"Hello, Shannon."

I cannot speak. I stand frozen in the doorway, staring at Mrs. Ellenburg. She stares back without expression, revealing nothing, absently running the fingers of her right hand over the rim of a glass on the coffee table. There's a lipstick mark on its edge. Mrs. Ellenburg continues to stare, dark eyes cold and piercing. I want the floor to open and swallow me whole. I want to escape those eyes.

"I said hello."

"Hello, Mrs. Ellenburg," I reply, so quietly I am uncertain if my voice carries across the room.

Mrs. Ellenburg lifts her fingers from the glass rim and moves her hand to her lap, folding it there very primly, sitting perfectly straight in the armchair. She looks regal and queenly, seated on a throne in a house that is not hers. And yet, I feel like the intruder, the outsider, shrinking within her sight. I am frightened. I am sickened.

"Maria…" I begin, softly, "please go upstairs and start your homework."

"I already finished," Maria tells me.

"Go upstairs, Maria."

Maria makes a face at me, but stands. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Ellenburg," she says to Wes' mother.

Mrs. Ellenburg smiles. "It was wonderful meeting you, Maria," she says. "Thank you for the water. Good luck with the entomology club."

Mrs. Ellenburg's smile drops as soon as Maria disappears from the room. I wonder what Maria's doing letting strangers in the house, offering them refreshments, and then sitting around for a chat. I wonder who she thinks Mrs. Ellenburg is. I don't have much time to wonder, or much ability, as I am now alone with Mrs. Ellenburg and am afraid. Perhaps, I should not have sent Maria away after all.

"Please sit," Mrs. Ellenburg tells me, gesturing toward the couch like this is her home.

I sit, obediently, sitting straight like Mrs. Ellenburg, feet firmly planted on the floor. I lower my eyes from her gaze.

"Wesley doesn't know I'm here," Mrs. Ellenburg says. "I got your address from Ginger Carson. Of course, I didn't tell her the real reason I needed it." Mrs. Ellenburg leans back slightly in the chair, resting a hand on each armrest. "Ginger has nothing but lovely compliments for you. Star student, responsible, clever, hardworking, a true friend. It was like hearing about a completely different girl. Who is the real Shannon?"

I'm uncertain if she expects an answer. I shrug.

She appears satisfied. "Ginger had a lot to say about your family. Especially about your parents. It was very enlightening. Of course, Wesley had told me some rather interesting things as well. I must say, everything makes a little more sense now. I wondered how you could do such a horrible, selfish thing, but I think now I may understand." Mrs. Ellenburg shifts her eyes around the room, as if the answers are on the walls, in the air, all around. "I partially blame myself. I should have checked up on you a lot sooner. When you said your father drinks for a living that sent off alarms in my head. And when you said you didn't know if you planned to remain in Stoneybrook much longer that worried me. I knew you were young and worried that perhaps you were a bit too young for the relationship Wesley so desperately seemed to want with you. Of course, I never dreamed just how young you actually are. It's quite unnerving seeing you in that school uniform."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Mrs. Ellenburg stares at me a moment. I look away.

"My Wesley is petrified that you're actually pregnant," Mrs. Ellenburg says, bluntly. "Are you?"

I shake my head. I don't know why. It's all I can do.

"No," I lie.

Mrs. Ellenburg watches me, then closes her eyes. She rubs her right temple. "Why don't I believe you?" she asks.

Because I am a liar.

I shrug.

"Are you pregnant?"

I nod.

Mrs. Ellenburg continues to rub her temple. "Oh, my God," she says. Then she laughs. It's airy and strange. "Oh, my God," she says again.

I fold my arms across my stomach, protecting myself.

"I have to ask," Mrs. Ellenburg says to me, "are you certain Wesley is the father?"

I almost cry. "Of course!" I reply, choking the tears back. "I was a virgin when I met him. I've never been with anyone else!"

Mrs. Ellenburg holds up a hand. "I really don't need any details," she informs me. She purses her lips. "Wesley is under the impression that you gave him pubic lice."

Does Wes keep any secrets from his mother? He's as bad as Maria.

Mrs. Ellenburg reads my mind. "Wesley didn't tell me. The Skipper did. Did you give my son pubic lice?"

"Yes," I answer, meekly. "I got them from my sister. My other sister."

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," Mrs. Ellenburg replies. "Have you been to the doctor? Are you sure you're pregnant?"

I nod. "I had a blood test."

