Shawna Read online

  She staggered back to her bedroom and dragged herself onto her bed. She stared at the ceiling for a minute and checked her phone. No messages. She opened her laptop and logged on to Facebook. She clicked on the first link and watched the video that Aleecia had posted.

  Aleecia: Here’s a fun video: watching a pregnant belly grow! So cute.

  Candy: Check out this one: One Week Postpartum Belly

  Luci: Are you that girl? The girl that got way too drunk? The one that is too insecure? The one with the random hook up?

  Aleecia: You have no idea how special you are to someone. Stop looking down on yourself. Pick yourself up, ask for help, and move on with your life. YOU CAN DO THIS.

  Jasmine: Have you heard of Molly Anne? Her mom was sexually assaulted, and gave her baby up for adoption. That baby graduated from college! Check out her story

  Izzy: Always find the positive in EVERY situation. Right now sit down and name one thing positive about your current situation.

  Shawna thought about that. What is the positive here? The only thing I can think of is the plus sign on the EPT test! She slammed her laptop shut. Positive, my ass! She heard her mom banging pots and cupboard doors in the kitchen and went to see if she could help.

  Shawna’s stomach lurched as she entered the kitchen. The smell of cooking meat was nauseating; the thought of eating it was even worse.

  “Hi, hon. How was your day?” Her mom looked up from chopping vegetables.

  “Fine,” Shawna said.

  “Could you help with the salad?”

  “What are you making?” Shawna asked.

  “Beef stew,” her mom said. “Your favorite.”

  I don’t think I’ll ever eat beef stew again, Shawna thought. She rifled through the fridge for things to make a salad. She pulled the lettuce and vegetables from the crisper and reached for the salad dressing when she spotted a jar of pickles. She placed the salad fixings on the counter and went back to the fridge to pull out the pickles. She took a fork and stabbed a pickle, popping it into her mouth. Then she speared another one.

  “How was your Calculus test?” her mom asked, glancing up from her chopping.

  “I think I did okay.” Shawna said. She stabbed another pickle.

  Shawna continued eating pickles, unaware that her mom had stopped chopping and was watching her.

  “Shawna, the last time I ate so many pickles was when I was pregnant with you.”

  Shawna’s fork froze, mid-stab. Shawna smiled weakly and put the fork down on the counter. She expected her mom to say something else, something accusatory, but she had gone back to chopping vegetables.

  Philippe met Shawna at her locker before her first class the next day. He touched the back of her arm, tentatively. “Are we okay?” he asked.

  She turned to face him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “Get an abortion, right?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you want to do?”

  “Will you come with me?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “But we’re still going to get married, right?” Shawna said. “Some day?”

  “We are,” he responded. “Someday. I just don’t want to fuck everything up before we can even get started.”

  May 22. Weight: 130

  Dear Diary: Philippe said we’re going to get married. Some day far in the future—after this baby is dead and gone and forgotten. Will I ever forget this? Will I still want to marry him?

  FOUR

  SHAWNA AND PHILIPPE SAT IN MS. JORDAN’S OFFICE. Ms. Jordan was the counselor at Planned Parenthood. She was a large black woman with a booming, jovial presence. Her braided up-do was graying at the temples and she wore dangly earrings and a low-cut knit dress that clung to her generous curves. A dozen bracelets jangled on her arm whenever she moved. Shawna liked her immediately.

  She smiled at Shawna. “You’re here because you’re pregnant and you want to discuss your options?”

  Philippe interrupted. “We’re here to book an appointment for an abortion. I don’t know why we couldn’t do that by phone.”

  “Is that right, Shawna?” Ms. Jordan asked. “Terminating your pregnancy is not your only choice, Shawna.”

  “I know that,” Shawna said.

  “Can you tell me why you think that is the best option for you?” Ms. Jordan asked.

  Philippe interrupted again. “Because she’s only seventeen.”

