In Trouble (14 page)

What now?

Vodka and 7-UP! Isn’t that what Lois’s friend had said? My dungarees were at my ankles. I pulled them up.

It took an hour.

Nobody’s a big drinker in this family, not counting Uncle George, but his bottle collection is not here. Mom and Dad have only a few. They fit in the narrow bottom cabinet next to the kitchen pipe. It took several attempts at bending to pull out the vodka bottle. I rested after I lifted it up to the counter. Please,
please
let there be 7-UP.

Of course not. Mom doesn’t believe in sodas. Can’t anything go right? Seltzer?

The thing that fools you is that vodka looks like water and it doesn’t have much of a smell. Did my nose get banged on the stairs? Does it usually have a strong smell?

I took a tall glass from the dish rack and filled it, three-quarters vodka, one-quarter seltzer. I waited for the 160

bubbles to calm down. If I didn’t, I’d hiccup for the next ten minutes, and my ribs hurt too much for that.

Maybe I should bring the glass into my room, so if anything happens I’d be next to my bed. Please, let something happen!

I don’t remember anything after I sat down on the bed and began to drink.

The faintest of echoes down a long tunnel. As the sound came closer, it careened off the tunnel walls.

Smother it! I tried to turn, to hide.

“Jamie! Wake up!”

I squinted. The light was like a nail across a blackboard. I think I saw a cheek. Stevie. His face was right up against mine. Still it was a blur.

“Go away,” I croaked.

“Mom said to get you. Dinner.” The blur moved away.

“Duty done,” it said.

My eyes closed, but I heard him leave.

“What have you done?” Mom stood by my bed. “Get up this minute!”

It hurt to look up. It hurt to move. I tried.

“I can’t.”

Her face was close to mine. “Pete! Come in here!

Quick!” Footsteps. “Do you smell that? She’s drunk!” I felt an arm under my shoulders. I didn’t know what hurt more, my head, my back, my shoulders. My heart.

Dad propped me up and sat next to me. I tipped into him.

Mom sat down on the other side.

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“Why?” she said, her voice now soft.

Maybe the vodka will work. I have to wait.

“Cramps.”

She sighed. “I’m so relieved.”

Dad was incredulous. “She’s drunk and in pain and you’re relieved?”

“You can never understand what cramps are like. Go,” she said. “Get everything on the table. I’ll be right in.” She sat holding me. I didn’t tell her I hurt all over, and she didn’t notice my scraped cheek. Everybody believes cramps. I would. I’m grateful for them. I wish I had them.

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32.

The next morning Mom called the principal’s office and told them I was sick. Then everyone left. I went into the bathroom and jumped up and down at least a hundred times. Nothing came out. Nothing, and believe me I checked.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t use 7-UP.

I collapsed onto the chair. If this is a hangover, never will another drop pass my lips, lips that are rough, sting-ing sand. The Vaseline jar was on top of the bureau, a mile away. The telephone rang and a new pain was added, a rasping saw in my head. How does anyone drink if this is the next day?

I stood up, quivering, and groped my way into Grandma’s room. The closest phone. It was a toss-up whether at my pace I could make it before the caller hung up.

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When I reached the phone, I didn’t have the strength to say anything.

“Jamie? Is that you?” Elaine’s voice was so piercing, I had to move the phone away from my ear.

“I hope not,” I muttered.

She started to cry. At least not loudly. I lay down gin-gerly on Grandma’s bed, cradling the phone between my head and the pillow.

“I’m going tomorrow to a wage home. I’m supposed to help some family. Housework, that sort of thing.” I pushed myself to sit up. “You’re going to be a maid?” Elaine sighed. “You don’t know what it’s been like here. I’m too big for a girdle. If anyone comes over, I have to stay upstairs. Nobody can see me.”

“In the attic? Like Anne Frank listening through floorboards?”

“It’s not funny. If they ask about me, my mother says I’m doing homework or I have a cold. I haven’t seen anyone in over a month.”

I touched my stomach. How big before they hide me?

