Crank - 01 (21 page)

and made two calls. One to

Planned Parenthood. The other to

Chase.

My Appointment Was at Two

Chase picked me up at noon.

Pale, shaky, I climbed

in beside him.

Hi. You look awful.

I smiled. “Whose fault is that?”

We laughed at the not-funny joke

and headed into town.

Are you okay?

I shook my head. “I’m pregnant,

remember?” I leaned into

my hands, let the tears flow.

Please don’t cry. I’m here for you.

Here? He was going off to sunny

Southern California. I didn’t need

him anyway. Did I?

I love you. More than I realized.

“I love you, too. But I’m scared,

Chase.” He pulled to the side

of the road.

I’ll take care of you. The baby, too.

Was he giving me another choice?

Could I make that decision?

I was only 17.

Marry me, Kristina.

My knees buckled. My stomach

churned. Chase had stepped up to the plate.

The pitch was up to me.

Planned Parenthood

was a cinder-block

nightmare. It felt

like prison without

the comfort of bars.

Ugly in orange,

the waiting room

made me want to

throw up. So I did.

A dozen women

gave sympathetic

looks as I returned

from the bathroom.

One by one, they

disappeared as a

stern woman in white

called their names.

Chase held my hand

as we watched them

reappear, one by

one, ashen as ghosts.

A procession of

wraiths, that’s what

it was. And I was in

the back of the line.

I rocked against the

hard plastic chair.

Finally the woman

called, “Bree Wagner.”

Chase flinched, then

whispered in my ear:

I prefer the sound

of Kristina Wagner.

I Already Knew My Options

I listened patiently as the saccharine

Ms. Sweetwater outlined them again.

She did confirm that should I choose

abortion, my parents would not

have to know. All I needed was $500

and someone to drive me home.

She gave me the name of a

local adoption agency,

urged me to consider placing

my baby in a loving home.

And then she asked me

the date of my last period.

Hard as it was, I thought

back to a night up at

Chamberlain Flat, when I used

that period as an excuse to say no.

It was the weekend before school

started. Add a couple of weeks and …

I gained a terrible insight.

Chase was not the baby’s father.

Brendan was.

The Realization

was like jamming a

paper clip

into a light socket:

profoundly stunning;

like cinching

a garbage bag tight

around my neck:

completely suffocating.

A mad surge

of blood rushed

to my brain,

pounding temples and eardrums

before draining

away completely.

My face went Arctic,

diving deep freeze,

glacier blue.

Graveyard cold

hugged me tight,

rattling teeth and bones.

Chase called my

name. Ms. Sweetwater

skittered to her feet

and everything went black.

Passing Out

is the strangest thing.

One minute

you’re here.                                                                         

Then with a mere

cerebral flutter,

you’re not.                                                                         

Part of your brain

insists you’re dead.

Of course, you’re not.                                                                         

Another part says it’s

better there, in the dark.

Where, exactly, are you?                                                                         

Somewhere, you hear

voices, urgent.

Could you be in limbo?                                                                         

A thin beam of light

calls to you.

Will you reach heaven?                                                                         

Brighter now,

white and beautiful.

You hurry in that direction.                                                                         

Your eyes acquiesce,

and open to discover …

you’re back in hell, after all.
                                                                         

Voices

Oh Yeah, I Was Fine

Dandy          in fact.

Pregnant      by a sex fiend.

Starving       for the monster.

Scared          to admit either

to those close to me

who remained

clueless       eyes closed to every

negative      thing about me, or

dying           to know every

dirty             little tidbit.

And the only one

who knew every little

negative, dirty thing

would have

forgiven       me anything.

Chase Steadied Me

as we walked to his truck,

hand in hand. He opened

the door, helped me inside,

slid in behind the wheel.

So tell me.

I considered playing

ignorant, but knew he

wouldn’t let go.

“About the baby …”

My eyes unlocked

from his, but not quickly

enough to conceal the truth.

Brendan is the father.

My throat constricted,

like a rubber band twisting

around my admission.

“Oh, God, Chase.

It’s all so wrong!”

Our eyes reconnected.

In his, I found sympathy.

And jealousy.

It doesn’t matter, Kristina.

We can make it right.

He Drove Me Home—Slowly

My stomach flip-flopped

with every curve and brake.

Finally, he asked,

So what do you think?

I had no answers.

None at all.

So he joked,

Should be a cute kid, anyway.

Which made me smile

but still gave me no answers.

