(Author's Note: I'm not too knowledgeable about the abortion process, just that there's a lot of pain behind it. I hope I wrote this okay.)
“I’m pregnant,”
Sarah watched her mom’s face whiten. The air in the room suddenly seemed too heavy, a pressure weighing on Sarah’s shoulders. She thought it’d be the other way. That she’d be relieved.
It all depends on how she takes it.
“How far along are you?” Mom’s voice was quiet, a subdued tremble breaking the silence.
“A month,” Sarah pitched her voice at the same level as Mom’s. It suddenly sounded weak, thin. She cleared her throat.
“A month…” Mom echoed. Just an echo and nothing more.
“My period was—it didn’t come,” Sarah swallowed, as if that would clear her brain. “I got a pregnancy test and it tested positive.”
“Who’s the father?”
Sarah’s throat dried up, became a desert. Do I tell her? Will she have a clear head about it?
“I don’t know,” came out of her mouth.
Mom’s face contracted, “Did you have sex with more than one person?”
Be honest, Sarah. “No.”
Mom’s face became stony. “You’re not going to keep it.”
Sarah didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Anger? Sadness? “I—”
“You need to have an abortion.” Mom’s eyes were icy, boring into hers. “If you won’t tell me the father, you can’t keep the baby.”
A bribe. Pain versus disloyalty.
“Okay,” the word was so soft Sarah doubted her mother heard the pain behind it.
Mom stared at her, those eyes curiously dead, two twin walls of ice. At last, she got up from the couch, saying, her voice still that soft shade of pain, “I’ll make the arrangements.”
An abortion…
Sarah found her hand sliding down, cradling the small bump that had grown there. And she knew.
I have to tell him.
Her mother was walking into the other room. And Sarah got up from her chair, and walked upstairs. In her room.
She closed the door. Tears were pouring silently down her cheeks as she fumbled for the phone in her pocket. With shaking hands, she dialed in the familiar number and held it to her ear.
One ring…two rings…three rings…
“Damn you, pick up!” Sarah growled.
And he did. “Hello?”
“John,” her voice cracked. And in that crack was every inch of her pain, her confusion, her anger. “I told her.”
His voice became tense, unsure. “And?”
“I didn’t tell her you were the father.” Sarah swallowed, trying to force her throat and her mind to get the words out. “She’s making me get an abortion. B-because I won’t tell.”
“You should tell her,” John’s voice was soft, laced with its own pain. “I hate for you to carry this on your own.”
“So I tell my mother that my best friend got me pregnant?” Sarah’s voice became a squeak, and she laughed hysterically, mirthlessly. “She’d—she’d…” She could find no words for it.
“But I want to be there. If I just get off scot-free…”
“Then my mother will love you and she’ll let you—”
A knock on the door. Sarah jumped. She muttered, “Hold on,” in the phone and went to the door, phone hidden behind her back.
Her mother was there. “The arrangements are made. Tomorrow.” Her voice was rough, her eyes red-rimmed. She’d broken down too. “Tomorrow morning at 9.”
“Okay,” Sarah whispered. Then she closed the door. Returned to John, on the phone.
“The arrangements are made, John,” the words sounded heavier than any textbook, dimming the sunlight coming in her room.
“Sarah, don’t do this!” John’s voice cracked. He was crying too.
And it came pouring out.
“I love you, John. I love you so much I can’t let you go. And if I tell her what happened. If I tell her that I loved you so much that I’d made love to you, she’d push you away. And I’d feel like it was my fault. All my fault.”
My fault. All my fault.
“It’s not, Sarah. I’m coming over there.” John’s voice was a whisper, bludgeoned to that volume by Sarah’s confession. “I’m telling her.”
“Don’t you dare.” Sarah said. “Don’t. Do this one thing for me. Don’t.”
“I’m coming over…” John’s voice was sure.
“John…”
“But I won’t tell her,” John cut her off. “I won’t tell. Give me five minutes.”
“Okay,” Sarah whispered. Then she hung up, sitting on the bed.
She’d had sex with John over a month ago. They’d been together in John’s bedroom, and John had admitted he’d never kissed a girl, only boys. And Sarah had dared him to kiss her.
It’d been that playful dare that had made Sarah start touching John. Start touching John as they’d never touched before.
They hadn’t used a condom. Stupid, stupid.
It’d all been so fast. And so right. But so fast. So, so fast.
She touched her belly again. Pulled off her shirt and started touching that swell of skin. She could almost hear the baby’s cries, a mere whisper in the room.
I know, baby, I know.
The door opened.
John stood there. His eyes were wide, frightened, teary. Trained on that slight swell of belly.
“Oh, Sarah…” his voice was a moan. A frightened, low moan. He closed the door, and took Sarah in his arms. He kissed her cheek, rubbed her back. Not sexual. Purely comforting.
John drew back from the embrace. “When?”
“9 am tomorrow.” Sarah responded. “I’m…”
John cupped her chin gently. “I can still tell her.”
“Don’t!” Sarah protested. “We just…this…the pregnancy wasn’t meant to happen.”
“We made love, Sarah.” John whispered, a light illuminating his eyes. “We made love and Mother Nature thought it wonderful.”
Sarah laughed. An actual laugh. “Please tell me you’re not going on a poetry rant again.”
John shook his head, entirely serious. “I’m not. But…would you think I was crazy if I could hear our child whispering? Right now?”
Sarah could hear the whispers too, soft. Felt and heard only between the two of them. The parents. The whispers of hope. The whispers of new life. The whispers of their love echoing in Sarah’s belly. How cruel for it to all be taken away.
“No, you’re not crazy, John. Not at all.”
