Screwed. Part 4

"What was I supposed to do? Hold her down? That's not how it works in this country, I'm afraid. Parents have all of the responsibilities and none of the rights."

Betsy was determined not to take the blame for this one. Her husband, who thought like a lawyer even when he wasn't at work, always needed to find someone to point the finger at when things went wrong. There was always a guilty party, and Betsy wanted to make sure the blame that resided firmly with Grace didn't get transferred to her. With a memory like an elephant, Brad would remind her at every opportunity for the next twenty years how she screwed up what should have been a simple task and ruined everything.

"So, Bets, what do we do now?" Furious with his wife for making it more complicated than it needed to be, Brad did have the wisdom to realize that lashing out at her wasn't going to solve the problem, even if it did make him feel better temporarily.

"I think we have to go to Plan B," Betsy said.

"There's a Plan B?"

Brad wondered if his wife was starting to lose it under all the stress, not that she wasn't ent.i.tled to be a little nutty. Now she was sounding like a secret agent planning to infiltrate enemy headquarters. Up until the last few days, their life had been relatively simple, straightforward, and sanitary. Their little family had always functioned like a well-oiled machine, each member knowing his or her jobs and performing them perfectly. An unwanted child, an unwed mother - Grace had thrown a major wrench in the works. Neither he nor Betsy had the tools to deal with such a catastrophe. It was not part of their world, and he had no interest in figuring it out. An economics degree from Yale and a law degree from Columbia had not prepared him for an adolescent girl who, without warning, decided to go off the rails.

"There has to be. We can't just leave it like this, can we? I don't know what to do."

As furious as Betsy was, somewhere, in a part of her brain she rarely accessed, she felt a maddeningly maternal tug that she fought to bury deeper. The internal conflict was making deep furrows in her forehead, in spite of the five hundred dollars' worth of Botox Dr. Rick had just shot in there. If Brad loosened his grip on his anger, even a little bit, she could almost see getting through this as a family. If Brad could ease up, that could be their Plan B. Other people had daughters who got pregnant, even though they didn't know any of them personally, and their families managed not to implode. Maybe it didn't have to be the end of the world. Maybe they could figure this out as a family.

"Well, the way I see it, the one thing we cannot do is just leave it. Grace needs to understand that her behavior will not be tolerated. Let me take care of it. I have an idea. Come straight home." Slamming down the phone, his self-righteous anger renewed by Grace's latest act of disobedience, Brad stomped down the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Betsy was a very bright woman. Part of Brad's reason for marrying her was to ensure he would have intelligent children - he couldn't imagine being married to some bubblehead with an honorary degree from Neiman Marcus who would spend all his money and saddle him with a brood of helpless morons. But like all women, Betsy was too emotional, and that was a crippling weakness. In Brad's mind, life was simple if you didn't get tangled up in all that touchy-feely c.r.a.p - such a waste of valuable time. He was certain that dealing with Grace was all about teaching her a lesson, making her realize on a cellular level how badly she had behaved, how she had violated the family code. A good spanking would do the trick, but unfortunately, the days when corporal punishment was synonymous with no-nonsense parenting were long over. Although she had already begged for forgiveness repeatedly, words were cheap. Grace needed to show by her deed - namely, getting rid of this egregious error - that she was truly contrite.

In law school, the professors had taught him, or he had chosen to learn, that somebody was always right, and somebody was always wrong. Even when a case settled for nuisance value, with no one admitting culpability, the guy who got the check was the clear winner. And of course, he got paid no matter what, so he was always the winner. In their current dilemma, while Grace was the clear loser, she was threatening to drag her parents into the ditch with her. Having done nothing wrong, Brad wasn't going to let that happen. It was all about accountability.

"Bye," Betsy said, knowing her husband was already long gone.

It didn't sound like Brad was ready to let go, to let this play out according to a scenario he hadn't designed. She could almost hear the steam coming out of his ears, right through the phone. But as long as her husband was willing to take charge of the situation, Betsy decided to step aside and let him have a turn. Initially he had pa.s.sed the buck to her, and she was relieved that he now wanted to partic.i.p.ate in this horrible moment in their life. Hopefully, whatever he had in mind would be more effective than what she had set out to do.

