At noon I am a wreck.
I pace around the kitchen, feeling nauseous and lightheaded, wringing my hands. I don't know why I'm not crying since that's all I ever do anymore. I pour a glass of apple juice with shaking hands and can barely hold it steady enough to sip. I force down half a cheese sandwich. I chew each bite extra long. It's nearly impossible to swallow. A woman from the clinic called this morning to remind me about my appointment. As if I could forget. She told me to eat light. I didn't tell her that I've not been eating at all.
At twelve-twenty, I go into the dining room and pull a chair over to the window. I have the best view of the street and driveway from here. I sit in the chair, absently wringing my hands, watching the street with nervous knots twisting in my stomach. I know I look awful. I always look awful these days. I tried to cover it up. I tried to pretend. I washed and styled my hair. I put on make-up. I dressed carefully. What does one wear to her abortion? I didn't know and if there was anyone to ask, I'd be too embarrassed to ask anyway. So, I put on my favorite gray skirt and a pair of gray heels and a lavender angora sweater. I probably look silly. I feel silly.
It's a minute after twelve-thirty when the navy blue Saab sweeps into the drive. My breath catches in my throat. I didn't realize Mrs. Ellenburg was coming, too. Is she going to sit with Wes and I and mediate our conversation? Oh, dear Lord. Did he tell her what happened when I went to his classroom? Are they afraid I may do that again? I stand on wobbly legs and press my face to the windowpane for a clearer look.
Mrs. Ellenburg is alone. My heart sinks and I bite my lip, fighting back tears. Wes changed his mind. He doesn't want to see me after all. Mrs. Ellenburg climbs out of her car. She shuts the door and glances around, looking as regal as usual. Today, she's dressed in a black pantsuit with a white blouse and a red belt. She looks the part I merely pretend to play and fail – collected, self-assured, together. I am not together. I may never be together again. Mrs. Ellenburg places her hands on her hips, still standing beside her car. She stares off down the street in the direction from which she arrived.
Wes' car turns the corner. I see the red in the distance and my heart leaps. It leaps and plummets all in the same moment. I wish I hadn't eaten that half of a sandwich. I may throw it up now. I watch Wes' Volvo pull into the drive next to his mother's Saab. Wes sits a moment, hands on the steering wheel until Mrs. Ellenburg raps on the passenger side window. Hands still on her hips, she jerks her head back in the direction of my house and finally Wes gets out of the car.
He looks the same. I don't know why I expected him to look any different. He's still handsome. He's still wearing the dark blue crewneck sweater that he wore far too often while we dated. Wes and his mother stroll casually up the walk, hands in their pockets, talking. As Wes comes nearer, I realize he doesn't look exactly the same as I remember. His face is very pale and there are dark circles under his eyes. I can't read his expression. Mrs. Ellenburg's doing most of the talking. I wonder what she's saying. It must be about me.
When they reach the porch, I duck away from the window and sort of stumble into the foyer. My legs won't work properly. There's a sharp rapping on the front door. Clear and authoritative. I know it's Mrs. Ellenburg. I take a deep breath and slowly open the door.
"Hello, Shannon," Mrs. Ellenburg greets me and steps into the foyer, slipping past me.
Wes hesitates and shifts uncomfortably on the doorstep. He doesn't look at me.
"Do you intend to do this on the front porch?" Mrs. Ellenburg inquires.
Wes steps into the foyer, still not looking at me. He steps as far away from me as possible. I shut the door behind him.
"I'll just go somewhere else," Mrs. Ellenburg announces and strides purposely out of the foyer toward the living room, as if she knows exactly where she's going, as if she's been here a million times before.
I'm glad she's leaving us alone.
And then I'm sorry she did not stay.
I clasp my hands in front of me, eyes downcast. I bite my lip, waiting for Wes to speak. He doesn't.
"We can go into the formal living room," I suggest, meekly.
Wes nods. He doesn't look at me though. He looks beyond me, over my shoulder. I lead him through the foyer into the formal living room. I sit down at one end of the couch, sitting straight and tall, staring down at my hands on my knees. I expect Wes to stand in the doorway or take a seat on the opposite side of the room, but instead, he sits down in the middle of the couch, angling his body toward me. He watches me a moment. I feel his eyes on me.
"I'm sorry about the way I acted last night," Wes says, speaking for the first time. "I was just…surprised doesn't seem right. Shocked. I was extremely shocked. I'm sorry that I shouted at you and made you cry. My mother was right. I behaved like a child."
"It's okay," I whisper. "I understand."
"And I'm sorry that I hung up on you when you called to tell me that…that…you're…pregnant. I should have called you back. I was afraid it was true, that you were actually telling the truth. I should have found out for sure. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you've been dealing with this on your own."
"My friends have helped me," I reply. I finally look up at him. He catches my eye and glances away. I wonder if his mother put him up to this or if he is completely sincere.
"I'm sorry that I did this to you," Wes says, quietly.