  Ms. Jordan fixed her gaze on Philippe. “Many girls choose to put their babies up for adoption. There are a lot of loving families who can’t have children who would be able to give your baby a loving home. And plenty of other girls choose to keep their babies.”

  “Well, that’s just stupid,” Philippe said. “Shawna wants to get an abortion and get this over with.”

  “It’s interesting that you’re here today, Philippe,” Ms. Jordan said. “A lot of girls come alone, or with their mom. You obviously care a lot about Shawna and want what is best for her.”

  Shawna thought about that. What is best for me? Why can’t I decide? Do the other girls just know what to do, without a second thought?

  “Shawna,” Ms. Jordan said. “We need to hear from you. What do you want to do? Before you got pregnant, how did you feel about abortion?”

  Shawna considered the question. “Well, first of all, I never thought I’d be faced with it. And I believe that every woman should be able to decide for herself. I would never stand in someone’s way and argue that they couldn’t have an abortion.”

  Ms. Jordan nodded. “And Philippe says you’ve chosen abortion for yourself. Why do you feel that it’s the best choice for you?”

  Shawna glanced over at Philippe. He was staring at her. “I guess it’s like Philippe says. I’m too young.”

  “Lots of moms have their first child before they are twenty,” Ms. Jordan said.

  “But, I want to go to college,” Shawna said.

  “And you can,” Ms. Jordan said.

  “But it would be way harder, financially and everything,” Shawna said.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Ms. Jordan said. “You’ve obviously thought this through. But is that the only reason?”

  “I don’t want to disappoint my parents,” Shawna said.

  “You haven’t told them?” Ms. Jordan asked.

  “No,” Shawna said.

  Ms. Jordan nodded sympathetically. “I see. So you feel adoption isn’t an option?”

  “It would be way too hard to give up a baby,” Shawna said. “I can’t even imagine.”

  “Anything else?” Ms. Jordan probed.

  Shawna looked at Philippe. “And when I do have a baby someday, I want to have it with someone who loves me.”

  Philippe stared at her, wide-eyed. “What?” he asked, incredulous. “You know I love you. Why would you say something like that?”

  Ms. Jordan looked at Shawna. “Shawna?”

  “I think if you loved me, if you really loved me,” Shawna said. “You would want to keep our baby.”

  Philippe scowled and looked down at his lap.

  “So you’ve met with the counselor, you’ve read the literature, and you’ve made your decision to go through with the procedure?” Dr. Jamali asked. He was a wiry, dark-skinned man. Pakistani, she guessed.

  Shawna nodded.

  He flipped through papers on his clipboard and without looking up at her, said, “You’ve signed the consent form. That’s it, then.” The doctor stood up. “Shawna, a nurse will be in shortly to get you and I’ll see you in the treatment room.”

  A nurse entered the room and handed her a gown. “Everything off from the waist down. Opening in the back. Take a chair outside when you’re undressed.”

  Shawna gingerly took the gown, wondering who had worn it last. Another teenager, sick with remorse? She slipped it on and fumbled with the ties that were too short and positioned in all the wrong places. Who designs these things, she wondered, pulling the edges of the thin material tight around herself against the c
hill of the air conditioning. She might as well have been wearing nothing at all, for all the warmth it gave. She found a chair in the hallway and sat down, clutching the flimsy gown to cover her ass. She picked up a magazine and flipped through it, unable to focus on any of the celebrity photos.

  She thought back to yesterday when she’d called Philippe and told him that she didn’t want him to go to the clinic with her.

  “Who is going with you?” he’d asked. She was sure she’d heard relief in his voice and for a moment she had regretted her decision. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him off the hook so easily. I should have insisted he sit in the lobby and wait. It wouldn’t compare to what I have to go through, but it would have been something.

  “My mom,” she had lied.

  The receptionist had totally bought her story that her mom was parking the car and would be in before the procedure was over. And here she was shivering in her paper gown, aware that she’d have to make up some other story to check herself out of this place.

