Butterflies in May Read online

  I’m not sure what to do, so I freeze. Then an older man, wearing a blue vest that says “Pro-Choice,” walks up to me and says, “Let me help you.” He escorts me to the front door. Prep Boy immediately gives up on me and moves toward Monica, thrusting a flyer her way. Monica takes the flyer, rips it in half, and tosses it on the ground. Prep Boy charges after her with another flyer in hand. Then another escort appears and helps Monica.

  Monica groans when Prep Boy follows behind her. She turns around and glares at him like a lunatic. I’ve never seen Monica like this before. “Back off or I’m going to scream,” she yells. “You’re stalking me!” Prep Boy glances at me, then Monica, shrugs, and walks away. Monica has excellent communication skills.

  I glance back at the group of people hanging out next to the curb. I didn’t notice them when the cab pulled up, but there are four of them—three women and Prep Boy. They don’t look anything like the protestors I’ve read about in the newspaper—the ones accused of bombing clinics and shooting doctors and patients. One woman with long dark hair drops to her knees and starts praying. The older woman looks right at me with sad, watery eyes, and starts saying the rosary. Another woman who reminds me a little of my mother is carrying a sign that reads: “Wasn’t Your Mother Pro-Life?”

  For some crazy reason, I want to go back and explain to them why I’m here. I want to make them understand. I mean, it’s not as if anyone wants to have an abortion—right? Sometimes, though, it’s the only way. But by then, we’re at the front door. My escort opens the door for Monica and me. As we’re walking through the door, I glance down at the flyer again. Monica looks at me. “Are you okay?” she asks. I nod. Then Monica takes the flyer, crumples it, and tosses it in the garbage.

  Once we’re inside, Monica and I both check in at the security booth. A counselor I’d talked with on the phone explained this was necessary for our own safety. An older woman there asks me for identification and then checks for my name on a sheet of paper. I explain that Monica is my friend, and the woman asks her to show identification, too.

  When we get to the reception area, there are already about thirteen other people waiting. I wonder if they’re all here for abortions. Monica takes a seat while I check in. Ancient Wise Woman is not here today. I wish she were. A different receptionist takes my name and hands me a clipboard with some forms to fill out. When I woke up this morning, I felt nervous, but now that I’m here, I feel even worse. My hands start shaking, and they just won’t stop.

  I take a seat next to Monica and look around, but no one looks my way. Everyone is thumbing through magazines or filling out forms. I look down at my forms. My hand is so sweaty that the pen slips out and falls to the floor. I find it underneath my chair. First, I fill out the consent form for the abortion, then a financial consent form. The self-assessment form is much harder to complete. There’s a list of questions that need to be answered. The first one is “On a scale of 1 to 10, how confident do you feel about your decision today?” I want to circle five, but I know that won’t exactly sail with the counselor. I drop the pen again, pick it up, check the clock on the wall, and circle number eight, which I feel says confident-but-seriously-freaking-out-to-be-here. Then I think of college and Matt and my parents, put a big X through the eight, and circle ten instead.

  There are other questions to answer. “Does an abortion conflict with your spiritual beliefs?” No, but I still can’t believe I’m here. “Will this affect your relationship with your partner or family?” Matt: No. Parents: Oh my God, I don’t even want to think about it. “Do you have a support system for your decision?” Sure.

  Plus, there’s a list of common emotions, and the form asks you to circle the ones that describe how you’re feeling. I circle “nervous,” “anxious,” “afraid,” “relieved,” “conflicted,” and “guilty.”

  When I’m finished, I check the clock on the wall again and return the forms to the receptionist, who asks me to take a seat and wait until my name is called.

  I hate being here. I feel sick to my stomach, but it’s just nerves—I think.

  “You okay?” Monica asks.

  “I just want to get it over with.”

  Monica squeezes my hand, which is clammy because I’m so anxious. A few minutes later, the door opens, and a nurse calls my name. I nearly jump out of my seat.

  First, I have an ultrasound. Nora, the health care assistant, explains that this is a vaginal ultrasound and will show how far along I am in my pregnancy. Then I go to the lab, where they check my weight and blood pressure and prick my finger to check my iron level and something else I didn’t quite catch.

  I ask Nora what time it is. I’ve only been here an hour and ten minutes, but it feels like forever. Nora leaves, but promises to come right back. I wish they would speed this up. I want to get it over with. My mind is wandering all over the place. There’s this videotape playing in my mind. I see the protesters, the flyer, and the picture of the baby my mother showed me that day in the kitchen. I try to turn off the tape, but it’s as if someone has glued down the play button. The images won’t go away.

  For the past two weeks, I’ve been telling myself I’m having a minor medical procedure on Saturday—like having a cavity filled. But all of a sudden, I’m wondering whether I’m doing the right thing. This is the most important decision I’ve ever made in my life, and I barely considered my choices. I never even opened the packet of information the counselor gave me on my first visit. But when I think about next year and Matt, I remind myself there’s no other way.