I look over at him, startled. "What?" I ask.
"I'm so sorry, Shannon, that I did this to you. It's my fault. I obviously wasn't careful enough."
"I wanted to have sex, too. It's not all your fault, Wes. You didn't do this on purpose. It was an accident," I tell him. "And I really am pregnant. That isn't a lie." I reach down under the coffee table, where I set my messenger bag earlier. I flip open the flap and remove a folded piece of white paper from the smallest pocket. "Dr. Wallingford's office faxed this over this morning," I say, extending the paper to him with shaking hands. "It's the results of my pregnancy test. I need it for the clinic."
Wes takes the paper, hesitantly. He glances down at it, scanning it with his eyes. His face, which had remained expressionless, registers subtle panic. He knows for sure now. This time I'm not lying. "You're really pregnant," he says, flatly, and leans his head back, covering his eyes with his hand. His shoulders begin to shake. He's crying.
"I'm sorry," I say, not knowing what else I can offer as comfort. I keep my hands in my lap. I doubt he wants me touching him.
Wes cries quietly for a little while. We don't speak. I wait for him to finish and when he does, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "My mother promised she didn't yell at you," Wes says when he's through crying. "I hope that's true."
"No, she didn't yell. She's been perfectly…well-mannered," I reply and blush slightly because that's a rather stupid word choice. "She's been more pleasant than I deserve. More so than I expected. She's very…efficient. She hasn't yelled at all."
"I guess she saved her wrath for me then," Wes says. "Last night, she beat me on the head with a rolled up copy of Forbes. Repeatedly. My dad had to take it away from her." Wes wipes his right eye again. "She blames me for this. She said she's disappointed to learn that I am apparently not intelligent enough to figure out I'm dating a seventeen year old high school girl. She doesn't understand how you fooled me for so long." Wes pauses and looks at me a long time. "I guess I believed what I wanted to believe," he finally says.
I take paper from where it lies on his knee and refold it slowly, biting my lip. I slip the pregnancy results back into my messenger bag. "You're still lucky," I tell Wes, studying my hands. "My mother slapped me when I told her. She slapped me and accused me of trying to ruin her reputation. All she cares about is my getting an abortion as quickly as possible. I could probably do it in the bathroom with a coat hanger and she wouldn't care." I start to cry. Not much. Just a few tears. "Your mother's been much nicer to me. I know she must be furious with me, but at least she manages to act civilized."
"That's because…" Wes begins and hesitates. "That's because she knows how much I cared about you. I really did love you, Shannon. Plus, your parents…" Wes doesn't finish. He doesn't need to. "My parents are really upset," Wes says. "My dad hasn't said much, but he never does. My mother has enough to say for both of them. She really wants grandchildren and it upsets her knowing…that's not important." Wes runs his fingers through his hair, nervously. He still won't meet my gaze for any length of time. "I guess you've decided to have an abortion. I'll support whatever you want to do."
I continue staring at my hands, head lowered so my hair obscures the side view of my face, so Wes cannot watch the tears tumble from my eyes. It's his baby, too. Doesn't he care what I do? I sniffle and the tears come faster.
Wes touches my shoulder, lightly. "Shannon?" he asks, softly.
I turn my head toward him, pushing my hair back, so I may see his face. "Doesn't it matter to you what I do?" I ask through my tears. "This is your baby, you know. It really is. I never cheated on you. It's your baby, Wes."
"I know. I know," Wes says. His voice is very faint. It catches. "I know it's my baby." He reaches his hand toward me, moving it toward my stomach, then draws it quickly back.
"It just feels like a stomach," I choke out. "I'm only like four weeks along."
Wes reaches out again and places his hand on my stomach, gently. He holds it there and closes his eyes, very tight. I can't read his expression. I can't guess at what he's thinking.
"Whatever decision you make is fine with me," Wes says, eyes still closed, hand still lingering on my stomach. "It's your choice, Shannon. It's your body. You're the one who is pregnant. You're the one who has to go through the abortion, or remain pregnant and carry the baby and give birth. I'll support whatever decision you make." Wes finally draws his hand back.
"I'm planning to have the abortion," I tell him. I watch him a moment, biting hard on my lip. I do that so much now, like crying, and wonder if I'll ever be rid of the habit. I fidget with the hem of my skirt, and then still my hands by placing them in my lap. I watch Wes a moment more. "We could get married," I say without much thought. It slips out, springs forth into the open, and hovers in the air.
Wes stares at me. "What?" he replies and begins to pale further.
"You could marry me," I tell him and swallow the lump forming in my throat. "I don't have to have the abortion. I could have the baby and we could get married. My parents won't care and I'll be eighteen in March. I know I wasn't a very good girlfriend and that I lied to you," I say and tears begin to leak from my eyes, dripping down my cheeks. "But I think I could be a good wife. I know I would be a good mother. I won't lie anymore. You know the truth now and there's no reason for me to lie. You were such a wonderful boyfriend, Wes, and I know you would be a great husband and father. You're attentive and loving and generous. I would try so hard to please you, Wes. I wouldn't mess up again. I'd learn to cook and clean and I'd learn to be much better in bed. I know you always claimed the sex was fantastic, but I know I wasn't very good at it. But if you gave me another chance, I would do everything so much better. I would take care of you and our baby. We would be a family. I would like to have my own family. A real family." I pause for breath and take it in a large gasp, gulping through my tears. I have more to say, but the words don't come. They do not pass my lips.
