What Kind of Love? (7 page)

“You don't have anything to say about it,” I said, and we didn't say another word the whole way home.

I was thinking about what Mom said about the school-age mothers' program being a dead end and about all the fun things I'd miss not going to school, like hanging out with Carrie and Dianne and all the other kids, and playing in the orchestra and being in school plays and the prom and graduation. And I started to feel sorry for myself. I even began to think that she's right. I
am
too young to be anyone's mother. Then I had to stop and tell myself it wasn't the baby's fault I got pregnant. It's my fault for letting it happen—and Peter's.

Please don't take it personally, my little astronaut. I know I shouldn't feel that way about being pregnant with you. It's not your fault. But sometimes when I think about all the things I'm going to miss out on, I can't help it.

Saturday, August 24

Yesterday Dianne asked me if I wanted to take a bike ride with her to El Moro Beach, “if it won't hurt the baby or anything.” I said I couldn't go. Then today Arianna asked me to go to the beach with her. There was no way I was going to let everyone see me in a bathing suit, so I made some excuse. The only people I don't feel funny being with right now are Carrie and Nick. They've been terrific. Nick and I walked all the way to Penguin's after dinner the other night: five miles there and back just to get some frozen yogurt. And last night Carrie and I went to the movies. Afterward we sat in the car and talked.

She thought that it was a big mistake for me to switch schools. She said I was being paranoid, most kids wouldn't even notice that I was pregnant. But I said she was wrong. How could I go to swim meets or football games or hang around the lunch tables where the guys sit when I was expecting a kid? And what was I going to do once the baby is born? Take it to my classes? To dances? Parties? There's day care at the school-age mothers' program. And the other girls in the program are in the same boat. She said I was throwing away my chance for a decent education. She was starting to sound just like my mom, so I changed the subject and asked about her and Tom. She said she knew she should break up with him because of what he did when she was away, but she didn't want to because she still liked him a lot.

She asked me about Peter. I said I thought he'd be home soon, although I didn't know for sure.

“Haven't you spoken to him?” she asked.

“Not for a week,” I admitted.

“He hasn't called for a whole week!” she yelled.

I told her that it's hard for Peter to call from a pay phone with his father watching him all the time and with my mother or father hanging up on him. The whole time I was saying that, though, I was thinking, why hasn't he called? What if he doesn't come back? Carrie must have read my mind, because then she asked me what I was going to do if Peter didn't come home. “I don't know,” I said. “But he is coming back. He promised he would.”

She drove me home because I had to go to the bathroom. I must go at least twenty times a day. The pregnancy books tell you that you're eating for two, but they don't tell you that you're peeing for two.

Sunday, August 25

Carrie heard from Tom that Peter is going to school back East. She kept saying that it's only a rumor, Tom doesn't know definitely, and I shouldn't believe it until I hear from Peter. But I haven't heard from Peter, and I have this sinking feeling that it's true and he's afraid to call and tell me. Oh, please, God, let it not be true. Please let him come back.

Monday, August 26

It's true. Peter isn't coming back. He's been accepted at Westfield.

I felt like I'd been hit over the head with a hammer. I was standing in the kitchen looking out at the backyard when his brother called me, and everything went blurry. After I hung up, I staggered over to a chair and sat down. I couldn't think. My chest felt ready to explode.

Nick came in and asked me if I was okay. I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn't. I just started sobbing and couldn't stop.

He can't be going to school there. He said he'd be back. He promised he wasn't going to let anything keep us apart. And I believed him. What am I going to do? I can't have this baby by myself. I feel so alone. I wish something would happen to it. I wish I were dead.

I can't get this book called
An American Tragedy
out of my head. It's about this guy who gets a poor factory girl named Roberta pregnant. Then he meets this rich girl and falls in love with her. So he takes Roberta out boating to drown her so he can be free to marry the rich girl, only he doesn't have the nerve to push her overboard. The rowboat overturns by accident, and Roberta drowns anyway.

It's not that I think Peter ever wanted to murder me or anything like that, but I wonder if he's relieved things turned out like this. He can forget about me and go on with his life like nothing happened. Peter isn't a weasel like the guy in
An American Tragedy.
Still, you can't really tell about other people, can you? I was counting on Peter, really counting on him, and I shouldn't have. I couldn't help it. I didn't know what else to do. I don't know what else to do.

Saturday, August 31

Dianne and I bumped into Mr. and Mrs. Rykoff today when we were coming out of the bakery. Mrs. Rykoff couldn't take her eyes off my stomach the whole time we were talking. I thought she was going to say something embarrassing about it because she always comes right out and says what's on her mind, but she didn't. She just asked me if I was practicing. I told her I was working on Vaughan Williams's
The Lark Ascending.
She said she was impressed, it's a hard piece. I told her I was finding that out.

She was wearing one of her costumes: off-the-shoulder ruffled blouse, a full skirt, ballet slippers, silver earrings dangling down to her shoulders, and a half dozen silver bracelets. Dianne was bug-eyed staring at her.

I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Rykoff were clucking their tongues all the way home about how it's too bad I've ruined my life.

They're right. My life is ruined.

Dear Peter,

There's so much I want to say that I'm writing to you even though I don't know where to send this letter.

I miss you. I think about you all the time: your smile, your laughing golden brown eyes, your strong, straight back, your arms. I think about how we were together, too. How it felt to hold you tight against me, to move my body with yours—and I ache with longing.

Oh, Peter, I love you. You said you loved me, but I haven't heard from you for weeks, and I'm afraid that I'll never see you again.

I don't know what to think anymore. Am I a fool to believe your promise? Everything tells me that I am being blind and deaf to what's happening—everything but my love and my need to believe in you.

