Sowing on the Mountain

≈ 44 ≈

When she saw the story in the newspaper, she called Slim, but he was out of the office. Rounding up ranchers, she hoped. Jet would be on his hitch, far from a phone. Harv spent his days off in his little trailer on the flats north of Boulder, with no electricity or phone. So she called the FS office and left a message for Jet and Harv to call her. There was no phone at the Lodge, either, but she called their answering machine and left a message about the sting.

They had a good practice, nailing three new songs, two of Mary's and the other by a west coast band, Lethal Weapon. When Mary told her, Ginger was pretty low-key. "It happens—not a big deal," she said, giving Mary a hug. "I got knocked up in high school and I was such a loadie that I didn't even remember who I slept with. The school was in Switzerland, so it wasn't like the end of the world— it was technically against the law, but every private school had a list of doctors. They didn't even tell my parents. I had to sign a statement that being pregnant and giving birth would injure my mental health. One of my teachers drove me to the clinic. It was sort of like a really rough period: cramps, blood, barfing. The barfing was the worst part. I'll drive you if you want."

"That'd be good of you," Mary said.

"Have you told Slim?"

"No. I think he'd be happy and want to take care of me and the baby and all that. How do I tell him I don't want to play mom to his dad? I'm not even close to ready."

"I think you're right. The good thing is he really loves you. The bad thing is you'll be carrying the secret. That can be hard."

Seems like I've been taking on way too many secrets lately, Mary thought. It'd be nice if I could go to confession and unleash the flood. But she remembered the last time she'd confessed, and told the truth. Her mother had beaten her pretty badly and she had a black eye, a split lip, and a gash on her chin. The priest had looked at her through the grille as she confessed to hating her mother and wishing she was dead.

"What is your reason for these sinful thoughts?" he asked.

"She beat me up and I didn't do anything. She was just drunk and mad at her boyfriend."

There was a pause, and he told her to say X Hail Mary and Y Our Father, and to honor the Fourth Commandment and try to keep rebellious thoughts out of her mind. He could see my face, the fucker. He could have called Social Services or the cops. But he didn't.

That's when I gave up on the Church. I had to confess at St. Joseph's, but I always lied, made up trivial sins, kept the real ones secret. When they thought I was doing penance, I was whispering curses, damning the priests and nuns and the iron grip of the Church.

She'd drifted off. Ginger was looking at her. "Let me know when your appointment is," she said. "And call me if you need to talk. I won't tell anyone."

She started classes Monday. She'd signed up for two linguistics courses, one in Anthropology and the other in English. The Anthro prof was crazy-looking, with a shiny bald dome and jutting ears and thick glasses. He started by teaching them how to curse and insult people in the Aztec language: It is said thou art an Otomí. Art thou truly an Otomí? The Otomí were a subject tribe, despised by the Aztecs. The English prof was a standard-issue babbler who spent the first class having them copy a reading list from an overhead projection (hadn't he heard of photocopying?) that he annotated with snide comments. The jargon looked pretty steep.

She had a watershed science class, with a distinguished prof who seldom taught lower-division courses, and one titled Quantitative Methods for the Natural Sciences. I'd prefer Unnatural Sciences, she thought. Sitting in class, her thoughts kept straying to whether or not she should tell Slim. He's definitely involved, she thought, whether he knows or not.

She went to the Student Health Services and made an appointment for counseling, but when she showed up, the counselor was aggressively LDS, staring pointedly at her engagement ring and bristling at the very mention of not carrying a pregnancy to term. Mary stopped at the desk on the way out and asked if they had any atheist counselors, and was told they couldn't assign clients by religion— it was against some rule. So screw you, U, she thought. No help here.

She couldn't decide whether it would be worse to tell Slim and then refuse to have the baby, or to keep it quiet. She did something she hadn't done since she was sixteen or so: flip a coin. She used to do that when she couldn't make up her mind. So she got a quarter: heads, tell. Tails, keep quiet. The flip came up heads. Shit! Two out of three. Heads again. Three out of five.

Heads, three in a row. Dammit!

But it helped her make up her mind not to say anything to anyone besides Ginger. Her appointment at the Women's Clinic was the next day, for a pregnancy exam and a physical. There were protestors outside the clinic, waving signs, Not Birth Control, Self Control and God Hates Sin! They were yelling at her to turn around, or suffer damnation. One woman shrieked, a few inches from her face, and Mary politely told her to back off or she'd end up with no teeth. "She threatened me!" the woman screamed at a bored-looking cop, who shrugged.

In the waiting room, she recognized a woman from the U. and they nodded but didn't speak. There was a young black woman, a girl, who looked about fourteen, crying softly. And a motherly-looking older woman, with a grim expression.

They sat her down with a counselor first, a sharp-looking brunette with a dry sense of humor. Mary took the initiative: "I wasn't raped or anything. I'm enegaged. But I got drunk and didn't use my diaphragm. And I'm not ready to have a kid."

"Have to talked this over with your fiance?"

"No. I think he'd be happy. Ready to get married and take care of me and the baby. He's a good guy."

"Maybe too good," she said. "That can make it harder, sometimes." They talked about potential consequences of not telling him, that he might find out and be angry or hurt.

Maybe not angry. Hurt, for sure, Mary thought. "If he tried to talk me out of it— really tried— I think we'd break up. My parents weren't ready to have a child, and I've suffered that my whole life."

The counselor talked her through a brief history and agreed that she had reason to be wary. "Children who are abused can become abusive parents. Not always, of course, but there's a greater chance. Especially if you feel angry or trapped or forced into having a child."

"I feel angry pretty often, just in general. Sometimes, it's bad— something will happen to trigger it and it takes a while to go away. If he talked me into having a baby, I'd definitely feel trapped. He'd never force me. I know that."

"It sounds like you've thought this through in a realistic way. Are you ready to take a physical? They'll confirm that you're pregnant and do a basic health exam. If you want to be tested for VD or AIDS, you can sign a form. Do feel this session was helpful?"

"Yeah. definitely. Thanks."

The exam confirmed that she was pregnant, healthy, and didn't have any infections or AIDS. She made an appointment for Friday, when she wouldn't have classes the next day. She called Gin and told her the time, and that she'd have to sit in the recovery room for an hour afterwards.

"Where shall I pick you up?"

"My place. I'll give Gris a good walk, just in case it takes longer."