Can't you see
It's not me you're dying for
Now she's feeling more alone
Than she ever has before
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly
Off the coast and I'm headed nowhere
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly
Ben Folds Five, "Brick"
NINE YEARS EARLIER—
Mimi had been pregnant once, but Roger never knew until long after the fact. At the first realization that she had skipped her period, she ran out and bought four pregnancy tests. She took them all, one right after the other, set the kitchen timer for five minutes, and waited outside the bathroom door, her knees curled up to her chest and her forehead almost touching her knees.
If she was pregnant, she didn't want it. She couldn't. She wasn't about to condemn an innocent life to a certain death, from a disease that would inevitably be passed down from mother to child.
The pregnancy tests confirmed it, four times. She was. She was pregnant and terrified. She went to the clinic to find out how far along she was. She gave the doctor a false name. The ultrasound, which Mimi did not want to see, told her she was eight weeks pregnant.
At first, she tried to cause a miscarriage. She slept on her stomach and, in the morning, tried rolling out of bed and tried to hit the floor, causing an impact to her abdomen, but all she ended up doing was bruising her tailbone. She starved herself for two days, but decided on a different route when she collapsed onstage at the Catscratch. She tried to throw herself down the stairs, but only rolled down three steps before her foot caught in the handrail, thwarting her attempt.
Finally, after fretting for two weeks, she started asking the other Catscratch girls for help. She was sure that nearly every girl in the place had had at least one abortion. One she told the girls she had a "problem that needed to be taken care of", they knew exactly what she was talking about.
One girl suggested Ex-Lax. More than one suggested a coat hanger or knitting needle, a thought that Mimi found repulsive. There were old wives tales of eating greens and drinking quinine, remedies Mimi didn't trust. One girl slipped her the name and address of a woman in Boro Park who could "get the job done"—a strange neighborhood, Hasidic, where Mimi would stick out like a sore thumb. Another girl offered the services of a woman who would come to your house and do it right in your own bedroom with a bulb syringe.
It turned out to be Camille, the Catscratch's oldest employee (if one considered twenty-eight to be "old", which Camille certainly didn't), who offered to take Mimi for a proper procedure.
Mimi hesitated at first, knowing that a "proper procedure" would cost her a fortune. But then she thought of the cache of money she had hidden under her mattress. Ever since she'd kicked her habit, she had a nice little treasury that she was saving for a rainy day. And right now, for Mimi, it was pouring. She agreed to Camille's offer.
She told Roger she was going out for lunch. She kissed his forehead and brushed his blonde hair out of his face. "I'll be back in a few hours," she said, grinning for him.
She met Camille a block away from the loft and, together, they headed towards midtown. The exact location, Camille revealed, was kept secret unless you called and made an appointment, which she had on Mimi's behalf. The building was nondescript. If it weren't for the pleasant blue sign out front that announced The Lockhart Center, Mimi probably would have missed it altogether. Below the name, the sign boasted: Discreet one-hour visits.
They entered the building, and Mimi began trembling. She glanced at Camille. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.
"Sure you can," Camille replied, rubbing Mimi's back, a sisterly gesture. "Just talk to the doctor first, alright? I promise it's going to be okay."
Mimi checked in with the receptionist, a smiling but serious-looking black woman in a peach nurses' smock. The woman gave her a form to fill out and Mimi sat, balancing the clipboard on her knobby knees, nibbling on the edge of the pen she was given.
"Have you ever done this before?" she asked Camille, who was rummaging through her purse.
"Twice," she replied casually. "First time I was fifteen."
"Fifteen," Mimi repeated. She was fifteen when she ran away from home.
"The second time I was eighteen," Camille continued. She found what she was looking for—a pack of gum—and offered a stick to Mimi, who shook her head. "I was about to graduate high school; go to college," she unwrapped a piece and tossed the crumpled foil back into her bag, "so the best idea was to get rid of it."
"You went to college?" Mimi asked as she filled out her full name, Lucia Lourdes Marquez Davis. Birth date, age, nationality: all mundane information. She dutifully filled out each blank space, checking "Yes" on Are you HIV positive? and "No" on Do you have any other sexually transmitted diseases?
"For two years. But I had to drop out. I couldn't handle the bills, even after I started working at the Catscratch."
Mimi glanced at Camille. She really didn't look like someone who belonged at the Catscratch. She had a heart-shaped face and demeanor of a kindergarten teacher. She wore her pale blonde hair in a chignon at the back of her head, a few strands pulled loose to frame her face. Her cheeks were lightly dusted with blush; her plump lips were outlined with lip liner but not filled in. Her robin's egg blue eyes were framed with lashes darker than Mimi's, so dark that they probably didn't need the layers of mascara she wore. She wore a baby-pink t-shirt and a pair of jeans. A gray hooded sweatshirt was tied around her tiny waist. On her feet were well-worn tennis shoes. She looked more like a soccer mom.