  “Are you okay, dear?” A nurse stood before her, frowning.

  “I guess,” Shawna said.

  “You’re holding your stomach,” the nurse said. “Are you feeling ill?”

  Shawna looked down and noticed that her hands were cupping her belly, protectively. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

  “No,” Shawna said. She moved her hands. “I’m all right.” But that was just another lie.

  “Then follow me,” the nurse said. “It’s time.”

  Shawna wondered if her legs could carry her to the treatment room. She suddenly felt queasy.

  She followed the nurse into a large, cold room with an examining table in the center, surrounded on both sides by carts piled with surgical supplies. The doctor stood on the far side of the room, pulling on latex gloves.

  “Hop up and put your feet in the stirrups,” the nurse said.

  Shawna did as she was told and stared at the ceiling tiles. Her hands gripped the metal rails of the table and she was shaking uncontrollably. She had never felt so alone and she actually felt like she was going to die. Suddenly she wished she had brought her mother with her.

  FIVE

  THE NURSE DRAPED A SHEET OVER HER AND VELCRO-ED a blood-pressure band around her left arm. Shawna winced as the band squeezed her arm in its vise and then released. The nurse jotted something on her clipboard and pushed a thermometer into Shawna’s mouth. She held Shawna’s wrist, felt the pulse, and studied her watch. She jotted something down again and yanked the thermometer out from Shawna’s clenched teeth. Then with the ease that came from years of practice, she slid a thin needle into the skin on the back of Shawna’s hand and strung the tubing up to a pole above her head.

  “We’ll give you a little something to relax you,” the nurse said.

  The doctor suddenly appeared next to Shawna’s head.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, his voiced muffled by his surgical mask.

  Shawna stared up at him. Here I am, lying on a cold, hard table with my feet in stirrups, waiting for you to scrape out my insides and you are asking me if I’m okay? Are you joking?

  A little groan escaped from her, but he must have taken that for an affirmative because she heard him roll up the stool at the foot of her cot and then she felt the gown being lifted and her knees being pressed apart. She heard the rattle of cellophane and the clank of metal.

  “First, I’m going to insert the speculum,” he said. “It’s cold but it won’t hurt.”

  It won’t hurt, Shawna thought. Not yet. But soon, I fear. She had been told to expect some discomfort, some cramping. But what would her baby be feeling as it was being scraped off the side of her uterus? She imagined what her baby would look like, a cross between Philippe’s exotic Haitian features and her own copper hue—a hint of her father’s Shoshone heritage. As she felt the cold steel instrument enter her, she abruptly made up her mind.

  “Stop,” she said, struggling to sit up. The nurse placed a hand on her shoulder, but the doctor had already removed the speculum.

  “What’s the matter?” the doctor asked, looking alarmed, or angry, or both. “Are you in pain?”

  “Let me go,” Shawna said to the nurse. The doctor nodded and the nurse released the pressure on Shawna’s shoulder. Shawna sat up and pulled the gown down over her legs. “I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do this.”

  “Shawna,” the doctor said in a low, calm voice. “You’re just a little nervous. That’s perfectly normal. Why don’t we give you a little something to relax you?”

  “No.” Shawn shook her head. “I’ve changed my mind. You can’t force me.” Shawna started to stand up and the needle tugged at the skin on her hand.

  “Sit down,” the nurse snapped. “You’ll rip the catheter out. You’ve already had your consultation and gave consent. You’ve already booked Dr. Jamali’s time. We can’t refund your money.”

  “I don’t care about the money!” Shawna screamed. Why was she being so bitchy? Shawna tore at the tubing which caused her hand to bleed. She held her bleeding hand to her mouth. The rusty taste of blood filled her mouth and coated her gums. I wonder if my baby is able taste things? The thought made her tear up. “I need to go.”