Thinking back to the other night when she had arrogantly recalled how simple raising Grace had been, she realized she was now being punished for thinking she was better than everybody else. If only she'd been paying more attention when Grace started dating, not that she went out much. And she'd thought Grace was so smart - shouldn't a kid who got a five on the AP Biology test have been way more savvy when it came to s.e.xual reproduction? Wondering how she was going to face the next meeting of the Save Yourself for Marriage group, Betsy thought about changing the name to Screw Your f.u.c.king Mother. Reaching up to rub her throbbing forehead, Betsy was horrified to discover the ridges were so deep they felt like corduroy.

In the back seat, Grace pretended to sleep while she tried to listen in on her mother's phone call. Over the constant stream of chatter from AM talk radio, she was only able to make out something about Plan B. At this point, she could almost believe they might hit over the head with a shovel and give her an abortion on the kitchen table. When she was a teenager, Betsy had received the Gold Award as a Girl Scout, the female equivalent of an Eagle Scout. Maybe she had a D & C merit badge. After what had happened that morning, anything was possible.

In their driveway, barely able to wait until Betsy turned off the engine, Grace flew out of the car and ran past her father into the house, nearly tripping over a bunch of black plastic garbage bags that littered the front porch. For the last two hours, she had hardly moved for fear she would wet her pants, and she had been too afraid to ask her mother if they could stop so she could use the ladies' room.

While Grace was in the bathroom, Brad took the opportunity to fill his wife in on his inspired plan. In his mind, the world was black and white - shades of gray were for wimps and losers. "It's the only way, Betsy. Grace needs a shock to the system. Her refusal to do as she was told at the clinic tells me that she is feeling a little too comfortable. I firmly believe we need to reestablish the parental hierarchy, and this is the only way she's going to get the message."

"But Brad, it seems awfully harsh." Betsy had been as furious and hurt as her husband, but throwing their only child out in the street was cruel and unusual punishment. "Are you sure this is a teachable moment, when she's in this condition? Besides, isn't it against the law to refuse to take care of one's own child?" Distracting her husband with a legal issue might take his hysteria down a notch, giving him a chance to regroup and perhaps come up with a less punitive Plan C.

"Look, Bets, you asked me to come up with a Plan B, and this is it. We need to present a united front, and I'm not talking about kicking her out forever. Just a day or two at Jennifer's, and she'll come to her senses. I know my daughter."

Not quite as confident as he professed to be, Brad hoped he knew his daughter. But he really believed it wasn't much of a gamble: Jennifer's parents weren't going to house Grace for more than a few days, and after that she had nowhere else to go. They held all the cards. It was just that simple.

Grace reappeared before Betsy could point out that based on what had happened in the back of Nick Salter's car, neither of them knew their daughter as well as they had thought. "What's all this stuff? Why did you put the lawn clippings on the front porch?" Grace asked Brad, who was standing outside the front door.

Brad spoke to her for the first time in nearly a week. "Those are your clothes, Grace. You can't stay here anymore. Since you've chosen to compound your earlier transgression with your latest poorly considered decision, you've really left us with no choice. It would have been so easy to make this thing go away, almost like it never happened. But you're behaving irrationally, threatening our position in this community, squandering your future. This could have remained a private family matter, but now you're choosing to broadcast your disgrace. Your mother and I refuse to be a part of this." His voice boomed as if he were addressing the jury during closing argument.

Even as the lawyer-speak ricocheted around in her brain, Grace couldn't quite believe he was saying what he was saying. "Left with no choice?" she echoed. Admittedly, she had done something stupid, but she couldn't see how this one mistake undid an entire lifetime together. It wasn't like she'd robbed a bank or murdered someone. "You're kicking me out? Where am I going to go?"

"You should've thought of that before you gave it up like some floozy." Not a person who prior to Grace's screened porch confession had made a habit of using such language, Brad continued to find power and comfort in talking like a low-end crime figure in a bad gangster movie. Aware that his chosen words were not exactly Ivy League, Brad wanted Grace to know that if she chose to have this b.a.s.t.a.r.d, she had better get accustomed to hearing people say those kinds of things to her, and worse.

Feeling like an actress delivering her lines in some cheesy soap opera, Grace looked up and asked, "But Daddy, what am I supposed to do?" She had known they were beyond furious, but she hadn't in her wildest imagination believed that they would pack all her belongings and kick her out, essentially fire her for poor performance, her failure to meet expectations.

