Authors: Kristin Hannah
Angie stopped at the corner, where women from the
local Soropotomist Club were giving away cups of hot cocoa.
“Would you like marshmallows?” the woman asked brightly, her breath a feathery white plume.
Angie smiled. “Sure.”
Angie cupped her hands around the insulated cup. Warmth seeped into her fingers; steam wafted toward her face. She led Lauren into the town square. They sat on a concrete bench. Even from this distance, you could hear the ocean. It was the heartbeat of the town, steady and even.
She glanced sideways at Lauren, who was staring gloomily into the cup. “You can talk to me, Lauren. I know I’m a grown-up, and therefore the enemy, but sometimes life throws you a curveball. It can help to talk to someone about your troubles.”
“Troubles.” Lauren repeated the word, made it sound small somehow. But that was part of the teen years, Angie knew. Everything seemed big.
“Come on, Lauren,” Angie urged. “Let me help you.”
At last, Lauren turned to her. “It’s about David.”
Of course it was. At seventeen, almost everything was about a boy. If he didn’t call often enough, it could break your heart. If he talked to Melissa Sue at lunch, it could make you cry for hours.
Angie waited. If she had spoken, it would have been to tell Lauren that she was young and that someday David would be a fond memory of first love. Not what a teenager wanted to hear.
Finally, Lauren said, “How do you tell someone bad news? If you love them, I mean?”
“The important thing is that you’re honest. Always. I learned that the hard way. I tried to spare my husband’s feelings by lying to him. It ruined us.” She looked at Lauren. “It’s college, right?” Angie softened her voice,
hoping it would take the sting out of her next words. “You’re afraid you and David will be separated. But you haven’t even heard back from the schools yet. You need all the facts before you react.”
Overhead, the moon came out from behind a bank of clouds. The silvery light fell across Lauren’s face, making her look older suddenly, wiser. Her plump cheeks were planed by shadow; her eyes seemed impossibly dark and full of secrets. “College,” she said dully.
“Lauren? Are you okay?”
Lauren looked away quickly, as if to hide tears. “Yes. That’s it. I’m afraid we’ll be … separated.” The word seemed almost too much for her.
Angie reached out, placed a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. She noticed that the girl was trembling, and she didn’t believe it was from the cold. “That’s perfectly normal, Lauren. When I was a senior I was in love with Tommy. He—”
Lauren jumped up suddenly, pushed Angie’s hand away. Moonlight traced the tear tracks on her cheeks. “I gotta go.”
“Wait. At least let me drive you home.”
“No.” Lauren was crying now and not trying to hide it. “Thanks for the pep talk, but I need to get home now. I’ll be at work tomorrow night. Don’t worry.”
With that, Lauren ran into the night.
Angie stood there, listening to the girl’s footsteps until they faded away. She’d done something wrong tonight, either by commission or omission; she wasn’t sure which. All she knew was that it had gone badly from the start. Whatever Angie had said, it was wrong.
“Maybe it’s a good thing I never had kids,” she said aloud.
Then she remembered her own teen years. She and Mama had engaged in daily knockdown, drag-out fights
about everything from skirt length to heel height to curfews. Nothing Mama said had ever been right. Certainly her advice about sex, love, and drugs had fallen on deaf ears.
Maybe that had been Angie’s mistake. She’d wanted so much to solve Lauren’s problem, but perhaps that wasn’t what the teenager wanted from her.
Next time, Angie vowed, she would just listen.
Date night was a huge success. It seemed that many of the West Enders, young and old, had been looking for an excuse to go out for dinner and a movie. The weather had probably helped. This had been a gray and dismal November, and with Thanksgiving just around the corner, it didn’t look like it would improve much. There wasn’t a lot to do in a town like this on a cold and rainy night.
Angie moved from table to table, talking to their guests, making sure that Rosa and the new waitress, Carla, were getting the job done. She refilled water, delivered bread, and bused many of the tables herself.
Mama’s specials had been especially good tonight. They’d run out of the risotto with mussels and saffron by eight, and it looked like the salmon over angel-hair pasta with roasted tomatoes and artichoke heart aioli wouldn’t last another hour. It was surprising how good this success felt.