“The worst is the car. When we go to the doctor, I practically crawl to the driveway and then I have to lie down on the back seat. I stayed in the car when my mom bought smock dresses. They are so ugly. And after tomorrow they’re going to tell people I’m helping with my aunt who’s sick. I’ll write to you,” she said. “They don’t have room yet in the Catholic Home, that’s why. But they will soon.” She paused, and said, “and you could come.” 164

“One preggers goes on visiting day to say hello to another.” I tried to laugh, but it came out a snort.

“Come stay there. With me,” she said urgently.

“So Neil can take me away too?”

She hung up.

Why did I do that? Stevie’s right, I have turned mean.

The phone rang again, and I grabbed it.

“Elaine? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Really I didn’t.” Silence.

“Hello?” I said.

“What didn’t you mean?”

“Mom! It’s nothing. Me and Elaine, you know, we had a fight. Really it’s nothing.”

I could hear her moving papers. “I wanted to check on how you’re doing,” she said. “You were pretty miserable last night, and I imagine your head feels like a cracked coconut this morning.”

“I’m not seeing double anymore.”

I could almost hear a slight smile. “I want you to take the pot roast out of the refrigerator,” she said. “Put it in the oven at 300 degrees. I’ll be home in a little over an hour.”

Mom’s okay that way. No heavy moral laid on, but believe me, you get the idea.

I dialed Elaine. I couldn’t leave it like that. She answered on the first ring.

“Neil?”

“It’s me.”

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“Oh.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean it. I’m trying to work things out here. You know. About me. And it’s hard. So I’m really sorry.”

I waited.

“If that’s an apology, I accept it.” And then she said,

“It’s your choice.”

I swallowed hard. “You’re my oldest friend.” As I said it I knew nothing would ever be the same. Ever.

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33.

The caf was half full. Georgina saw me and waved.

“Carol and Kay are still at that citywide Latin compe-tition.” She looked hard at me. “You into muumuus now?”

“Yeah. I think the colors are great.” I looked down at the print. Why do they have to make them so loud?

“I thought you said you didn’t like green on you?” If this keeps up, she’ll figure it out. I know Georgina.

“It’s red and green together.”

She laughed, “Christmas in springtime.” And a little present on the way. Oh god.

Georgina picked the celery out of the tuna fish in her sandwich.

“It’s a good thing we’re friends,” I said, getting away from muumuus. “Somebody else might think that’s gross.” She leaned towards me. “What’s gross is your not 167

saying anything. You think I haven’t noticed? What is
not
gross is that I haven’t said anything to Kay and Carol.” I looked down at my own tuna sandwich. The smell was overwhelming, and I began to cough. Georgina pushed a glass of water towards me.

“Dry throat,” I croaked.

She leaned back, folded her arms and said, “So?”

“It’s awful.”

“Paul?”

“Never!” I pushed the sandwich as far from me as I could, and blew my nose. “It was . . . horrible. I can’t talk about it.”

She came over to my side of the table. “What are you going to do?”

I grabbed her hand. “I have to make a phone call.

Come with me?”

Georgina put my tray on top of hers, and we left the caf. The
Record
office was empty, as I knew it would be.

I sat at the front desk, and Georgina pulled up a chair. I picked at the blotter like a scab.

I took out the piece of paper from Aunt Sheila. There was no doubt in my mind, but I called the doctor’s office anyway.

“This is . . . Mrs. Morse.”

Georgina mouthed “Mrs.?”

“Just a moment please.” The receptionist put down the phone and then came back chirping. “Good news! You are definitely pregnant.”

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I don’t know why it struck like a cannonball. I’d known it, but now . . . now it was absolute.

“Jamie, who was that?”

“Good news,” I said, holding back a scream. “I’m definitely—”

Georgina got up and walked to the back of the room.

She stood for a moment facing the windows, then walked back to the front. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to have it?”

“I can’t do that. I can’t!” My head was like a metro-nome that wouldn’t stop swinging from side to side. “I can’t go through that, nine months inside me, and then give it away. I can’t.”

We sat not talking.

My hands were ice cold. Georgina had her hand on my arm. Hers was warm.

“If I find someone, you’ll come with me?” She looked scared. She nodded.

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34.