Before Betsy or Brad could answer, an elderly woman, jogging up the driveway like a young girl rather than the octogenarian she was, called out, "h.e.l.lo. Sorry to bother you. I just want to give you a letter that the postman mistakenly put in my mailbox." As Helen Teitelbaum got closer, she realized she had wandered into the center of a major brawl, and she walked faster, desperate to hand over the misdelivered mail and get out of the way.

Her acquaintance with her neighbors consisted entirely of an occasional wave or "good morning." Just because they lived across the street from each other didn't mean they were the kind of neighbors who popped by to borrow a cup of sugar. The Warrens seemed nice enough, if a little uptight, and not particularly friendly, considering their numerous well-publicized acts of Christian brotherhood and charity. Really, how many lasagnas could one woman throw together while still pursuing a rewarding career as one of Cabot Realty's top closers, while still finding time to run half-marathons to raise money for Children Without Borders or Christian Doctors in Love or some other totally worthwhile cause? Plenty, according to the local paper. Someone at the Silver Lake Gazette must owe the Warrens a lot of favors, because their picture found its way onto the front page far too often for people who were neither politicians nor outlaws. Not that the world couldn't use people like that, but to Helen the whole thing smacked of insincerity, like it was all about the recognition part rather than the helping part. Maybe she was wrong - she hoped she was.

"I don't want to interrupt. I'll just leave this here." No one had reached out to take the letter, so Helen put it down on the bottom step of the front porch.

As she turned to go, Helen glanced up at the daughter, who was sitting on the top step surrounded by Hefty bags, her face swollen and tear-stained. This was clearly more than just a minor family disagreement, but Helen had recently been trying, with minimum success, to be less of a yenta. Never able to have children of her own, Helen attempted to fill that huge hole in her life by coming to the aid of anyone who needed help. According to her brother-in-law, Jacob, there was sometimes a fine line between benefactor and busybody, and in her efforts to save anybody who looked like they needed a little saving, she was in constant danger of crossing it. Fixing everything was not Helen Teitelbaum's job; not everyone wanted to be fixed, and certain people who looked like they needed fixing were merely exercising an alternate lifestyle choice. That last part had to do with the time Helen found and paid for a six-month lease on an apartment for a homeless couple, who turned out not to be homeless but had merely decided to live off the grid for a year, whatever the h.e.l.l that meant. Overflowing with good intentions, Helen had further destroyed their social experiment by bringing them a few bags of groceries and buying them winter coats. Who knew that dumpster diving was the latest craze among certain eco-conscious types, and that Helen's charitable works had probably wrecked their chances of getting a reality show on the Green Channel, which Helen didn't even know existed? It was moments like those that made Helen think that perhaps she had lived too long; the world no longer made any sense to her. In spite of that little mix-up, Helen didn't agree with Jacob's a.s.sessment of her yenta-ing, but she was curious to see if she actually could control her urge to stick her nose in other people's business. The earth would not fall off its axis if Helen Teitelbaum

missed a day.

One, two, three ... "Grace, are you okay?" Biting her lip, Helen wondered if maybe Jacob was right, that she was a pathological busybody who needed a support group to teach her how to take twelve steps back instead of trying to solve everyone's problems.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Teitelbaum," Grace sniffed, trying to smile, but only managing to look like she had just returned from having dental surgery.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Helen looked up at the Warrens. She sensed that something very bad was happening, and she was suddenly afraid. On an episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show, some psychiatrist had once said it was very important to follow your instincts even if your brain said you were being silly, and Oprah was rarely wrong. Although she doubted that the Warrens were the types who would physically abuse their own child, Helen's gut was telling her not to leave until she figured out what the fight was about. Sometimes these churchy types had weird ideas, and Helen would never forgive herself if a month later she heard on the news that Grace Warren had mysteriously disappeared or fallen down a flight of stairs.

"Not a thing, Mrs. Teitelbaum. You just caught us in the middle of a little family disagreement. Everything's under control," Brad called out from the porch, favoring Helen with a smile that belonged on a politician after a long night of campaigning - his lips turned up, but his eyes were gray ice. Now Helen was certain she wasn't going anywhere.

"Are you sure? Do you want me to send George over with the truck? He could cart away all this garbage for you. It wouldn't be any trouble." Once she explained to George her concern for Grace's safety, and that she was following Oprah's advice, he wouldn't be too annoyed that she'd offered his a.s.sistance when he already had more than enough to do mowing her lawn and hauling her gra.s.s clippings.