"Did you do this on purpose?"

"Did I do what on purpose?"

"Get pregnant, of course. Wesley claims he was very careful. Was this truly an accident? Please don't lie to me, Shannon. You've lied enough already."

"I never wanted to be pregnant," I answer and finally begin to cry.

"You understand I must ask. There's no need to cry about it." Mrs. Ellenburg sets her purse on her lap and opens it. She removes a tissue and brings it to me, then returns to the armchair. "You are not solely to blame," she informs me in her matter-of-fact way. "Apparently, my son cannot properly use a condom. I don't know what he was thinking. He barely even knew you. Well, obviously!" Mrs. Ellenburg laughs, but it's not one of amusement, more of disbelief. "You two had no business having sex. You only dated for two months! Rush, rush, rush. That's all Wesley ever does. This is just as much his fault as yours."

What am I supposed to say? It's like she's sucking all the air from the room, leaving me lightheaded and completely stupid. I only nod.

Mrs. Ellenburg folds her hands in her lap. She watches me with those dark eyes, probing, penetrating. "What do you intend to do about the baby?" she asks.

I shrug. "My mother…my mother says I have to have an abortion. She made me an appointment."

"Do you want to have an abortion?"

I shrug again.

"Well, obviously, you don't know what you want. When will your mother be home? I wish to speak to her."

"She went to Hawaii."

"She went to Hawaii?" Mrs. Ellenburg repeats, voice rising. "What is she doing in Hawaii?"

"Taking a vacation," I answer. "I'm not supposed to be pregnant when she returns."

Mrs. Ellenburg appears absolutely appalled. "Well, your mother's completely worthless then," she tells me, "and we won't even consider her opinion. Let's discuss your options. You can have this baby and keep it or give it up for adoption. Or you can have an abortion. Which do you want to do, Shannon?"

"I don't know. I wanted to discuss it with Wes."

"Shannon, I am not certain we should tell Wesley that you are actually pregnant. He's devastated enough as is. He feels that he has spoiled you. He's worried that he has ruined you for life. He's taking this whole thing very hard. The pregnancy would only make it worse. If you opt to have an abortion, I don't see why Wesley needs to know. If you decide to keep the baby that's something else. Wesley would have to be told. Are you considering that as an option?"

I bite my lip. I can't admit all I've fantasized. That Wes would love me because of the baby, that he would come back. He would marry me. We would have a family. Wes would take care of me and never leave. I would be loved and needed. But I can't admit all that to Mrs. Ellenburg. She would laugh. She would laugh that strange and airy laugh.

"I don't think I'm ready to raise a baby," I tell her.

"I'm so relieved," Mrs. Ellenburg says, breezily. "I was worried for a minute. I don't know how we'd explain it. You'd ruin your life and Wesley's life. And frankly, I don't think another child needs to be brought into this house. Adoption or abortion then, that's what we're looking at." Mrs. Ellenburg taps her finger against her chin. It's the same habit Wes has. I watch her tap. Tap, tap, tap. "Of course," she finally says, "abortion seems like the simplest solution. I imagine that's why your mother is so eager to get it out of the way. No questions, no explanations, problem taken care of. But it's not so simple, is it? Certainly not for you. Not physically or emotionally. Not simple for Wesley either, if you tell him. It is his baby, too. And not simple for me either." Mrs. Ellenburg raises her eyes for a moment. I wonder if she might cry. "You are, after all, pregnant with my grandchild."

Somehow, that hadn't occurred to me. I've thought of it as my baby and Wes' baby and our baby, but not in any other terms. It is Mrs. Ellenburg's grandchild. And it is my mother's grandchild, too. Why is it effortless then for Mom to command me to dispose of it while Mrs. Ellenburg actually appears sad at the prospect? Why is it that Mrs. Ellenburg, who has only met me once before and who I lied to and deceived and broke her son's heart, why is it that she manages to speak to me without anger or cruelty?

"Have you thought about adoption?"

I shake my head.

"We could easily find adoptive parents. You must be due in the summertime? You could have the baby during the summer and then in the autumn, go away to college. You could start fresh. And you could do it far away from Wesley. We would pay all your medical expenses, of course, and you wouldn't have to tell anyone that Wesley is the father. You could put his name on the birth certificate, but no one around here would need to know. Wesley shouldn't be punished for believing your lies. Perhaps that sounds harsh, but it is the truth. I could begin making inquiries tomorrow. Would you want me to do that?"