  Nora comes back and asks me to follow her to the counselor’s office. Debby is there. Today, she’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses. It feels good to see a familiar face. “Ali,” she says, as if she’s been waiting for me. “Please have a seat.”

  A file is already on Debby’s desk with my name on it, but Debby doesn’t open it right away. Instead, she looks at me and says, “How are you feeling about your decision today?”

  “Fine.”

  Debby looks at me for a second. She doesn’t look completely convinced.

  “Shall we review the other options again?”

  “Uh, no.” I shake my head vigorously to prove that I’m fine, that there’s no need to go over all that again. I feel tense, and my hands are shaking again. I grip onto the seat so Debby won’t notice, and I turn my attention to the window behind her desk. The clouds are just starting to break, and sunlight is streaming through the window like a strobe light.

  Debby opens my file. “Ali, I was reading over the form you filled out,” she says. “The emotions you’re feeling—nervousness, fear, anxiety, relief—are all normal for someone about to have an abortion. But I’m concerned about your feelings of conflict and guilt. Why are you feeling these emotions?”

  I study my shoes. What does she mean why? Doesn’t everyone feel somewhat guilty and conflicted? Is anyone absolutely, positively sure? I’m here to terminate my pregnancy because it doesn’t fit into my plans.

  “I don’t know. . .”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Not really,” I say, thinking about Matt and college. But then I say, “I do want children someday, but this isn’t the right time. I guess I feel sort of guilty about the timing.”

  The counselor nods and studies me. I hold my breath. “That’s understandable,” she says, flipping through my chart. “Ali,” she finally says, “you’re eleven weeks pregnant. You have time to think about this some more. If you’d like, you could take a few days or even another week. Maybe you should talk it over again with someone you trust.”

  I shake my head. “No, I need to take care of this today. I’ve already spent a lot of time thinking about my options,” I say. (Liar, liar, pants on fire.)

  Debby nods, but doesn’t look persuaded. “All right then,” she says, looking at me for a long moment.

  Debby explains what will happen next. I listen closely at first, but then I tune in and out. “The doctor will insert a speculum. . . next you
r cervix will be dilated. . . you’ll feel strong cramping. . . take slow deep breaths. . . you’ll feel a gentle suction of an aspirator. . . someone will be there to assist you.”

  Finally, Debby asks, “Do you have any questions?”

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “Five to seven minutes.”

  “Other questions?”

  “No,” I say and shake my head. I just want to get this over with.

  Debby leads me down a hallway that smells vile, so I try not to breathe in. (It doesn’t work.) Then she opens the door to a small room. She instructs me to undress from the waist down and reminds me that we’ll meet again after the procedure.

  I sit on the exam table with a white paper sheet wrapped around my waist. The room is cool, and I’m starting to shake, but I know this has nothing to do with the temperature. I tuck my legs under me and try not to think about why I’m here and what’s going to happen. There’s a machine in the corner that’s covered with a cloth, but I know that is the vacuum. It’s not nearly as scary-looking as I thought it would be, but I decide not to look at it anyway. I will make myself go numb. I will not think about why I’m here. It will all be over in a few minutes, and then I can get out of here.

  I check the clock a dozen times and start pacing the room. I stop to look at a print on the wall—a Diego Rivera—one of my mom’s favorite artists. The picture is of a woman with dark skin and dark hair, wearing a bright purple dress and staring right at me. She’s plump and round and seems to be saying, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Then I realize I’m standing next to the vacuum and jump back.

  The smell is still getting to me. How can these people work here with that smell?! My stomach rumbles, and my throat goes dry. I sit back down and stare at the print. I can’t stop looking at it. I ate a bagel this morning because the counselor told me I should eat something, but it’s not helping at all. I feel hot all of a sudden and try to sit very still, but it hits me fast, and there’s no holding back. I swing my legs off the table and sprint to the waste can.

  When the doctor and her assistant walk in, there I am, on the floor, kneeling over the waste can and holding the paper sheet around my waist with one hand. There’s vomit in my hair, but I don’t care. All I can think about is this tiny little person growing inside me. My mind keeps flashing that baby picture my mom showed me, with the sweet innocent face and perfect mouth. And for the first time, I wonder what my baby will look like. I wonder whether it’s a boy or a girl. That’s when I know I can’t go through with it.

  “And then you bolted?” Monica says.

  “Yep.” I grin and take a bite of my burger—double cheese, extra pickle, hold the onion. I can’t get enough of them these days. We’re at a fast-food place we found around the corner from Planned Parenthood.

  We’re sitting by a window, the sun is out, and it feels like a completely different day. For the first time in weeks, I feel pretty good, which is weird considering that my life has just taken a drastic turn, and I have no idea where I’m heading.

  “Then I ran into Debby. She showed me these fetal development pictures. Right now, the baby’s heart has already begun to beat, and the arms and legs are beginning to form.”

  “That’s amazing,” says Monica, “considering it exists mostly on hamburgers and French fries.” She takes a sip of her milk-shake. “How can you eat like that after you barf?”

