Page 45 of When the Night is Over

“Do you mind if I live here until I deliver the baby?”

She sets about cutting into her steak. “Not at all.” And without missing a beat, she adds, “Pass the biscuits, sweetie, will you?”

Chapter Sixteen

Charlotte

After that first trip to the clinic with Janelle, I make the drive for my monthly appointments on my own. Sometimes I pass the time checking out the other girls in the waiting room, guessing as to what each one’s story is. Some are there to get birth control, you can tell by their no-nonsense attitude or the bored way they flip through the reproductive health brochures. Some are teary-eyed. They’re the newbies, fretting over the pregnancy test they’re about to take—the one that will confirm what they already know. Then there are the girls who stare straight ahead wearing a blank expression. Decision made, keeping it or not keeping it, accepting of their fate. When I’m not busy judging everyone else in the room, I imagine it’s how I look.

Every other month I also meet with Penny, the social worker assigned to my case.The Case of the Wishy-Washy Unwed Teen Mom—that’s the title I’d pick for this caper. She does her best to cover a variety of topics with me, but I know the real purpose of these sessions. Penny is dedicated to the welfare of my unborn child. Her job is to determine if I’m mentally stable, if I’m prepared and able to provide a good quality home for this baby. If she deems me lacking, it’s her job to steer me towards adoption.

I’m not painting her in a flattering light, even though I like her. I appreciate her candid nature, the way she gives it to me straight. She warns me that no matter what I decide to do, nothing is going to be easy. She doesn’t treat me like an idiot, even though I often feel like one for getting pregnant in the first place.

Now seven months along, I earn curious looks on a daily basis in the halls of my high school. I don’t care. Not most days, anyway. I wear my indifference like a shield. I notice two girls in the senior class who are in the same predicament, but feel no compulsion to swap war stories with them. They aren’t looking to befriend me either—cue mynotdisappointed sigh.

Janelle helped me fill out the waiver form to take the GED exam early. I plan on acing it this coming Thursday. The legal emancipation business is going to have to wait, though. Apparently my father needs to sign off on it to forego court proceedings, so Janelle and I agreed it was best to let it lie. Hopefully he won’t remember about that bank account until after my eighteenth birthday.

My back is hurting as I heft myself up onto the exam table today. “Shirt up, princess,” the ultrasound tech teases. Shirt up—I know the routine. I cringe as that goo is spread over my middle. “You’ll get a clear look at the baby today. You ready?”

My gaze shifts to the monitor. “I guess.” It’s a blurry image. “I thought these things were super clear now.”

She chuckles. “We don’t have those fancy three dimensional machines here at the clinic. But you can still make everything out just fine.”

“If it’s a boy or a girl? You can see that?”

I ask the question, even though I know the answer. No one asked if I wanted to know the sex at the twenty-week sonogram, and I can tell this one isn’t about to just offer it up today. The doctor will tell me if I ask, but I’m not sure I want to know just yet.

“Hmm, depends if this little critter cooperates. Here we’ve got some nice little fingers and toes…Spine looks good.” She looks pensive for a split second and then starts taking screen shots, one after another. Seems like a lot more than she took the last time. Back and forth she goes with the probe over my belly, then more images. She has her smile back in place, but now it seems toothy and forced.

“Everything good?”

She gives me a kind look but says nothing as she hands me a wad of paper towels and gestures for me to sit up. “Doctor will be in shortly, honey.”

Within an hour of the ultrasound, I’m being transported to the Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor. The fetal echocardiogram revealed a severe obstruction of the aortic valve. Mysonhas a heart defect that may prove to be fatal if left untreated.

The course of your life can change in the blink of an eye. Instead of tackling the GED this coming Thursday as planned, I’m now scheduled for surgery.

When the doctors begin throwing around phrases likelong-term prognosisandbest chance at a normal life, I struggle not to zone out. I force myself to nod, making every attempt to keep up when I’m told the problem has to be repaired in utero as soon as possible.

Janelle is the one who stays tuned in, writes down everything the doctors say, researches the procedure and then explains it to me.

The night before my surgery, I wake from a nap to see Janelle crying softly as she sits in a chair at my bedside.

“The baby has a good prognosis, right Janelle?” I’m suddenly worried that the adults haven’t shared the whole truth with me.

“Yes, and we’re in one of the finest hospitals in the country. You and the baby couldn’t be in better hands.” She wipes at her cheeks and takes a deep breath. “Did your father ever tell you about my husband?”

“You were married?”

She laughs. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No! I mean, Dad never mentioned that you were married.”

“I’m sure he rarely spoke my name aloud.” I don’t feel the need to confirm that truth. “I shouldn’t be so hard on him. He had it tough, I guess. My father died when he was just sixteen. That’s pretty young to take on the responsibility of an unstable mother and a younger sister.”

“He never talks about his childhood.”

“I think he feels ashamed about running out on us when he finished high school. He was young…I never blamed him. I was sent to live with an aunt when my school called protective services on my mother.” In response to my gasp, Janelle shrugs in a matter of fact way. “She drank heavily after my father died.”

---