He offered,

Don’t answer me now.

Not then, but soon.

I was already six weeks p.g.

He probed,

I know it’s a tough decision
…

Tough. Too tough.

And all mine to make.

He dared,

but life is full of tough decisions.

Like a guy would ever

have to face
this
one.

He suggested,

Maybe you should talk to your mom.

My Mom?!?!

The ice princess?   The bitch queen?

The “mother” of all mothers?

What was he thinking?

How could I talk to
her?

We hadn’t really talked in months.

What would I tell her now?

That I was pregnant?

That I was pregnant because I was raped?

That I was raped because I would have done

anything

for just one more taste of the monster?

Where would I start?

Where would I finish?

How much to admit?

How much to hide?

How much to confess?

Where would I find such nerve

without crank to open my mouth?

And if I did dig down deep enough to find it,

would I crumble and weep?

Would she?

The Kitchen Was Warm

and carried a scent

of hot butter, wrapped

in cinnamon.

It reminded me

of when I was little.

Before Jake.

Before Scott.

Despite Dad.

Back when I still believed

Mom was the perfect mother.

She, Leigh, and I were the trinity.

We baked together.

Canned together.

Planned together.

Plotted birthdays

and holidays around

homemade gifts

that didn’t cost much

but time and love.

And the fun was not only

in the giving, but

in the shared creation.

I adored Mom then.

Could my own child

ever love me so?

Somehow She Didn’t Notice

the wavering tone of my “Hi, Mom.”

I sat down at the table and she brought

me a plate of warm oatmeal cookies.

Hi, Honey. How was your day?

I almost laughed. I almost cried.

I managed to hold both inside. “Okay.”

Good deal. Hey, I need your input.

My
input? Was this some odd

attempt at bonding?

What should we get Leigh

for Christmas?

Christmas. It would come right

on schedule, despite my predicament.

I already put an Xbox

on layaway for Jake.

Whatever choices I made, Jake would

indulge in the latest video games.

And I got Scott a new

set of clubs.

Come spring, regardless of my decision,

Scott would enjoy a great game of golf.

But I’m just not sure about Leigh….

Leigh. Would she ever know

the pleasure—or terror—of pregnancy?

Does she have a DVD player?

I bobbed my head. “Heather does.

How about a Palm Pilot?”

Great idea! Leigh’s so disorganized!

The ice princess gently stroked

my hair, and for one very scary instant…

There’s the buzzer. More cookies?

I verged on coming clean.

I Opened My Mouth

just as Scott rumbled

through the door,

winding down what

I guessed must have

been a very long ramble:

   
… out-of-touch politicians …

   … the !@#!*#@economy …

   … the next round of layoffs …

   … the boss’s decision to scale

   back raises and Christmas

   bonuses, despite signing

   off on his own 20% pay hike …

So much for ho-ho-ho.

So much for confessions.

So much for answers.

And then Mom made

the mistake of turning

on the radio as a weather

forecaster announced

we could expect snow,

and enough of it for

the ski resorts to enjoy

a lucrative Thanksgiving.

Scott went off again.

   
Just @!$%#@! perfect,

   
with the Jeep in the shop

   
and the Subaru needing tires.

   
November snow!

   
Can you imagine a worse omen?

Omens! Great!

I wasn’t about to try and dissuade

the Powers-That-Be.

I still needed answers, however.

I picked up the phone, went into

my room, and made a few calls.

The first was to Dad. Not sure why.

Got his answering machine:

Me and Linda Sue were feeling

blue, so we went to Mexico.

Leave your number.

I’m getting a hummer.

Linda Sue? Was she from Kentucky?

No doubt “Miss Louisville” paid for their trip.

But did the world have to know they had oral sex?

And who made Dad a (very bad) poet?

On a crazy whim, I called Adam next.

Guess who was whining in the background.

Kristina? [Momento, Lince. I’ll be right there.]

Well, yeah, we’re hangin’ out pretty steady.

In fact—you won’t believe this—

I’m going to be a daddy next summer.

Oh, yeah, I believed it all right.

Apparently, though Lince still lacked

feeling in one arm, other parts felt plenty.

So much for Giselle. So much for summer visits.

I muttered congratulations and hung up

without sharing my own “good news.”

I Thought About Calling Leigh

but figured she’d tell Mom, “for my own good.”

I called Robyn instead.

“So I’ve got this friend who just

found out she’s pregnant …”

Total bummer. How far gone are