  “I don’t know. It’s totally different from having the flu, at least for me. After I get sick, I feel so much better.” I take another bite of my hamburger just to prove it.

  “Gross.”

  After lunch and our train ride back to Lakeview, Monica parks her car in the driveway at my house. We just sit there for a while, talking and listening to music. Before I get out, Monica asks, “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But I’m having this baby.”

  “Are you going to tell your parents now?”

  I shrug. The truth is, I know I have to. All of a sudden, the reality of what I’ve done hits me, and I’m beginning to wonder if walking out of Planned Parenthood was such a bright idea. Things will never be the same again. I feel this as deeply as I’ve ever felt anything in my life.

  Chapter 8

  Later that afternoon, I find my mother in her room packing a suitcase. Her bed is covered with neat stacks of clothes. Four pairs of shoes are lined up in a row. Her toiletries are packed in plastic bags. She has a list in her hand, which she keeps checking. She’s anal, if nothing else. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  She looks at me in astonishment. “Honey, what do you mean, where am I going? Seattle! We’ve been talking about this trip for weeks!”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess I just forgot it was this week.” I vaguely recall them talking about it. Dad has a business meeting in Seattle, and Mom is going along to see an old college friend of hers who lives there.

  I feel like the universe is smiling down at me. Suddenly, I have another whole week to float along and hope everything will work out. I figure there’s no point saying anything now—I’ll wait until they get back.

  “Well, it kind of crept up on me, too,” my mom says. “I’ve been so busy with that brochure for the birth center.”

  She looks at me as if she knows where I’ve been all morning and what’s going on in my life. Then she says, “Listen, Ali. . . Aunt Laura’s coming to stay with you. I know you’ll be on your own at school next year, but I’ll feel better knowing you’re not here alone this coming week.”

  I relax. “It’s okay.” She smiles, clearly relieved, because this is the sort of thing we usually argue about. Then she goes to the closet, pulls out a black sweater dress, and folds it into a neat square.

  “Mom, how old were you when you were pregnant?”

  She places the dress in the suitcase and is quiet for a few long moments, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the dress. “Thirty. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just thinking about Aunt Laura. You know, she was talking about her biological clock the other night.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, she still has time. Plenty of women wait until their late thirties, early forties, though I can’t say I’d want to do it all over again myself. Diapers. . . 2 a.m. feedings. . . I don’t have the energy or patience any more.”

  “What’s it like?”

  Mom smiles. “It’s the most amazing experience. I’ll never forget it. And you. . . you were gorgeous. . . big and fat and pink.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “A little,” she says. “But it was worth it. They put you in my arms, and there you were. Just watching you breathe was amazing.”

  Matt calls later that afternoon from Wisconsin, just as he promised. I’m not exactly sure what to say, but as soon as I hear his voice, I know I can’t tell him that I didn’t go through with it—not over the phone, anyway.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “Look, I can’t talk long, but I’ve been thinking of you all day. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, which is, technically, true.

  “Good.” He sounds so relieved that I start to feel guilty. “I want to see you as soon as I get back, but we’re not pulling in until late tomorrow night. Is it okay if I pick you up on Monday for school?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ali. . .?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  I had planned to stay home tonight because of everything that happened today. But then Monica shows up at 7:30 and insists we go out. She was supposed to go out with Dylan, but he cancelled at the last minute. She’s wearing a fuzzy pink-silver sweater with a black micromini skirt and boots. Her hair is down, curling around her shoulders, and in her pink champagne lipstick and chandelier earrings, she looks amazing.

  We usually take Monica’s car because the only other option is to drive Mom’s white station wagon, which is about as cool as driving an ambulance or a hearse. But tonight Mon
ica begs me to borrow my mom’s car so, incognito, we can drive by Dylan’s apartment, where she insists we go first. We drive by slowly, so she can get a good look, but his apartment is completely dark.

  After that, we stop by Betty’s Pizza because I’m suddenly starving. Then we crank up the stereo and make our standard loop, cruising downtown, out past the high school and Burger Heaven, where everyone hangs out in the parking lot. There’s nothing going on tonight, so we keep making our loop, which tonight also includes Dylan’s apartment on Glenview Avenue. This is the fifth time we’ve driven past, and as her best friend, I go along with her crazy drive-by plan, but the truth is I’m getting bored and beginning to wonder if she’s slightly obsessive compulsive. They make drugs for people like her.

  “Tell me again why we’re doing this?” I ask.

  “I told you. . . He said he was sick,” she says.

  “Maybe he’s sleeping.”

  “But he didn’t sound sick.”

  “You don’t necessarily have to sound sick to be sick,” I point out.

  We turn left on Glenview, and there it is—his ground floor apartment, dark, again, same as the last four times.

  “OhmyGod!” she shrieks, causing me to drop my Betty’s lemonade.

  I slam on the brakes. “What!?” I don’t see anything.

  “Right there, by the shrubs,” she says, pointing to two shadowy figures walking on the sidewalk towards the apartment building’s front entrance.