I cross my legs and fold my hands over my knee. I nod. "Yes," I say, softly. "Thank you." I look at the floor. It needs vacuuming. "My appointment at the clinic is on Friday afternoon. For the abortion. I thought about canceling it. I might go. I might not."

"Would you like me to take you?"

"Take me where?"

"To the clinic," Mrs. Ellenburg replies. "If you decide to go, would you like me to take you? Your mother isn't here and I suspect that even if she were she wouldn't take you anyway. Wesley says you have no other family. I will take you, if you want. I prefer that we not tell Wesley. I don't think there's a reason for him to know. It will only make things more difficult for him. But I already know and I will take you to the clinic, if you so desire. It is…my grandchild." Mrs. Ellenburg touches the jade necklace at her throat. "I can't believe a seventeen year old girl is pregnant with my grandchild."

My face grows hot. Those eyes are still on me. I wonder if she is sincere or if she simply wants to be certain the problem is taken care of. I am suspicious of adults. And I understand she is suspicious of me.

"I might not go."

Mrs. Ellenburg watches me a moment, then lifts her purse onto her lap. She pulls out a pair of reading glasses and slides them onto her face. She flips open her checkbook. "I am writing you a check," she explains, as if it isn't obvious. "Wesley would want to pay for the abortion, if that is the choice you make. Do you know the cost?"

"Two hundred and fifty dollars," I answer, automatically.

Mrs. Ellenburg tears out the check, stands and moves toward me, holding it out. "My phone number is on there," she says. "You may call me. I already have your number. I took it from Wesley's address book days ago. He doesn't know. I will call you tomorrow with the information on the adoption agencies." Mrs. Ellenburg lifts her purse onto her shoulder. She stares down at me. I suspect there's so much more she'd like to say. I am impressed by her restraint. I expected her to hurt me.

I stand. "Mrs. Ellenburg?" I begin, still soft, still nearly inaudible.

"Yes?"

"I am sorry for what I did to Wes. I hope you know that. I hope he knows that, too. And I really did love him. I still do. I miss him. He doesn't deserve what I've done to him. I only…I only wanted him to love me. I didn't think of the consequences."

"No, you didn't," Mrs. Ellenburg agrees without hesitation.

"Does he miss me at all?" I ask. I can't help myself.

Mrs. Ellenburg stares at me. "Oh, my God," she says in her breezy voice. "You really are only seventeen."

I stare back at her, confused. What's that supposed to mean?

"I think I should leave now," Mrs. Ellenburg tells me. "I'll be in touch." She looks at me a moment, then turns and walks away. She pauses in the doorway. She considers something, then continues on.

I wonder what more she had to say.

Maybe I don't want to know.

I catch her in the foyer. "Mrs. Ellenburg?" I say again.

She turns around.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask her.

She opens her mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. She remains tight-lipped for several seconds. Finally, she says, "It doesn't matter what I want, Shannon. Ultimately, the responsibility is yours. All the power lies in your hands."

"You want me to have the abortion."

"It isn't that simple," Mrs. Ellenburg replies. "Please weigh your options carefully. And this time, please consider my son and how what you do and what you tell people will affect him."

I bite my lip and nod.

The front door opens and Dad saunters in wearing his golf clothes, carrying his clubs over his shoulder. It snowed yesterday. How can he play golf?

"Hey!" Dad greets us. He looks at Mrs. Ellenburg. He smiles and points a finger at her. "Are you the new cleaning lady?" he asks.

"Do I look like a cleaning lady?" Mrs. Ellenburg scoffs.

Dad is mystified.

"Dad, this is Wes' mother, Mrs. Ellenburg," I tell him. I don't want to say anything more. I don't know if Dad knows I'm pregnant. He'd probably congratulate me for offering proof that I'm not frigid.

Dad still looks confused. "Oh, yes…" he says after a moment. His voice suddenly becomes jovial as he remembers. "The guy you had in your bedroom!"

I turn bright red.

"I wouldn't sound so cheerful about it," Mrs. Ellenburg informs him, icily. "You should be a little more concerned with who your teenage daughter takes up to her bedroom. I hope you enjoyed your golf game." She turns and strides out the front door. I watch her go down the steps, brisk and confident. She slips on a pair of sunglasses, even though there is no sunshine. At her car, she opens the door and pauses, staring at me. I'm grateful that I cannot see her eyes behind the tinted frames. She ducks inside the car without another word.