Pregnant with a Bastard Child − June, 2002
I was 22 when I got pregnant. Peter and I had been dating for two years, and had been living together unofficially for over a year. Officially, we had gotten our first apartment together only a few months before that positive test.
I was not finished University. For all intents and purposes, I was still a foolish kid. I had so much growing up left to do. And here I was, growing a new child instead. It's not that I have ever for a moment wished that I didn't have Ben. But I have spent many, many moments since finding out that I was pregnant wishing like hell that I had been more of an adult before adulthood was thrust upon me. I could have finished University before I delivered him. But I had spent so much time focusing on following my passions before following my books. I could have done so many things differently. Only, I didn't.
Aside from Peter, the first person that I told was Mandiy. I called her that night and she came to pick me up. We sat in her car, staring ahead out the window. I'm pregnant, I said. And then I laughed. I couldn't repress it, this totally inappropriate reaction to the stress. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Mandiy's head swivel towards me, her wide eyes unblinking. You're joking, she said. I shook my head. She hesitated and then started the car. We'll drive, she said simply. She did not ask if I was pregnant with Drew's child. It was a possibility that we were both aware of.
I was also aware that I could not tell Drew. From the very beginning, I knew this. Despite the fact that he was seven years my senior, and creeping up on 30 years of age at this time, I was not so foolish as to think of him as mature enough for this. He drank too much. He was wild, and reckless. He had no ambition, and no ties to anyone. Despite what he had said to me once, I knew that he was not the father type. He had taken a girlfriend once to have an abortion. I'm sure there were probably others. It didn't matter. I knew that I was on my own with this.
Of course, I would have to start slowly spreading the news. I remember thinking how easy I could have been to have buried my secret, if only I could have considered aborting this baby. But the idea would never even settle in my mind. I was conscious of this other person inside of me. I could not just erase him. And so, I would face everyone's disappointment. I would face their pity. First, my mother.
This, I knew, would be the hardest one. A woman who had given birth to seven children. A woman who had made no mistakes. She came from a family of perfection. In her world, there was a simple order. You were an obedient child. You worked hard in school. You did not engage is reckless behaviour of any kind. You did not bend to simple pleasures. You worked hard, had a good career, got married, had children. Life was simple in that way for her. I was not sure that she would understand my messy life. My complicated mistakes. I was afraid of embarrassing her to her family. In her world, there was an order. Church, family, work. Nothing else. I was about to upset all of that.
We went for a walk. Just the two of us. It was beautiful out. We walked mostly in silence. Though we have always been close, I have never been much for talking. As a rule, I keep things to myself. I hoard them. I hate to share. Sharing feels like opening in a way that can bleed. And I do not like the mess.
Mom, I said.
It is always this way. When I need to say something that I don't want to say, the pressure on my lungs becomes so intense. I think I might faint. I always want to back out. I always want to say, nothing - nevermind. My palms sweat. I feel nauseous.
I can't say the rest, I am sure. I say "Mom" and fall silent again. She prompts me. She thinks I want to talk, mother-daughter style. For her, this is exciting. For me, it is a nightmare. What, she asks. What is it?
I remember being afraid that I might laugh again. I shouldn't have worried. Suddenly I am aware of the wetness on my face. I have started to cry. I refuse to open my mouth, so the sobs expand in my lungs. They hurt. My mom stops walking.
Are you pregnant?
My family had never approved of Peter. They thought of Peter as a playing piece in my teenage rebellion years. They had not thought that he would last. My mother, especially, believed wholeheartedly that I would meet "a nice boy". It's not that Peter wasn't nice enough, really. It's that he was a high school drop out then. He didn't work. He smoked. He didn't say much. He was moody. They had no knowledge of Drew, but they would have liked him even less.
My silence was enough of an answer for her. She hugged me, but her disappointment was palpable. Despite this, she fought to be supportive from that initial moment. My mother is a wonderful mother. As she held me, and as I cried into her sweater, she said, this is not a tragedy. Mark's death was a tragedy. This is a baby and everything is going to be okay. We are all here for you.
Comments:
peahayes (May 12, 2008. 04:24am)
Wow, I felt like crying when I read that. Thanks again for sharing. It's good that your mother came through for you. I have been wondering how much your brother dying affected your life afterwards, but it's none of my business. But how right your mother was. His death puts so many things in perspective. I hope that she has continued to come through for you.