The Fifth Circle (27 page)

“I liked what you wrote about changing patterns,” he said, breaking into my thoughts. “You have to change your patterns, Alex; otherwi
se your child will repeat them. Can I keep a copy of this essay?”

I hesitated for a moment. I’d written
the essay under duress—the shock and stress of the assignment topic somehow loosened my usual self-restraint. Against my better judgment, I nodded.

“I’m hoping this essay will remind me to keep my mind and heart open in the future. I’m hoping it will make me a better teacher,” he said, scanning the document into his computer. “Can I have your email address so I can keep track of how you’re doing?”

Rattling off my email address, I marveled at the idea that Mr. Chalmers somehow became my most trusted teacher, or my unlikely pen-pal. Strangely, it seemed right. Maybe the knowledge that he was keeping tabs on me would give me an incentive to do something with my life.

I left school with a kick-ass grade point average and tentative hope for the future. I could change my life. I had to do it for my baby. And for me.

***

Just when I decided to change my patterns, I discovered I wasn’t the only
one making ripples in the pond. Everyone had a pocket full of stones and they were standing at the shoreline, tossing a pebble in each time I turned my back.

My first stone-thrower wasn’t even born yet, but his or her prospective due date managed to put the first kink in my plans. Using my last menstrual date and my symptoms as a guide, the nurse at Planned Parenthood gave me a due date of October twenty-sixth. I could begin the fall semester, but would I be able to finish it?
If I did manage to drag myself back to classes days after giving birth, how well would I do in my sleep deprived, post-partum state?

“Well?” my mom asked when I joined her in the waiting room.

When I’d asked her to drive me to the clinic, she approached the errand with her typical blend of apprehension and denial. She didn’t ask why I needed to go. She only asked if it had to be today.
Yes
.

“I’m pregnant and the baby is due in October,” I said, leading her out the door.

“Oh, Alex,” she said, tearing up. Out in the parking lot, she turned to me. “What are you going to do? You can’t have a baby.”

“Well, I am. Can you take me to the DMV?” I asked.

“What for?”

“I’m eighteen and I don’t have a driver’s license.” I
’d had my permit for several months, but hadn’t logged many driving hours.

“Honey, you need to practice some more before you take the test,” she said, backing out of the parking lot. “I’ll take you out this weekend.”

“No. I want to get it over with now while I have the courage. I need to run a bunch of errands this week, and you can’t take time off work to drive me around. Please.”

“I’m just so tired…”

“So am I. Let’s just go.” If I pushed her hard enough, she’d give in. I’d seen my dad browbeat and manipulate her for years. I felt guilty for taking advantage of her docility, but I had my own agenda. Once I got my driver’s license, I wouldn’t need her help. I could drive myself where I needed to go, and she could wallow in self pity without being disturbed. It was a win-win.

The driving portion of the test wasn’t very difficult, but the parallel parking test nearly broke me. With great trepidation, I eased the car toward the orange cones.

“Either I do this right now, or I leave here a loser. I will not blow this,” I whispered to myself, causing the DMV examiner to shoot me a strange look.

Without hesitation, I whipped the car between the cones and felt the thrill of victory. My driver’s license was my ticket to relative freedom, and with the laminated car
d in hand, I drove my mom home and used her car the rest of the afternoon.

I took my pregnancy test results, social security card,
proof of residency, and most recent savings account statement to the Family Services office. I filled out the paperwork to apply for temporary Medicaid, but walked out approved for not only medical assistance, but food stamps as well.

Next stop was the Health Department to apply for WIC. I received nutritional counseling, a list of obstetricians in the area who accepted Medicaid, and vouchers for free milk and eggs. I’d accomplished a lot that day
—about three-quarters of what I’d planned to do. So, why did I feel like a loser? Oh, yeah. Because I was now part of the system, a public assistance recipient, a teenage mom, a statistic.

Exhausted and depressed, I returned home without completing my final task: a trip to S
aint Louis Community College to discuss my options for enrollment. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, fought back flashbacks of the last night I’d spent there while my dad was still alive, and let my despair engulf me as I drifted off to sleep.

I spent the next few days napping, reading, and
avoiding my future. I put away the trash bags full of clothing and personal belongings I’d removed from Sean’s house after the murder. I placed my jewelry box on the dresser and opened it up. The ring was still there—the ring Sean gave me for Christmas. I doubted I would ever wear it again. I couldn’t look at it without remembering every bad thing that had ever happened in my life. I put the ring in the bottom of the box and turned away.

***

A week after my final exams, I conjured up the energy to log on to the computer, intent on looking up Sean’s case on Missouri Casenet, but I never made it past my email.

Mr. Chalmers had actually sent me a message. I double clicked to open it.

Hello Alex,

I hope this letter finds you doing well and following through on your dreams. Just remember: anyone can have an epiphany. It takes true courage and strength of character to act upon it. Perhaps the attachment will aid you in your quest for the true freedom of independence. Good luck in your endeavors. Do not hesitate to contact me if you need assistance of any sort.

Fond wishes,

Edgar Chalmers

I opened the attachment and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was the essay I’d written for my final. My eyes settled on the word
molesting
and skipped ahead to
control
, finally settling on
father
. The combination was enough to induce a bout of severe nausea, and for the first time in days, I found myself on the bathroom floor, vomiting into the toilet.

When I returned to my room, weak-kneed and dizzy, I deleted the email and collapsed in bed.
Memories of my past washed over me in a deluge, pummeling my emotions until I couldn’t stop crying. I wept burning tears of hatred for my father, for Sean, for myself. Tears of shame. Tears of hopelessness, of fear, of despair.

