Fiction

I hid my charcoal-stained fingers behind my back as I walked to the table. She stood up when she saw me, shook her head at my tardiness and planted a sticky kiss on my cheek. She pulled me through the other girls sitting in the booth so I could sit beside her and immediately shoved me into the conversation.

“Poor Ava,” she said, dusting invisible dust from my shoulder. “Can you even imagine Ava with a little brat?” Nicole addressed that question to our group of intoxicated and giggly friends.

Our friends imitated children begging to be fed, saying that all the while, I’d be lost in my sketching.  Marjorie joked that I would have a baby at my breast in one arm, while painting with the other hand. That made me smile since it was probably not far from the truth of it. Marjorie, in her quiet way, always knew me better than the rest of them. Nicole moved some strands of my hair behind my ear, and pinched my cheek.

“First of all,” she said, “we need to find her a suitable husband. I mean, we’ve all had our Mr. Right-Nows, but honey, you’ve held on to yours too long.”

“I’m quite happy with my current situation, thank you,” I said with a little more conviction than was necessary. I tried my best to keep my lips spread in a grin.

Looking at us, you would think it would be me that envied her. We had grown up across the street from each other and shared a close friendship. She came from a large, noisy, laughing family. I was an only child and my mother sort of gave up on any kind of laughing after my father died. Nicole was beautiful – tall and thin, with white fair skin, and freckles lightly dusted across her nose, and blue eyes. Her family drama centered around the fact that her mother had slept with, and had been left by, a black man, and Nicole, although blond, had kinky, wiry corkscrew curls that confirmed her mixed-race identity upon sight. Growing up, we didn’t care about those things. I actually always loved her hair in all of its complexity. It was the older folks that made a fuss about those things.  She would spend nights in my bed during our sleepovers talking about how handsome her daddy was. She clung to the one photograph of him that she stole from her mother’s shoebox. We would make up scenarios of how she’d run into him some day, and how he’d know her right away, and she would recognize him, too. The older we got, the further apart we grew. She was always on the popular side of things at school, and I was always with the art kids. But she always stayed in touch, always tried to stay close to me and remained in my circle of friends.  As we became women, she became frustrated with her attraction to black men. It was not that they were not attracted to her. It was that she always found a fault with them, some flaw, some imperfection that she couldn’t live with. She finally ended up exiling the entire race from her dating life. She pretended to be satisfied with the men that never wanted anything serious. She threw herself into office romances, flew away to Bora Bora for a fling, and divulged juicy details about the buttoned-up executive that wouldn’t let her leave him. But she couldn’t understand how I found such meaningful relationships with the race that eluded her. It had come to a point where she would conciously or not pretty much turn her nose down at a man that came over to speak to us, for the mere fact that he was black. In turn, they turned away from her. And the more black men rejected her, the more she grew to despise them.

“Ava,” a nurse called, looking at me with something that resembled a smile on her face.  She held a manila folder – my folder. I cringed at the thought of what was in that folder, and wished I could add a sheet to the folder detailing the other things I was doing with my life, besides what was in that folder. I got up shamefully and walked to her.

“109,” the nurse said, as I stepped off of the scale. I hadn’t put on any weight.

“What if we had a daughter?”

“No, no daughters,” Derek had replied.

“I should send you to Old China,” I laughed.  “Here, women are valuable, you know!”

_He laughed with me. “OK, if we ever had a daughter, I’d say Melody.” He twirled my hair around his pointer as he faced me on the pillow. I closed my eyes, liking the sound of a little girl named Melody.__

“And if we ever had a son?” I asked.

“We shall have many sons,” he said in a Chinese accent. “And the first shall be called Sean, after my dad.”

I liked it. I was thrilled with the prospect of giving him back something he had lost. He didn’t talk much about losing his dad, and I knew the hurt of losing a father, so I never pressed.

