Sunlight on My Shadow (8 page)

Mick picked me up at home, honking in the driveway. The car was still running when I hopped in. Sonny and Cher were singing “I Got You Babe” on the AM radio. That was our song.

“They say we’re young and we don’t know

We won’t find out until we grow

Well I don’t know if all that’s true

‘Cause you got me, and baby I got you

And when I’m sad, you’re a clown

And if I get scared, you’re always around

‘Cause you got me, and baby I got you”

I loved to listen to this song while I was up at the cabin away from Mick, pining for his love and attention. Now it was a sham. So what if he had me and I had him. All that meant now was serious trouble.

Mick smelled like Brut, men’s cologne. I usually liked it, but that day it smelled like he took a bath in it. The fumes provoked a wave of nausea. Instead of charming and attractive, he looked ordinary and a tad sinister. Maybe it was the overpowering sense of dread that made my body respond in this foreign manner.

Halloween was a few days off and the air was frigid; the trees were covered with frost crystals. We whizzed past the suburban houses that lined Glenview Road. Some of them were set back so you could gaze down the long driveways and dream about the castle like homes that lurked beyond. Glenview Road was pretty deserted this Sunday afternoon. The sky was gray and the air thick with fog. I stared out the window. There was a news show on the radio; Mick reached over and switched the channel.

I started mulling over the script. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. I rolled, hashed, and mashed the words in my mind. How should I put it to him?

“Uhh, Mick, guess what?”

“What?” he’d say.

“I’m pregnant.”

No, that was too blunt.

How about, “Uh, Mick, I have to talk to you about something. I think I’m pregnant.”

No, I can’t say that. I don’t think it. I know it.

How about, “Hey, Mick, my period is late and I’m worried.” That might work. But there didn’t seem to be a good way to say this. I thought, “What is wrong with me? I hate this indecision, wondering how to choke out a few dumb words.”

How about, “I have some bad news.” Maybe …

But what if he gets all mad or doesn’t believe me? Worse yet, what if he denies it could be him that planted the seed? Impossible. He knows he is my one and only. But yet I could see how it could be tempting to deny the whole damn thing. The incurred responsibilities were daunting. His parents would freak out; maybe his dad would beat the crap out of him. I didn’t know Mr. Romano that well, but I knew he and Mick had some run-ins.

Mick made a right turn off Glenview Road and onto Waukegan. We still sat in pregnant silence. The time was now, but the words stuck in my throat. I was scared of his reaction. I thought he might yell, freak out, deny it, or drop me.

He flipped the turn signal and we rolled into McDonald’s. He parked in our usual spot in the back lot and turned off the key.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Not really.”

We hardly ever ate anything when we came to McDonald’s. It was more like a place to be rather than a place to eat. Hot rods and old beaters filled the lot. The dam let loose; the words spilled out.

“Mick, uummm, I don’t know how to say it, but I think I have some really bad news.”

“What’s that, Goonsfield?”

“Well, remember when the rubber broke?”

“Yeah …” he said, the word trailing off. His face got dark.

“Well, my period is two weeks late.”

“Are … you … kidding … me?” He said it slowly.

“No, I’m just sure. I wouldn’t kid about this.”

“A lot of girls are late, though, aren’t they?” he said.

“That’d be nice, but I’m scared shitless. I’m not the irregular kind.”

Mick turned the radio down and said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. You’ll probably get your period tomorrow and know you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

I stayed on my side of the car and could feel tears welling in my eyes. This wasn’t going well. He didn’t want to believe we were in hot water.

I placated him by saying, “I guess there’s a chance I’m just late.” My gut knew this was wrong. I was suddenly hot, and I rolled down my window.

“Why are you opening the window? It’s cold out there.”

“I need some air.”

“Really, you haven’t gotten a period since the party?” Finally he sounded concerned.

“Really,” I said. I cranked the window back up but left it cracked.

There was a long pause and then, “Do … you … think … you … are ……?”

“Pregnant?” I said, filling in the blank.

“Yah, but you couldn’t be,” he said.

“Why not? All you need is one screw-up.”

“Yeah, but that’d just be our luck. That idiot, John. Why’d he give me that defective piece a shit? It’d been better if we used nothing.”

“Yeah, it’s not good. My boobs are sore and I’ve been sickish. You know, like morning sickness?”

