling the world---every dream of mine glittering in front of me for the taking. It was not just my imagination.

None of my entries say that I was Ophelia in Hamlet last winter, that Mrs. O’Connell talked to Mama and Papa and said that I was born to perform and if I was so inclined, I could be a success in any art I chose to pursue. She even told me that the Shakespeare troupe wanted me again for this summer. No, I had so much but threw it all away for what I thought was true love.