Mimi completed her form and handed it back to the receptionist. She returned to her seat and slid her hands beneath her thighs as she sat. She began to swing her legs, to relieve her tension, but it made her feel childish so she stopped. She crossed her legs, then her ankles. Camille leafed through Newsweek.
The minutes ticked by. Camille blew a bubble with her gum and, just as it popped, the receptionist called out, "Lucia Davis?"
Mimi nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked at Camille, who smiled and gave an encouraging nod. "Do you want me to come in with you?"
"No. Thanks," Mimi whispered.
Camille gave a sympathetic smile. "Then I'll wait for you right here."
Her heart beating wildly, Mimi followed the receptionist to a windowless examination room. She was surprised, and pleased. It looked like a regular doctor's office. She felt like she was here for a yearly physical, something required for the Catscratch Club. The receptionist handed her a hospital gown and asked her to change. "The doctor will be in shortly."
Mimi stripped off her clothes and slipped on the gown, keeping on her bra and panties. She folded her clothes neatly and put them in an even pile on a nearby chair. She unzipped her boots and placed them on the floor. She sat on the exam table, her legs crossed Indian-style. She wished she asked Camille to come in with her.
Minutes later, the doctor, a woman with coarse red hair and green eyes hiding behind large, round glasses entered the room.
"Lucia," the woman said warmly. "I'm Doctor Newman."
"Mimi," Mimi said softly as she shook the doctor's hand.
"Beg pardon?"
Mimi cleared her throat. "Y-you can call me Mimi."
"Mimi," the doctor repeated, "Like Mimi Rogers." Mimi didn't know who that was, but when she told Dr. Newman that her husband's name was Roger, she just gave a wide, easy smile and said. "Well, Mimi, let's get started."
Dr. Newman pulled up a stool on wheels, sat down, and explained the procedure to Mimi. An aspiration procedure, it was called. It was non-surgical and required no anesthesia. It would take only five minutes. She could walk out of the office in another fifteen.
"Really?" Mimi's eyes went wide. She tried to hide a smile of relief.
"Really," Dr. Newman replied. She put a comforting hand on Mimi's arm. "It's going to be alright. We're here to help you."
A small tear spilled down Mimi's cheek. Dr. Newman handed her a tissue. "Thank you," Mimi said. "I'm sorry."
Dr. Newman patted her shoulder. "It's quite alright. You're neither the first nor the last girl to cry in one of our exam rooms."
A nurse came into the room then with a rolling tray full of instruments. Mimi's heart began to pound.
"Just lay back," Dr. Newman advised, "and relax. I'll do all the work; let you know what I'm doing step-by-step, so nothing will come as a surprise."
"Okay," Mimi whispered, and did as she was told. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, trying to shut out the world around her.
The doctor kept her promise. The procedure took five minutes and, within the hour, she was told she could go home, with a warning to call if she experienced heavy bleeding and if she bled for more than seven days.
Camille offered to take Mimi for something to eat as they left the clinic, but Mimi politely refused and mused out loud that she might call out of work that night. Camille nodded, understandingly.
Camille took Mimi home, hugging her tightly before Mimi climbed up the stairs to the loft. Roger was gone, which was a small relief. A note on the kitchen table told her that he'd gone out with Mark. His script was barely legible, as always, but Mimi put the note to her lips and kissed it. She folded it in quarters and pressed it into her palm. It was then that she decided that Roger must never, ever know. This would kill him, absolutely shatter him, if he knew.
She went into the bedroom, the exceedingly messy bedroom. Neither she nor Roger would be the first to admit they were good housekeepers. Clothes and shoes thrown everywhere. The bed was unmade, the sheets nearly stripped off and the blankets so askew they were practically on the floor, along wth a few pillows. The sagging double-sized mattress squealed on the bed frame when Mimi sat down on it. She was beginning to feel cramps in her lower belly. She lay down on the messy bed, curled up in a ball, fully clothed. She turned her head towards Roger's pillow, inhaled his scent. She felt a few tears fall before she drifted off to sleep.
A/N: Another story-behind-the-name: you're probably wondering why I chose to make Mimi's first name Lucia. Truth be told, I watched a video in my theater class of Baz Luhrmann's production of La Boheme, and, during its own "Light My Candle" scene (in which Mimi loses her house key, not her stash!), Mimi sings a line that says, "My name is Lucia, but they call me Mimi."
Oh, and in case any of you wanted to know, I referred to a Marilyn Monroe movie a few chapters ago, in which she's singing "I Want To Be Loved By You". The movie is Some Like It Hot (a classic! very funny!).