  Shawna looked at the doctor and the nurse in the eyes. Then she took a deep breath and lowered her voice. She wanted to sound calm and rational. “I understand that abortion is the right choice for a lot of people,” she said. “But it’s not the right choice for me. I’m sorry I wasted your time. I want to go home now.”

  The doctor pushed his stool away from the table. “Take the IV out,” he said.

  The nurse peeled the tape off of Shawna’s hand and removed the IV. Shawna climbed off the table and, clutching her gown to cover her butt, left the room, changed into her clothes, and walked out of the clinic.

  When she got home, Shawna texted Philippe.

  I need to talk to you.

  What’s up?

  In person.

  Heinold’s?

  okay

  Philippe was sitting in a booth drinking a Red Bull when Shawna walked into the pub. Shawna sat down opposite him and reached her hands across the table. He took her hand in his and squeezed it.

  “Was it awful?” he asked. “I should have been there with you.”

  “I changed my mind.” Her voice came out as a croak.

  “What?” Philippe exclaimed. “You didn’t go?”

  Shawna looked at him and tried to decide if his expression was angry or elated. “No, I was at the clinic. The doctor was about to begin and then . . . ” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God, it was horrible!”

  Philippe didn’t say anything. His eyes bore into her as though trying to read her soul.

  “I suddenly realized that I couldn’t kill my baby,” Shawna said.

  “Our baby,” Philippe said. He reached across the table and took both of her hands in his.

  Shawna stared at Philippe as if she were seeing him for the first time. Is he really going to do this? she thought. Are we going to get married and have this baby together?

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “I was a real shit the other day, at the clinic.”

  “Yeah, you were,” Shawna said.

  “Well, that’s not who I am,” Philippe said. “I’m not going to let you to through this alone. I’ll go with you the next time.”

  Shawna pulled her hands away and slammed her palm on the table. “You’re not listening to me,” she cried. “I’m not going back there. I’m going to have this baby. I’m going to tell everyone—my parents, my friends . . . everyone. I’m going to get big and fat, and then go into labor, give birth—the whole nine yards. I’m doing this thing. That’s my decision.” She paused, and looked right into his eyes. “So, are you in or what?”

  “In for what?” Phillipe answered. “For keeping the baby? What about college? What about our plans?”

  “I don’t know,” Shawna said, sadly. “We have seven months to figure t
hat part out. I just mean are you still my boyfriend? Will you be with me through all of this?”

  “This is really going to mess up your life,” Philippe said. “Both of our lives.”

  “Look,” Shawna said. “I’m doing it with or without you. But I’d rather you be involved. Like you said, it’s our baby. What happens next, we can decide together.”

  Philippe looked at Shawna for a long time. He seemed to be considering his options. Shawna started to panic, thinking he might actually say that he was washing his hands of her. Finally he said, “I love you, Shawna. I don’t think this is the right decision. I really don’t. But of course—if you’re in, I’m all in too.”

  She couldn’t wait to get home to tell the girls on Facebook.

  Shawna: I’m having my baby. And Philippe said he’s all in!

  Aleecia: God is smiling down on you today.

  Jasmine: I just read this quote: “The positive thinker sees the invisible, feels the intangible, and achieves the impossible.”

  Candy: Here’s one: “Stop worrying about what you have to lose and focus on what you have to gain.”

  Izzy: I lost my husband in Afghanistan. No matter how good or bad you think your life is, wake up each day and be thankful for life. Someone, somewhere in the world is fighting for their life.

  May 29. Weight 134

  Dear Diary, I’m having my baby! Our baby. I’m not ready to tell Mom and Dad. Not yet.

  SIX

  SHAWNA STARTED GETTING SICK EVERY DAY BETWEEN second and third periods. She had to ask for a pass and then would go lie down in the nurse’s office. After the third time, the nurse became suspicious.

  “This isn’t the flu, is it?” Nurse Bailey asked.

  “I don’t know,” Shawna said. She had wanted to put off this conversation as long as possible.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” Nurse Bailey asked.