Angie had given that some thought lately. Ever since she’d seen Conlan, in fact. After all, she had a lot of time to think. In a small town, a single woman with no children and no romantic prospects had plenty of thinking time.
Once she began to contemplate her life, she couldn’t
seem to stop. She thought about the choice she’d made, so long ago, before she’d even been old enough to understand what truly mattered.
At sixteen she’d decided to be Someone. Perhaps because she’d grown up in a big family in a small town, or maybe because her father’s adoration and respect meant so much to her. Even now she wasn’t sure what had shaped her choices. She knew only that she’d longed for a different, faster, more sophisticated life. UCLA had been the beginning. No one else in her high school class had gone to college so far away; once there, she’d studied things that set her even farther apart from her high school friends and her family. Russian literature. Art history. Eastern religions. Philosophy. All of that learning had made her aware of the bigness of the world. She’d wanted to seize it all, experience it. And once you strapped yourself into a race car and roared onto the fast track, you forgot to slow down and see the scenery. Everything was a blur except the finish line.
Then she’d met Conlan.
She’d loved him so much. Enough to vow before God that she’d love no other man in this lifetime.
She wasn’t sure when it had started to be too little, that love, when exactly she’d started to judge her life by what it lacked, but that had been the end result. It was ironic, really; love had set them in search of a child, and that search had depleted their ability to stay in love.
If only loss had brought them together instead of pulling them apart.
If only they’d been stronger.
These were the things she should have said to him at the theater. Instead, she’d acted like a silly teenager with an unreciprocated crush on the quarterback.
She was still thinking about it when the restaurant closed, so she poured herself a glass of wine and sat
down by the fire. It was quiet in the restaurant now that everyone had gone. She saw no reason to go home. Here, she was comfortable. There, it was too easy to go down the dark road of feeling alone.
Alone.
She took a sip of wine, told herself the shiver she’d just felt had been caused by the fire’s heat.
The kitchen door swung open. Mira walked into the dining room, looking tired.
“I thought you’d gone home,” Angie said, pushing a chair toward her sister.
“I walked Mama out to her car. While we were standing in the rain, she decided to tell me that my teenage daughter is dressing like a hooker.” She sank into the chair. “I’ll take a glass of that wine.”
Angie poured a glass, handed it to her sister. “All teenagers dress like that these days.”
“That’s what I told Mama. Her answer was,
You better tell Sarah that she is advertising a product she is too young to sell.
Oh. And that Papa would be spinning in his grave.”
“Ah. The big guns.”
Mira smiled tiredly, sipped her wine. “You don’t look too happy, either.”
She sighed. “I’m in trouble, Mira. Ever since I saw Conlan again—”
“You’ve been in trouble since the day you two split up. Everybody knows that except you.”
“I miss him,” Angie admitted quietly.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Do?”
“To get him back.”
Just the sound of it hurt. “That train has left the station, Mira. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late until you’re dead. Remember Kent
John? When he dumped you, you waged a campaign that was for the record books.”
Angie laughed. It was true. The poor guy hadn’t stood a chance. She’d gone after him like a cold wind. “I was fifteen years old.”
“Yeah, and now you’re thirty-eight. Conlan’s worth more than some high school jock. If you love him …” Like any good fisherman—and everyone in West End knew how to fish—Mira let the bait dangle.
“He doesn’t love me anymore,” Angie said quickly.
Mira looked at her. “Are you sure?”
In her whole life, this was the first time Lauren had ever skipped a whole day of school. But Angie had been right: Lauren needed facts, not just fear.
She sat stiffly in her window seat on a Greyhound bus, watching the landscape change. When she’d paid her fare and climbed aboard, it had been dark outside, predawn. Light was just creeping over the hills when the bus drove through Fircrest. There, it made several stops. At each one she tensed up, praying no one she knew got on. Thankfully, she was safe.
She closed her eyes finally, not wanting to watch the passing of miles. Each one took her closer to her destination.
You know what makes a girl throw up for no reason, don’t you?