Mick shuffled in his seat and used his fingers to run his hair back. “Morning sickness? Oh, fuck. Great. This is just great.”

“Don’t get mad. That won’t help.”

“I can’t believe that rubber broke. I never should have gotten that thing from John. He must have had it in his pocket forever. Some favor.”

“Well, what happened, happened. We can’t change that.”

“What are you going to do?” he said.

“I don’t know. Is there some way I can bring on a miscarriage?”

“I don’t know,” said Mick. “Maybe you could ask someone.”

“Who?”

“A doctor?”

“Who’d I go to?”

“I don’t know.”

The wind was whistling through the cracked window. I was cold now, and rolled it shut.

“A doctor’d make me tell my parents. I can’t do that.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe I’ll have a miscarriage. I’ve been praying for that.”

“That’s a long shot, but worth a try, I guess. Do you think we should get married?” He asked it in a halfhearted, tenuous tone.

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said. “We’re too young.” That didn’t seem like a good solution. The idea was suffocating.

“Oh, shit, this is awful,” he said.

Mick stiffened his body and moved away. His eyes had a contemplative stare; his mouth was tight, stern. He seemed pissed off. I felt sorry for the worry on his face.

“Look,” I said. “Lennie’s pulling in.”

“Who gives a fuck,” Mick said. “My parents are gonna kill me.”

“Well, don’t worry about that now. We’ll see what happens.”

I tried to hold back the well of tears that were squeezing out; my throat was so tight that it ached. My organs shook inside their cavity.

Mick said, “We’re in a mess. But don’t worry about it now, Jude. You might still get your period. Straighten up, here comes Lennie.”

I knew his words were empty. It wasn’t going to turn out okay. I looked up and saw Lennie getting ready to knock on the window. Mick rolled it down.

“Hop in, Lennie. How’s it goin’?”

We switched from life-threatening conversation to idle chitchat. My heart was still cold. I was surprised at how easily Mick could turn off the worry and switch to blasé chat.

After about thirty minutes, I said, “Mick, I better get home.”

As Lennie got out, dread and worry returned with the silence. The wind had picked up and dried leaves were swirling around the parked cars. We pulled out and didn’t talk much until we said good-bye when Mick dropped me off at home. I dragged my body out of the car.

I was a sickened and diseased soul. I had shared my burden with Mick, but it didn’t seem to lighten the load. I had never felt so alone. I don’t know what I thought Mick could do about it, but of course he had no solution because there was none. After telling him, I felt twice as bad—once for each of us. I wiped the tears from my face as I stepped into the house.

If I carried any shred of hope that I was not pregnant, it was extinguished the night I lay in bed and ran my hand over my tummy, just above the pubic bone. I was shocked to feel a hard lump nestled deep inside, the size of a bird’s egg. Then I knew this was my pregnancy and it was taking hold. I tried to move it around but it seemed glued in place. I had to get rid of it. It was just going to grow and get bigger, a freaky tumor taking possession of my body. I held my arm out straight and made a fist. Then I snapped my hand back to my belly and punched. It hurt. Had I gone insane, pounding my own body? I tried again and realized I had to try harder. So I punched again. And again. I waited.

I could hear myself breathing. Nothing seemed to happen. I wanted to feel cramps. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. I needed more force. I tried again. Arm straight: slam. It was difficult to get much power because my arms were too short. I tried again anyway. Tears spilled onto my cheeks. I’d had enough. It was hopeless. I hated myself and my growing belly with a newfound loathing. I settled down. I lay there. Was that a crimp in my belly? The start of cramps? I prayed again for God to bring the pains that would help me pass the lump. My arm ached from exhaustion and the skin on my belly was red. I cried, trapped. I rolled over and eventually drifted asleep.

The next night I tried again, but it was halfhearted. I suspected my efforts would be fruitless and it was just too nuts to be hurting myself like this. I was scared to use the force I thought was necessary and accepted defeat. The seed had taken purchase. It continued to expand, but still I told no one.