Wes stares at me, eyes wide and panicked. He doesn't speak. He simply stares. I sob harder. What's wrong with me? Wes opens his mouth, appearing dumbstruck, and closes it again. I take my chance. I move in quickly, leaning forward so fast he doesn't realize. I press my lips to his. Surprisingly, his lips respond, pressing back against mine. But only for a moment. He pulls back, eyes still wide, and pushes me away, hands wrapped gently around my upper arms. He holds me like that at arms length, staring at me.
And I cry.
"No, Shannon. No," he says, his voice somehow soft, yet firm. "We can never be together again. You need to realize that. I can't marry you. I can't. And appearances and my career aside, that's not really what's important. You're seventeen years old. You haven't even finished high school yet. You aren't ready to get married and settle down. I know you are unhappy and your parents are jerks, but marrying me and having a baby isn't going to solve anything. It will only create new problems. I can't marry you." Wes closes his eyes a moment and when he opens them there are tears pooling in the corners. "We can't get married. I don't even know you. Not really. I know you're probably not so different than the girl I dated…and fell in love with…but…it's not the same. If you were the girl you had claimed to be…if you were really a twenty year old college student…we could consider marriage. But you're not. You're seventeen. You're seventeen and I feel this enormous guilt weighing on me whenever I remember that. And now I know that I impregnated you. I had sex with a teenager and got her pregnant. I feel disgusting, Shannon."
Wes releases my arms and covers his eyes. I watch him cry, hidden behind his hand. I watch him and I feel guilt lowering onto me, weighing on me like it weighs on Wes. I did this to him. I did this to myself. I'm so selfish. I am horrible. Wes didn't deserve this. He really did love me. That's all he ever did was love me. And I've destroyed him in some way. I've put this terrible burden on him. He loved me. I loved him, too, but not in the same way. I needed him, needed him to love me, needed the way he made me feel. Wes' love was much more selfless than mine.
"I'm so sorry, Wes," I whisper and hesitantly set my hand on his knee. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Wes' tears eventually stop. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. I move my hand away from his knee.
"I'll have the abortion," I tell him.
"It's your choice, Shannon, but I can't marry you."
"I know."
Neither of us says anything for a while.
"Do you want me to come?" Wes asks finally. "To the clinic? I'll come if you want me to. And my mother doesn't have to come with us. I know she's really pushy, but if you don't want her there she won't go."
I fold my arms across my chest and look down at a tiny yellow mark on the beige couch cushion. I stare at the mark like it's truly fascinating. "I think…I think…I'd prefer you not go, Wes. Thank you for offering though. You are such a good man," I tell him. It's the least I can do. I've done so much to him already. "You've done nothing wrong, Wes. I'm really sorry."
Wes sits still a moment. He doesn't say he forgives me. I don't expect him to. Maybe someday he will. "I'll get my mother," he says, standing. "It's almost time for you to go." He walks out into the foyer and calls, "Mom?"
I remain seated on the couch, studying the yellow mark. I hear Mrs. Ellenburg's heels clicking on the foyer tile. I glance up and watch her and Wes. They face each other in the foyer, speaking in hushed voices. Mrs. Ellenburg's hands rest on her hips again. This time Wes does most of the talking. He gestures toward me without looking at me. He starts to cry. In her heels, Mrs. Ellenburg and Wes are eye-to-eye. She takes his face in her hands and wipes his tears away. Then she hugs him.
My mother is in Hawaii.
She doesn't care about me.
Mrs. Ellenburg waits in the foyer while Wes walks back into the formal living room. He stands in the center of the room and waits for me to stand. I rise and move closer to him. I'm not sure what we're supposed to say.
"You're certain you want to do this?" Wes asks me.
I nod.
"Okay," Wes says.
We face each other awkwardly for a moment. I cross my arms over my chest and cast my eyes to the floor. Finally, Wes reaches out and lays his hand on my shoulder. It rests there very lightly, almost as if it's not there at all.
"I'm sorry for this," Wes tells me.
"I'm sorry, too."
Wes squeezes my shoulder, gently, then drops his hand. It falls to his side. "Well…I hope…I hope the procedure…goes well…I hope it's not that bad," he says. "I don't know what to…"
"I understand."
"Goodbye, Shannon."
"Goodbye, Wes."
I keep my eyes trained on the floor, so I don't have to watch him walk away. I hear him retreat and his footfalls in the foyer. I hear Mrs. Ellenburg say, "I'll call you afterward," and then the front door opens and closes.