For four weeks I had been talking to our Sean. My last required monthly check-up had not shown that I was pregnant, so I had figured he could only be about four weeks old. I told him how happy I was every day to have him inside of me. I begged him not to make me throw up at six every morning because I could sleep until seven-thirty. Sometimes he listened, most days he didn’t. Sean made me crave stewed liver with onions and cream soda. But I couldn’t stand the scent of salmon.

“Ava.”  I snapped out of my memory and followed the doctor I had been left with into a small, white room. “I’m Dr. Chocare,” she said softly. “I’ll be performing your exam for your New York Parental Rights Permit. Once I confirm your pregnancy, you will disclose your financial status to the panel and they will determine your ability to proceed with the pregnancy. Let’s begin, ok?”

I nodded nervously and stepped behind a thick cream-colored curtain with a brown plaid pattern. I looked down at my naked belly and noticed no physical difference. It’s scary how misleading appearances can be.

“Are we all ready?” Dr. Chocare asked as she re-entered the room.

I nodded and lay back, putting each foot into the designated holster. Dr. Chocare flipped through my folder and asked me about my past pregnancies, and I assured her they were all terminated of my own will and not the States’. There had been four. I had been too young, too alone, too vulnerable. Nothing about my emotional state was recorded in the file, I knew. Finally she asked me to open my robe a little so she could do the sonogram.

The cold liquid on my belly raised the hair on my entire body. She pulled the monitor closer to us and took a seat on the chair next to the examination bed. She slid the wand over my tummy gently at first, then with some more pressure. She leaned toward the monitor and squinted.

_“That’s strange,” she mumbled, looking closer still.__

“What?” I asked, trying to sit up to get a glimpse of the monitor.

“Lay still, honey.  It’s just…I can’t see…anything.”

“What do you mean?” I asked sitting up now.

“Wait a minute, okay?  I’ll be right back.”  She got up and put the wand on top of the monitor. Then, she picked up my file and started going through it again.

“Wait, what do you mean you don’t see anything?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, honey, just lay back. I’m going to see if I can get some help.  Something may be wrong with the machine, I just don’t know.” She looked at me until I lay down again. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

I nodded and closed my eyes trying not to cry. I opened my eyes when I heard voices outside of the room door.

“This is her third visit,” said a familiar voice. “No one is paying attention to the second file.” It was a strong female voice…a British accent… a sharpness in her tone that I knew well. I froze, held my breath, waiting, listening, listening to the second hand of the white clock on the white wall, listening for more voices, listening to hear her voice again, a voice from a dream, from a nightmare, from evil. I looked around, pinched my arm, tugged my hair, had I fallen asleep? I couldn’t understand why I would be hearing this woman’s voice while I was very much awake.

“How could this be?” I heard Dr. Chocare ask.

The two of them entered the room. As soon as I saw her I sat up and tightened my robe. I clasped my hands together, intertwining my fingers, pressing down hard  to stop my trembling. The room began to move slowly and though I was still sitting on the table, I was falling. I felt the sweat on my nose, on my forehead, between my breasts trickling down my belly into my navel, my blood rushing as if my veins would not be able to contain it. The other female voice belonged to a woman that haunted my nightmares. Her full bright red lips snarled around her stunning white teeth, her green eyes shone, shaped like almonds, lined with thick black eyeliner and lashes chunky with black mascara. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she smiled her evil smile. I was asleep, I must have fallen asleep, please God, let me be asleep. She cannot be real.

“Ava, we meet again.”

“Get her out of here,” I whispered to Dr. Chocare. “I don’t want her in the room.”

I looked over to the mirror, and was even more shocked to see the state I was in – my eyes black from smudged eyeliner, my hair disheveled, stringy, uncombed. Had I been crying, sleeping, did I just wake up?

Dr. Chocare looked from me to the evil woman. “What’s going on, Meryl,” she asked the green-eyed devil.

“Ava, we’ve been through this before,” the woman said walking closer to me.  Those eyes, those eyes, those eyes. They burned through me. I knew she was here to harm me. I moved back on the table.