There was a soft knock at
the door before it swung open. My mom entered hesitantly. “Alex? What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” I sobbed.

She sat down on the bed next to me and rubbed my back until my tears subsided. “I know you’re upset about the baby, but everything will work out. I’ll help you. You’re not alone. You’ll always have a home.”

Tears of gratitude rolled down my cheeks. My mom was willing to stick by my side. She wouldn’t put me out on the street, but would she still have a place to call home?
Was this the place I really wanted to raise my child—here in the small city where everyone would know who my baby’s father was and would judge him or her for it?

“I got on Medicaid and food stamps,” I said, my words hitching weirdly as I tried to return my breathing to normal.

“Good. That’ll help. If you can help out with groceries, I can pay the other bills. You won’t have to work while you’re pregnant. After that…well, I’ve thought about selling the house and moving to Cape Girardeau with Becky. Won’t that be nice? Just us three girls kicking around that big old house? Cape’s a nice place to raise a baby.”

That
would
be nice. We could escape Saint Edmunds and all our bad memories. Mom and Aunt Becky could help with the baby while I worked or went to school, so I wouldn’t have to worry about childcare. My baby would have a chance at a normal life—no abusive men around to spoil everything.

Mom led me downstairs with promises of a junk
food feast, and I followed her gratefully. Sugary, salty food full of preservatives always helped put things in perspective. We could veg out in front of the television, watch the kind of movies we only used to watch if my dad was out hunting, and forget about our real lives for a while. I’d had enough of reality.

As we gathered the supplies necessary for ou
r movie fest, I thought about my mom’s proposition. If we were going to be moving in a few months, it would be stupid for me to enroll in college here in Saint Edmunds. I should probably look for a school out toward Cape. As far as jobs were concerned, my mom already told me I didn’t have to work. Who would hire a pregnant girl anyway? With the two of us sharing her car, my availability would be limited to the times she wasn’t working.

Once the baby was born, I would qualify for more food stamps and vouchers for WIC. I could even get money from welfare so I could stay home with the baby for a little while. It would be really hard to work or go to school with a newborn.

With my immediate future planned out, I sprawled out on the borrowed sofa. None of the original furniture remained. We’d filled the house with Uncle Alan’s ferret-smelling castaways. It was still our living room though. Changing the interior design didn’t trick us into forgetting what had happened there.

With chips and dip in hand,
I let
The Prince and Me
carry me away to a world where everything was simple. Perfect. Why couldn’t my life be like that? Where everything was easy? I shoved my unhappy thoughts aside and tuned into the drama unfolding on TV. I
loved
a good chick flick.

***

My EBT card came in the mail, giving me access to my food stamps. I thought I’d buy a few groceries for the house now that I was semi-independent. I wheeled the cart through the grocery store and grabbed some milk and other essentials. Was ice-cream an essential? It was when I was depressed like I had been lately. I stood in the frozen treats section with the freezer door open, letting the cold air pour over me.

It was mid-June, and according to the doctor I’d seen the day before, I was about twenty-two weeks along and well into my second trimester. After scolding me for not having sought medical care the moment I suspected I was pregnant, she gave me some pamphlets on how my progressing condition would affect me.

Gazing at the vast array of ice-cream flavors, I chose to ignore the advice given in the nutritional pamphlet I’d barely glanced at. After all, expecting women were eating for two, right? Brownie Bites Delight or Cookie Dough?

When a crashing force almost buckled my knees, I had to grab onto the cart for support. I glanced around, wondering what hit me, but stopped searching when my eyes settled on a cherubic toddler with blond, lopsided pigtails and a
sticky grape mustache.

“I’m so sorry. She’s such a little terror.” The voice seemed familiar and I glanced over to see a spark of recognition on the face of the person in front of me.

“Alex?”

“Hey, Amanda.” I hadn’t seen her
since she’d dropped out of school two years ago to bear the child of the boyfriend of her best friend. Amanda had once been the center of wide-spread gossip, but her story was mostly confined to the halls of Saint Edmunds High. Still, it was nice to run into someone who knew how it felt to be the center of negative attention.

“Ohmigod!” She practically shouted before lowering her voice to a near whisper. “I heard about what happened. Are you okay? You look…” her eyes traveled the length of me before declaring, “pregnant.”

I rubbed my belly. “Yep. Due at the end of October.”

“No shit? Is it Sean’s?” she asked. I nodded. “I’m due mid-December. You probably can’t tell yet. Anyways, I hope the next one isn’t a handful like Callie here.”

Callie bounced up and down beside her mother. Her Winnie the Pooh shirt was stained with some unknown substance and her pink denim shorts were hiked up on one side. Amanda bent down to straighten her daughter’s shorts and repaired a precariously loose pigtail. She kissed her on the cheek, then stood back up to face me.

“Being a single mom isn’t as bad as some people make it out to be,” she said. “There’s tons of help out there, but unless you have someone to tell you who to call and where to go, you’ll be lost. Luckily, my mom knows the welfare system really well, but I have some friends who didn’t know nothing and they missed out on a crapload of help. Do you have Medicaid yet?”

“Yeah and food stamps. Oh, and WIC,” I said, feeling proud of myself for having navigated the system on my own thus far.

“Good.
Still living with your mom?”

“Yeah. She’s gonna help me with the baby.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d go ahead and apply for housing. There’s a waiting list, so you want to do it soon. You’d be surprised how fast your family can turn on you once the kid is born and keeping everyone up all night. I have a phone number at home. If you want to give me your number, I can tell you everything I know.”