If Only I Had Told Her(77)

Angelina whistles. “No matter what, having a baby is not cheap.”

Mom appears, carrying armfuls of clothing. “Oh, this is perfect for downstairs, Autumn.” She flips the price tag over and nods. “And we’ll need another table for changes in your room, a crib, a dresser…” She begins to wander among the furniture, talking to herself.

I watch her, and a sinking feeling starts in my stomach.

“Feeling sick, kiddo?” Aunt Angelina asks me.

“No,” I say. “I just…I’m not going to school, so Mom’s not getting child support from Dad anymore and…”

Angelina looks startled. “You know that she isn’t paying for any of this, don’t you?”

“What?” I ask.

“Your mom told me that she was going to tell you,” Angelina says. Her face is stony. “She swore she had this whole speech planned about how some people aren’t meant to be parents, but later in life, they regret—”

“Oh, right,” I say, even though I was given no such speech. “Still, I’m going to owe you both so much, all the emotional support and knowledge. I’m really out of my depth…”

I’ve spoken to my father on the phone twice since getting out of the hospital. The last phone call, he told me that he’d been assigned a business trip in Japan that would last six months but maybe more, depending on the markets.

“I’ll probably be home just before or after you to make me a grandfather—if you’re still determined to do that?” There was a hopeful note that I’d get an abortion or at least arrange an adoption.

“It’s happening, whether you’re here or in Japan,” I said.

“Well, I’ve talked to your mother, and you’re all sorted financially, so there’s not much more to say.”

I figured that was his way of telling me that if I was so determined, he might as well pay for it.

I suppose his symbolic monetary support should mean more, but it’s The Mothers’ support that’s giving me the courage to do this, to find out what people mean when they say it is all going to be worth it.

I’m about to cry, and Angelina pulls me into a hug.

“Oh yes,” she says into my hair. “Money can be paid back, but all this wisdom and love we’re showering you with? You’re going to be in debt to us forever. You’re going to have to let us babysit this grandbaby three, four nights a week to make it up to us.”

I laugh and she releases me. My mother has returned with the saleswoman trailing behind her.

“Is everything okay?” Mom asks.

“Hormones and daughterly gratitude got to Autumn,” Aunt Angelina says.

“Aw.” Mom puts a hand on my back. “Well, I have some good news. This place delivers!” She says it like it is some sort of miracle.

Luckily, the saleswoman either can’t hear my mother’s shock, or she doesn’t care. “Mondays through Thursdays, between eight a.m. and two p.m.,” she recites and adds, “You’ll have to wait until after the weekend.”

“What day is it?” I ask.

The saleswoman laughs reassuringly at me. “The brain gets tired from pregnancy, dear,” she says.

“Saturday,” Mom says. She knows that my lack of awareness has more to do with the monotony of my days than my pregnancy, but it’s nice for us to pretend otherwise for a moment.

So with Dad’s money and The Mothers’ wisdom and love, I begin to build my nest.





six





This looks like an AA meeting.

Not that I’ve ever been to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, but this scene fits the depictions of books and movies. We’re in a room in the hospital basement, which makes it both a little too cold and too humid, creating a creeping chill that makes me hug my elbows. We’re sitting in a circle of folding chairs. By “we,” I mean myself and twelve other people, all older than me, except for one girl who’s around my age. She arrived late, in pajama pants and reeking of cigarettes. Her shouted apology as she grabbed another folding chair sounded cursory and insincere.

I’m trying to focus on the woman who’s speaking; she’s describing how much she misses her work as a public defender in the juvenile system, though the job gave her PTSD. I kept thinking that she was going to describe being attacked or something, but it seems the system did it to her, the unrelenting waves of children who’d never been given a chance passing through her office, then being funneled on.

I’m trying to listen to her talk about the times the job had given her joy, when she’d won motions to clear someone’s record or keep someone out of the adult system. The girl my age sits directly across from me and fidgets in her seat, playing with her dirty-blond hair and smacking her gum. I watch her face as her bored gaze wanders around the circle. I avert my eyes before she reaches me.

“And I worry about the kids,” the lawyer is saying. “The kids I defended before and the kids I’m not defending now that I do contract law.” Her voice quavers. “Is anyone listening to them? Do they have anyone who cares about their stories?”

I look back at the new girl to see if she’s listening, but she’s staring straight me, and she doesn’t look away. She cocks her head in what seems to be a greeting, but I turn and refocus on the lawyer, who has quietly started crying.