“I’m not,” Lauren whispered, praying that it was true.
Those cheapo home pregnancy tests were wrong all the time. Everyone knew that.
She
couldn’t
be pregnant. It didn’t matter what that little strip had shown.
“Seventh and Gallen,” the driver called out as the bus rattled to a stop.
Lauren grabbed her backpack and hurried off.
The cold hit her face. Damp, freezing air wrapped around her, made her draw in a sharp breath. Unlike at home, where the air smelled of pine trees and greenery and the salty tang of the sea, here it smelled citylike, of car exhaust and trapped air.
She flipped her collar up to protect her face and checked her directions, then walked the two blocks to Chester Street.
There it was: a squat, unadorned concrete block building with a flat roof.
Planned
Parenthood
What a joke. When you broke it down, she had no business being here at all. It should be called unplanned non-parenthood.
She let out a deep breath, realizing a second too late that she’d started to cry.
Stop it.
You’re not pregnant. You’re just making sure.
She walked briskly up the flagstone path to the building’s front door. Without daring to pause, she opened the door, went through security, and entered the waiting room.
First, she saw the women—and the girls—who had arrived before her. Not one of them looked pleased to be here. There were no men. Next she saw the dullness of it—gray walls, gray plastic chairs, industrial gray carpeting.
Lauren strode up to the front desk, where a receptionist smiled up at her.
“May I help you?” the woman asked, pulling a pen out of her bouffant hairdo.
Lauren leaned closer and whispered, “Ribido. I called about seeing a doctor.”
The woman consulted paperwork. “Oh, yes. Pregnancy test.”
Lauren flinched. The woman had practically screamed the word
pregnancy.
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Take a seat.”
Lauren carefully avoided eye contact with anyone as she hurried to a chair and sat down. She bowed her head, let her hair fall across her face, and stared down at the backpack in her lap.
An endless wait later, a woman came into the room and called out Lauren’s name.
She popped up and hurried forward. “I’m Lauren.”
“Come with me,” the woman said. “I’m Judy.” They went into a small examining room. Judy directed Lauren to sit on the paper-covered exam table, then sat in a chair opposite her, clipboard in hand. “So, Lauren,” Judy said, “you want a pregnancy test?”
“I’m sure I don’t need it, but …” She tried to smile. “Better safe than sorry.” Her smile faded. She waited for Judy to point out that if Lauren had been more safe, she wouldn’t be worrying about being sorry now.
“Are you sexually active?”
She felt small and much too young to be here, answering these adult questions. “Yes.”
“Do you practice safe sex?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I was with David for three years before I let him … you know … and we’ve only done it without a condom
once.
”
Judy’s face was filled with a sad understanding. “It only takes once, Lauren.”
“I know.” Now she felt miserable and stupid as well as small. “The thing is that one time was in the first week in October. I remember because it was after the Longview game. And my period that month was right on time.”
“So why are you here today?”
“My period this month is late, and …” She couldn’t say it out loud.
“And?”
“I did one of those home pregnancy tests. It showed positive. But they’re wrong all the time, right?”
“They can be wrong, certainly. How heavy was last month’s period?”
“Hardly noticeable. But it was there.”
Judy looked at her. “Did you know that spotting can occur while you’re pregnant? Sometimes it can seem like a period.”
Lauren felt a chill move through her. “Oh.”
“Well, let’s get you tested and see where we stand.”
Lauren shut the apartment door behind her.
Tossing her backpack onto the sofa, she headed down the hallway toward her mother’s room. All the way home she’d been trying to figure what to say. Now that she was here, in their apartment that smelled of stale smoke, standing by her mother’s halfway opened bedroom door, she was nowhere near an answer.
She was about to knock when she heard voices.
Perfect.
He
was here again.
“You remember the night we met?” he said in a gravelly, timeworn voice. All of Mom’s boyfriends sounded like that, as if they’d been smoking unfiltered cigarettes since boyhood.
Still, it was a romantic question, surprisingly so. Lauren found herself leaning forward, straining to hear her mother’s answer through the opening.