“Ava, Ava,” she said in a sing-song way. “Don’t you remember, dear?”

“Get out!  Get out of here!” I yelled, pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself. This was a dream, wake up, wake up, wake up. The room began to spin faster.

“There is no baby, Ava,” she said. Those were the last words I heard before the dizziness engulfed me.

I am walking down the hallway of my apartment building. I am walking towards my door on the top floor, listening to the echo of my jingling earrings. I love everything about this building, from the fancy sconces placed at the side of everyone’s door, to the grey sparkling hallway floors. Two years ago, I was able to put a down payment on my apartment with the money I received as an advance for illustrating a children’s book.  I’m coming in  from an interview and I’ve just been commissioned to do the illustrations for two young adult novels. I stop at my door, keys already in hand, but I hear a sound coming from inside my apartment. I listen for a few minutes and find that it is a steady hammering sound, loud and certain, and for a moment I’m afraid that there is an intruder in my home. Then I remember that it may be Derek. He has had keys for some time now, but he is usually never home before me. Maybe he’s home early today. God knows I could use his comfort. I’ve been pregnant for almost four weeks and haven’t had the courage to tell him. I’ve been hiding behind my work, my interviews, hiding in part because I’m not sure that we’re ready. I’ll be going to the Parental Rights Doctor on Thursday to confirm the pregnancy, and I have to tell him. I will tell him right now if it’s him inside making that sound, I promise myself. But still, I’m cautious, just in case it isn’t Derek, but some strange, deranged individual waiting to rape me and then take my things.

I turn the key slowly and unlock my door. I open it very slowly, quietly, trying to catch whatever action is taking place while its happening. I stick my head in and I see Derek.  It’s him alright. Naked. On the couch. Pumping in and out of a woman. I squint trying to get a better look or to squeeze away the developing tears. Her creamy white legs are wrapped around his dark brown back glistening with sweat. I don’t see her face right away, but I recognize her hair instantly.

I walk in and slam the door behind me. He looks up, I drop my purse on the floor, he flies away from her. I march right up to the couch and grab Nicole by her dirty blond curls and pull and pull and pull until I find that I am dragging her, through the living room, out of our doorway, into the hallway. She is not fighting back, just blocking her face with her hands, pushing herself with her feet, crying now, as I have been calling her a back stabber and a slut, without ever realizing that I am speaking. I stop at the stairway when I hear voices coming from below, two men, walking up. Nicole is naked and shivering and crying and her nose is wet with snot and tears and her body is dotted with pink bruises and striped with red streaks of blood. Did I strike her? Did I slash her chest with my keys? She mumbles something I cannot hear.

“What,” I say.

She mouths “I’m sorry.”

I hear the men get closer. They are having a conversation about a news story, about a rapist terrorizing a neighborhood not to far away from here. I drop Nicole’s hair, her head makes a thud on the stair, and I walk back to my apartment.

I walk back to the apartment and Derek is pacing. He sees me and starts to attempt to explain. He explains about mistakes and how he is just a stupid man. That Nicole is not to blame, that I should blame him. I cannot believe what I’m hearing but I want him to shut up. I fling my keys at his face. I notice the clothes strewn all over the living room. I  pick up her cream suit from my hardwood floors, and her black lace bra and lace panties, and I gather up her beige stilletos and walk over to the living room window and throw them out. He sits down on the couch. The couch he was just fucking on, the couch that was thumping with activity some minutes ago. He has on his boxers now and his head is in his hands. Poor dumb fool, I tell myself. I am talking about myself, of course. To allow that hoe and this fucker to get so close to me. I want to get my butcher’s knife and cut off his dick, his filthy dick that was just in her. He looks up at me saying something about he knows this is it and I have a right to want him to pack his shit and go, about a moment of weakness and forgiveness is divine. I tell him to pack his shit and leave. He walks over to me and just stands in front of me. He stands too close, and lifts my chin and I hit his hand away. I tell him to pack his shit and leave. He stands too close and strokes my hair. I hit his hand away. He stands too close and he grabs both of my hands. I try to break free and I fall to the ground and I am sobbing now and he is on his knees now and brings me near to him and I am crying now, loudly, but I cannot stop hearing the thumping and I smell the stink of Chanel No.5 on his chest and I’m screaming at him and scratching at him and he’s holding me tight, and I know Nicole’s fragrance is Chanel No.5. I cannot stop seeing her shoes bouncing on his behind.  I tell him that I can’t do this right now, that he doesn’t understand what he has done, that he has to please make this go away. He says he wishes he could, that he would do anything to make it go away I just have to name it. I tell him to pack his shit and leave.

