The Terminal

I hear shouting as I approach the building.

I clutch my bag to my chest as I walk through the crowd of people.  Most of them are carrying signs.  I don’t look at their faces and I don’t look at their signs.  I can hear anger in their voices.

I feel spittle hit my cheeks as I walk by, and the tang of their hot breath.  I do my best to stare straight ahead, but on one of the signs I see a baby.  Part of a baby.

By the time I get to the front of the building there are people to open the door for me.  I thrust myself inside and walk up to one of the stations.  A uniformed woman gives me a sheet full of questions and I sit down on a long wooden bench to answer them.

My number is 7622949.  I am to watch the digital board for my number, and then go into a cubicle to talk to one of the caseworkers.

The room is huge, with a high ceiling and concrete walls, and chilly.  I hunch down for warmth.  As I fill out the sheet, I look around and see many other women.

They are sitting on hard benches too.  Some have mothers, friends, boyfriends – or maybe husbands -- sitting with them.  Occasionally there is a whoop of joy.  Or a sob.

I look up on the board as the numbers appear.  They change every few minutes.  It looks like a board listing trains arriving and departing from a station.  I watch until I see the pattern.  The words listed under the numbers are “cubicle,” “termination,” “completion,” or occasionally “donation.”

I think I know what these words mean.  I think I am afraid of what these words might mean. 

A woman sits down beside me.  She has a toddler with her, a little boy.  He looks at me and gives me a shy grin.  I smile back.  I put my hand in front of my eyes and play peek-a-boo.  First he hides behind his mother’s knee and then he starts looking back at me.  I flirt with him when he looks.  His mother turns to me and asks, “Is this your first time here?” 

I nod, “Yes.”

“Well, we all have to do it!” she says with a game smile.  “These days, anyway.  I’m surprised they still let those folks outside march around with their signs.”

“I didn’t expect that,” I say.

“Oh, you poor thing.  Did they scare you?” 

She reminds me of my mother, though she’s not nearly old enough.  She’s very pretty, with long shiny hair.

“A little.” 

She smiles.  “Well, this isn’t really so bad.”  She looks down and uses her thumb to wipe something sticky and purple off her son’s mouth.  “I mean, it’s not so bad if you get the answer you want.” 

I swallow and nod.

“How far are you along?” she asks.

“Oh, I think, just a month,” I say.  “I didn’t plan this.”

She laughs.  “Yeah.  Most of us don’t.”

“How old’s your son?” I ask.

“He’s two,” she says. 

“Is he your first?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.  “He’s my baby – my good boy.  Aren’t you my good boy?”  The boy shakes his curls and ducks behind his mother, then peeks out at me. 

I smile at him.

I finish filling out my form and bring it back to the woman at the desk.  I go back to sit down.  Occasionally people in medical clothes come out to escort someone into a door marked “Terminations.”  One of them is a big man wearing blue scrubs.