The weeks passed slowly until I was unable to button my uniform skirt. I couldn’t get the waistband’s button over to the hole, nor could I suck in my stomach enough to make it fit. It wouldn’t suck. I knew this day was coming, so the previous week I had decided I needed more props to pull off my act. It was windy and about forty degrees in mid-February. I was now four and a half months along. I bundled up and drove Mom’s car over to Edens Plaza. I went into the Ben Franklin Five and Dime and picked out the thickest and smallest girdle I could find. I knew it would look fishy if anyone I knew saw me buying a girdle—me, a skinny thing, except for the part no one could see. I plopped a bag of black licorice strings on top of the girdle when I got to the checkout counter to camouflage my purchase. I hoped I wouldn’t run into someone I knew.

Today I was glad I had that fat compressor. I reached way back in the bottom drawer, and found it tucked under my pajamas. It was impossible trying to pull the thing over my belly, it was so teensy. I wiggled and pulled but my skin was sticky from the lotion I put on. I got some talcum powder from the bathroom and sprinkled that on me. Finally I got the elastic waist over my tummy and tried the skirt on again. My stomach was still big and hadn’t compressed enough for the button to reach the hole. Now what? I only had two uniform skirts and they were both the same size.

While I was panicking over my predicament, I heard Dad’s footsteps going up and down the stairs and then into the bathroom. I was afraid he would knock and want to come in. I had my robe lying on the chair so I could grab it fast to pull it over me. I didn’t want him to see any shred of my body. I sat down on my overstuffed chair and put my face in my despairing hands. Dead end. What to do? “Come on, Jude,” I told myself. “Pull yourself together. There must be a way.” I wiped the tears with three fingers.

Then I had an idea. I threw on my robe and ran downstairs to the kitchen. I opened the drawer with the tin foil and grabbed an oversized rubber band from the corner of the drawer. It had been wrapped around the asparagus stalks. I scampered back upstairs. Dad was still in the bathroom. I went in my bedroom and shut the door, then I took the rubber band and folded it in half. I looped it around the button and then through the hole and back over to the button again. This gave me an extra two inches. It felt good. I left the girdle on, which seemed to help redistribute the bulge. I had a temporary fix for my expanding waist. For the first time, I was glad that we wore uniforms and that I had a blazer to hide my growing thickness.

The looping rubber band worked wonders, until one day at school my pen rolled off my desk. I bent down to pick it up and the rubber band snapped. It didn’t make any noise, but my skirt started falling to my knees. I was mortified. While I was still hunched over, I held my arms around my middle and then walked to the bathroom. I was glad class hadn’t started yet. I was also glad I had some change in my pocket. I put a nickel in the tampon dispensing machine and pressed “super.” I went in the stall and tried to pull the cotton away from the string. It was sewn into the cotton cylinder and wouldn’t come free, so I just looped the whole thing through the button hole and tied a knot around the button. I rolled my skirt up once so the tampon was hidden in the belt area of the skirt. It would get me through the day.

The stringed tampon didn’t have any “give” like the rubber band, so my skirt kept trying to ride up to the thinner part above the protrusion, kind of like Gomer Pyle on
The Andy Griffith Show
, with his pants up to his ears. Besides, the girdle made the surface slippery. The rest of the day, I had to keep pulling the skirt down to keep it around the thickest part of my waist. I was never so happy to get home and change clothes. I put an extra couple of rubber bands in my purse in case of any more mishaps, sort of like an inhaler for a person with asthma.

This time when I carried the secret of my pregnancy, alone, was the darkest period of my life. I am sad for that lonely teenager who couldn’t talk to anyone about her trouble. I could have saved myself some distress if I had faced the problem sooner and talked to an adult, but who would it have been? Dad would have had a solution. But telling Dad was too drastic, like jumping out of a plane. I couldn’t do it until I absolutely had to. How could I not know that I would eventually have to come clean? I held on to the false hope that the pregnancy would expel itself. It was the weak straw that I grabbed, for I couldn’t live without some shred of hope.

Not once did I think ahead of how it would all turn out. I never dreamed I would go away to a Home for Unwed Mothers or that I would give birth to a real baby. It was a time that I lived in absolute denial, an ostrich with its head in the sand. I lived each day in a shroud of fright that expanded with my belly. It was a life lesson for me.

As an adult, I try to address problems before they complicate themselves. I don’t like living with the dread of the unknown. I feel a bit duped when someone confides in me and then follows their words with: “but don’t tell anyone.” I’d rather know up front so I can say something like, “that’s ok, skip it,” because I really don’t like keeping secrets. They sit heavy on my heart.