Two days later, I am at the New York Association for Parental Rights. My pregnancy has just been confirmed by a doctor and it turns out that I am six weeks pregnant, not four. I am now sitting in front of a panel of three judges: one is a doctor, one is a psychologist, and one is a NYAPR volunteer. They ask me a series of questions to determine my capability of raising a child. Couples married for longer than five years with supporting extended families get their permits right away. Single mothers have to prove themselves in order to get the permit.

“State the name of the father,” says the Doctor.

“Derek King,” I reply.

“State the father’s occupation and employer.”

“Recording Engineer at Starlite Recording Studios.”

“State the father’s approval or lack thereof.”

“The father has no knowledge of the child,” I answer, meekly.

“No knowledge?” asks the Volunteer. “Do you plan to inform him?”

“Of course,” I say, unsure of that myself, but I have to say the right thing.“I’m waiting for the right time.”

-“What’s your relationship with the father, currently,” asks the Psychologist._

I sigh. “We’ve had a disagreement,” is all I can manage.

“Is it a disagreement that can be worked out?  Are you separated from the father?” the Psychologist persists.

I know they can check these facts. “At the moment, we are not living together.”

They look at each other. The Psychologist scribbles something down.

“And what is your occupation?”

“I am an illustrator. I make excellent money. I’ve been hired to do two new novels which will tide me over for quite some time, and I always have work lined up.”

“Where are your parents?” the Volunteer asks.

“Deceased.”

“Both parents?” the Volunteer asked.

“Yes, sir. My father passed away when I was fourteen. He died of lung cancer.  My mother passed away three years ago.”

“My condolences,” says the Doctor, not very sympathetically, at all. “What ailment took your mother?”

“She had a stroke.”

“So what type of familial support do you have? Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?” asked the Psychologist.

“I have a friend, Marjorie Jansen. She has been a close friend since grade school. She’s the closest to me. But I have a group of other friends as well that I grew up with,” I reply.

“You are also close with the Hardings. It says here that you grew up together, lived together at one point? Will her family help you with the baby? Can you count on them for support?” The Psychologist looks hopeful, almost trying to feed the words into my mouth.

“It’s not likely that I’ll be in contact with Nicole and her family,” I say, the venom building. I swallow it and almost gag.

“You must understand why we might be hesitant to give you consent to bear this child,” says the Doctor. “You have no husband, the father does not know about the child, you have no familial support, only a string of friends and a decent but not necessarily stable income. Do you think you can do this all alone?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” I reply. “You must see how much having this child means to me, with so little else in my life. I get good work, I work from home. My friend Marjorie is all the support I’ve ever really had, and I’ve come this far. I’m college educated…I…I’ve come this far all on my own. This child is hope, for me. He is my world. Please… I need to have him.”

“Him?” asked the Psychologist. “You are only 6 weeks along dear, how can you tell you’re having a male child?”

“I have this feeling,” I say, and am unable to help the smile that washes over my face, nor can I contol the tears that start falling. I’ve felt all along that he’s been my boy, and with or without Derek, he’s already named Sean.

They all look at each other again. The Doctor turns back to me.

“Ms. Truhyde, thank you for your time. We will deliberate for a few minutes and call you in for the decision. Please step outside.”