Valerie

Sunday, September 1

I'm home alone. Sandy went back to San Francisco this morning, and Mom, Daddy, and Nick went out sailing in the harbor this afternoon. They didn't ask if I wanted to come with them—they just went without me.

I wouldn't care so much if Peter were here with me. And he would be if I weren't pregnant. Everything would be different if I weren't pregnant. Oh, God, I wish I weren't. Because there's this thing growing inside me, I am here alone. And I don't know what to do. I've made such a mess of everything. I hate myself.

Monday, September 2

This morning I went shopping with Mom. We bought a pair of overalls and a couple of oversize shirts and this maternity outfit with leggings and a big overshirt. It's a gorgeous color, a sort of lavender blue.

I promised myself I wouldn't take anything from her or Daddy that I didn't have to, but she kept nagging me, saying she couldn't stand my going to a new school in one of Nick's old shirts. When we got to the maternity department, the saleslady started showing Mom the slacks as if they were for her. “They're for her,” Mom said, turning to me.

The saleslady looked down her nose at me like I had a disease. “Oh, they're for the young lady,” she said.

I guess I should get used to it, but I can't. Nobody ever looks at my face when they talk to me now—they just stare at my stomach. Mom said that always happens when you're pregnant, no matter how old you are, but I think she said it just to make me feel better. It was really nice of her to buy me all of those things even though she hates my being pregnant. On the way home she tried, in a sort of roundabout way, to bring up adoption. I told her I didn't know why she brought it up when we were having an okay time together. Did she want to ruin it?

Tuesday, September 3

Had to catch the bus at six-thirty this morning to get to my new school. It's in a continuation school way over in Santa Ana. I was half dead by the time I got home this afternoon. I just flopped on the bed and fell asleep.

Mom was right. I'm not going to learn much there. The teacher, or whatever she is, looks like a baby doll, and her voice sounds like a little girl's. Mrs. Penny Zakos (that's her name) is oh-so-understanding and wants us to feel free to come to her with all our questions. I wouldn't ask her how to get to the girls' bathroom.

They haven't received my transcript, so they don't know where to place me. Not that it matters, since there aren't any real classes besides child growth and U.S. history. You work on math and English out of workbooks.

The other girls seem nice enough. Mostly I kept to myself. One Mexican girl (I think her name's Yolanda) who's very pregnant offered me half her sandwich at lunch because I forgot mine. I was very hungry, and it was nice of her to offer.

The babies were across the hall in the nursery. There were eight of them—two eensie weensie newborns in bassinets, two about three months old, another that was trying to get up on his hands and knees so he could crawl, a couple that were just learning to walk, and an older one that was trying to feed itself and getting food all over its face.

I watched the newborns for a while at lunchtime. They were asleep, and you could tell what they were dreaming. One of them was making sucking motions with its lips like it was nursing, and the other one was smiling like it had just heard the funniest joke. It was kind of neat.

Watching the babies in the nursery, it really hit me that I'm going to have a baby that sleeps and cries and nurses and wets its diaper. What am I going to do with a baby? I don't know anything about them. How will I take care of it?

Right now I hate Peter. I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for him. I wouldn't be pregnant. Does he expect me to have this baby by myself? Does he even think about it at all? I doubt it. He has no idea what I'm going through or what it's like for me.

Thursday, September 5

Still working at
The Lark Ascending.
I'm not making much progress. It's really discouraging, but playing the violin is the only thing I do these days that makes me feel like myself. The rest of me seems to be disappearing behind this baby. It's taking over my mind and body like an alien invader. Soon the old Valerie Larch will disappear altogether, and in her place there will be a huge swollen belly with skinny arms and legs.

Saturday, September 7

I GOT A LETTER FROM PETER!

I could hardly believe it when I saw his handwriting on the envelope. Lucky for me, the mail came while they were out. I thought I'd never hear from him again. But I should have known he wouldn't run out on me that way.

He wrote:

My blue-eyed love,

I haven't written to you or called all this time because I'm a coward, and I couldn't stand to tell you the bad news. By now you probably know that I'm not going to be back at Irvine this semester. They have me trapped here at Westfield, a prep school for spoiled rich kids whose parents want to get rid of them. I thought I was being so cool going along with my father. I didn't think I had to fight with him because I was sure I would never get into this place. But it didn't work out that way. Someone canceled, and they were oh-so-glad to have me—especially since my father was more than willing to pay full tuition and make a donation to their building fund.

I'm miserable, Val. I think about you all the time. I'm trying to find a way to get back for Christmas break so that I can be with you when the baby's born. I don't know how I'll do it yet because that s.o.b. took my car away, and I can't get my hands on any money. But I'll find a way, I promise. Until then, think of me: a prisoner here in this ivy-covered dungeon three thousand miles away, guilty of the crime of loving you.

I love you,

Peter

I love you, too, my dear, dear Peter with the crooked smile and the laughing eyes. How could I have ever thought you didn't care?

Dear Peter,

I was so happy to get your letter, I danced around the house all day. I never knew a piece of paper could fill me with such joy.

I miss you. I think about you all the time. Every time I pass someplace we used to go together, I get a lump in my throat. I love you. I'm so relieved that you will be with me when the baby is born. I've been so scared, Peter. It's like I was walking around under this black cloud. Knowing that you'll be home Christmas has made the sun come out for me today and tomorrow and the day after.

I'm okay. Our baby is okay, too. It is kicking me right now. It kicks all the time—an overactive kid, just like you. I wish you were here to feel it kick. But you'll be back soon and then we'll be a family—all three of us! It'll be hard. We'll be together, though, and that's what matters. I don't ever want to be separated from you again.

Please write. I want to hear everything about where you are and what you are doing. If I can picture it, you won't seem quite so far away. Call me so I can hear your voice again and you can hear me say I love you.