Why do I have to be so ordinary? Morning sickness, and it’s nasty enough to come late some days. Like today. I hate to throw up; it leaves such an awful taste. I’ve been eating sal-tine crackers like there’s no tomorrow. What’s really awful is this strange rash on my left cheek. It’s lucky I bought that powder-puff compact. Kay said to me the other day that I looked like a painted woman. But she immediately started talking about something else. Almost everyone has some pimples, so it’s not a big surprise. But these are not pimples.

“Hey, Miss Hot Lips, letters.” Stevie charged in from my doorway, leapt up and tossed envelopes onto the chair.

“Practicing my hook shot, not bad!” He whirled out. I was too tired to work up anger.

Letters. Who’d be writing me? The top one had Lois’s return address.

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Dear Jamie,

I’ve thought a lot about what you said and you’re right. I shouldn’t have let it happen. I should have thought of you as my kid sister, not a young friend.

That’s not an excuse, I know. It’s just what I’ve been thinking about. And I’ll never forgive myself for letting you down so badly.

I want you to know that I gave Jonas what for. He said you’d told him you were eighteen, not that that makes it okay. Then he said he’d pulled out. I told him he was an absolute bastard and I never want to see him again.

I am so sorry this happened to you. It would be awful for anyone, but to me you are special, which makes it particularly awful. I hope you know I care deeply about you.

Love,

Lois

P.S. I understand why you haven’t answered my calls, but if you can forgive me and there’s anything I can do—
please
call.

I crumpled the paper, but then flattened it out and put it in the second drawer of my desk between two pads. I put the dictionary on top of it. It belonged with a pile of words. I couldn’t help it. I was still angry. She should have watched out for me.

The next two envelopes were from Elaine. The first letter was scribbled on a torn sheet of notebook paper. She wrote it from the wage home.

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I’ve got my own room in the basement, but they let me watch television in their living room if no one is visiting. I’ve been washing a lot of dishes. They have a baby who screams through half the night. Mine won’t, I know. He’ll be adorable like Neil. I wrote Neil for a picture to put in my locket. It hasn’t come yet.

A no-crying baby. Sure, like Neil will send a picture, like her parents will let her marry Neil.

The second letter had a different return address and a folded envelope inside along with her letter.

I’m here at last. It’s not so bad. You were right about the name thing, though. I’m Eleanor!

I was close with Emily.

The nuns, she said, had them busy every minute.

Up at 6:30, breakfast over by 7:00, lunch at noon, different classes each day, mostly girl-getting-ready-to-be-mother things like sewing, knitting, putting together a layette, which she said was sad, since everything would be left for the family that’s adopting. Except, of course, she says, for Neil Jr’s. things, which she’ll take when they get married. And every Friday there was a medical checkup.

The rest was pretty depressing, although I don’t know if Elaine meant it that way.

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Sister Francis Catherine is kind. She tries to make us feel good about what we’re doing by telling us there’s a good Catholic family waiting for the baby. The social worker who comes once a week says the same thing.

She had us write on one side of a page what that family would give the baby. On the other side we wrote what we could give. I don’t care that they have lots of money and a big house and good schools and that Neil and I won’t start with much. I wrote I have lots and lots and lots of LOVE!!! NOBODY could give my baby as much love as me.

You’re my best friend. You have to do this for me.

I’m not allowed to write to Neil. So I’m sending you the letter to mail for me. PLEASE! He can’t come for me if he doesn’t know where I am. You have to HELP!!!

The folded envelope was addressed to Neil. And there was more.

Margaret (her real name is Pat) is like me. She’s going to keep her baby. She won’t talk to the social worker anymore. Maybe I won’t either.

I started a letter to Elaine. I told her a little about me and the test, but nothing else. I wanted to say, what if Neil doesn’t come through? But I didn’t.

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35.

That doctor in Pennsylvania—Stevens? Smith? What was his name! Stupid, stupid stupid! Why hadn’t I put that piece of paper in a safe place?

What was I wearing at Lois’s? The grey slacks. I dug into each pocket as if by magic it would appear. What blouse? The striped one, but it had no pockets. Someplace in my wallet. No paper. I emptied my bag on the bed. A crumpled note from Paul about the ring. Tissues. Clean.