They never call me back in. They send a nurse to the waiting room, who leads me to a doctor, a tall woman with a pasty white face and extraordinary features. Her face is full of contrasts, black hair, pale face, eyes lined in thick black tar, lips as red as a fresh cut. Her nose is straight and long and pointed like a raven’s beak, and her eyes are bright, sparkling emeralds. She pierces me with them and I follow her into an elevator.  We get off on the second floor and proceed down a long hallway with closed doors to the left and right of us. There is light beaming out of the only open door near the end of the hallway.  She leads me to that room. There are two nurses there, one male and one female. They are moving around getting items out of the drawers, turning on various lights and machinery. The doctor with the green eyes closes the door behind her.

“Ms. Truhyde,” she begins as she walks toward the female nurse, “My name is Dr. Tabatha Beelze.  Your petition has been denied. I will be performing your abortion.  If there is someone you would like us to contact you should tell us now.”

She turns around to face me. My knees weaken. I have to hold on to the chair next to me to keep from falling. All I think of is Sean. Sean. My baby boy, the only one I have left to love, the only one that makes my life significant.

“If there is no name you wish to disclose, I must ask that you undress and take your place on the table. We will need to begin the procedure shortly.”

I look at Dr. Beelze. She glares at me, almost impatiently.  She can’t understand that I’m falling apart, that I am losing more and more of my heart every second. I can only stare at her face, her pale ghost-like face, painted so perfectly with red lipstick and black eyeliner. I focus on her face for fear that I might begin to accept what is being said to me and lose my sanity.

“Ms. Truhyde, this is for the best. You will understand later. You are so young and there will be a chance for reproduction at another point. Do not make this difficult on yourself, dear.”

The white room suddenly becomes too bright for me and I cover my eyes with my hands. I can’t swallow, I can’t breathe. I don’t realize I am running to the door and banging on it desperately. I don’t realize I am screaming that they can’t do this to me, that they are taking my life from me. I don’t even realize that I am grabbing things and throwing things until the male nurse grabs me and holds me in his arms tightly to stop me not to comfort me. My vision is blurred by my tears but I see her green eyes move closer to me and I see the needle and though I know what is about to happen it doesn’t hit me but I know it’s something bad so I keep moving, I keep trying to break free, I wriggle and kick until the male nurse is holding me up with his arms wrapped tightly around my upper arms. I see the female nurse look on as if she is frightened. Dr. Beelze, with the help of the male nurse, sticks the needle into my shoulder and as I try to catch my breath, and as the feeling leaves my arms and legs and heart, they undress me and move me to the table. I see them strap my ankles to the holster and I see them strap my wrists as well, but I can’t feel anything and I can’t fight back. Dr. Beelze sits on a stool placed at the bottom of the examination bed and starts working between my legs. I feel a pinch inside of me. I feel nothing else after that but I hear the soft drone of the machine and from time to time I look up at the other female nurse. I am still crying as the female nurse continues to wipe my cheeks dry, then rests a hand on my shoulder. I close my eyes. When the sound of the machine stops, I open my eyes. Dr. Beelze is standing over me and she is smiling.

“All finished,” she says. “It wasn’t all that bad was it?”

The  female nurse begins to un-do the straps.  I sit up and feel the long pad of cotton between my legs. The  female nurse helps me off the table. I recover in another room where there are other women recovering and we must all remain for one hour and they serve us crackers and juice and then they let us leave. I go home to my empty apartment with my empty womb and can do nothing, not even cry.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t remember anything about the day before. I woke up in clothes that I didn’t remember ever putting on. I looked around the room and realized Derek hadn’t left his usual morning mess in his rush to work. I walked over to my dresser mirror but saw someone other than myself. The woman looking back at me was worn and tired with dark eyes and a frail, thin face. A piece of paper stuck to the mirror read doctor’s appointment Thursday @ 9. I looked at my calendar, the days crossed off until today, Thursday. I hurried to the shower, and for some wonderful reason, I wasn’t nauseous. I guess Sean was on his best behavior. I promised myself I would tell Derek about the baby tonight.