"We're fine, Mrs. Teitelbaum. Can we help you with something else?" Brad took a step forward and waited, arms crossed menacingly, not above bullying a woman nearly twice his age.

"No, I guess that's all for now." Helen turned to Grace. "If you need anything, I'm right across the street." Slowly walking away, turning to look back every few seconds, hoping that Grace would speak up, Helen reluctantly reached the end of the Warrens's driveway and crossed the street. She looked at her watch. In a few hours she would come up with an excuse to check on things at the Warren household.

"I didn't think we were ever going to get rid of her," Betsy said.

"Bets, in twenty years of practicing law I've lost two cases, and they weren't my fault. I certainly think I can handle a demented old bat with too much time on her hands." Turning to Grace, Brad said, "Think about what we've said. When you've come to your senses, you can come back and we'll take care of this mess properly. Otherwise, you're on your own. You've made your bed, as it were, and now you will lie in it. Betsy, inside."

Although Betsy was not someone who was accustomed to taking orders, she knew that she had failed to hold up her end, and now Brad was in charge. Refusing to meet Grace's pleading eyes, Betsy stepped over a garbage bag and followed her husband into the house.

The front door slammed, and Grace was alone. She started to call Jennifer but remembered that she had gone away for the long weekend with her family. They wouldn't be back until Monday night. Leaving the bags on the porch, Grace walked around the side of the house, hoping that her parents were watching her through the windows and that any minute they would run outside and throw their arms around her, apologizing for their temporary insanity brought on by the shock of Grace's news, and vowing to work through this together. But after a few minutes considering this scenario, Grace nearly laughed out loud. The odds were better that Nick would show up in the next five minutes with a bouquet of roses and a diamond ring. Not knowing what else to do, Grace dragged a chaise longue across the backyard and behind the garden shed. No matter how shaken up she was, she could always take a nap.

A couple of hours later, Grace opened her eyes to find Mrs. Teitelbaum perched at the end of the chaise, quietly filing her nails. "Did you have a good sleep?" she asked.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was just checking on you. When I didn't see you on the front porch, I knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so I walked around the back and there you were, sawing logs."

"How long have I been asleep?" Grace sat up, her brain struggling to arrange the puzzle pieces of the morning. For a second or two, she wasn't sure whether Dr. Ryder had been real or was just a figment of her hysterical imagination.

"It's been a couple of hours since I dropped off that letter." Helen cleared her throat. "I don't want to pry, but might I ask what's going on between you and your parents?" Remembering Jacob's words, Helen added, "Of course, if you don't want to talk about it ...."

"I did something very bad, and my parents are angry with me." Telling this prim, angelic looking woman that she was having a baby would be like telling the pope that she was pregnant.

Helen's eyes widened at the vague but ominous explanation. "So what's in the bags?"

"All my clothes."

"I'm getting on in years, so I may be a little slow, but why are your belongings in garbage bags on your front porch?" Slowly, patiently, Helen tried to ask the questions that would get her to the heart of the Warren family feud.

"I'm going to have a baby," Grace whispered and started to cry, her shoulders shaking, all the tears saved up from the morning now flowing freely.

"Sweetheart," Helen said reaching over and wrapping her birdlike arms around Grace's quivering body, "it's not the end of the world.

"Y-y-yes, it is," Grace stammered. "They don't love me anymore."

"I'm sure that's not true. It's not like you just told them that you were a serial killer," Helen said, knowing that this was no time for humor, but hoping she could stop, or at least slow, the torrent of tears.

"I'm not allowed to come home unless I have an abortion." Unconsciously, Grace placed her hand protectively over her stomach.

Sure she must have misheard, or that Grace was so distraught she had confused the facts, Helen said, "But there was a picture on the front page of the paper of your parents at a pro-life rally last month."

"Apparently there's an exception to the rule when it's your own daughter."

Helen stifled a chuckle. Her sixth sense had been right. The Warrens were too good to be true.

"So, at least for the moment, you have nowhere to go?" Helen asked, still not letting go of Grace.

"No. My best friend, Jennifer, is away for the weekend." Grace sniffled, and Helen handed her a tissue that had been tucked in her sleeve. "But I'm sure they'll let me back in before it gets dark. They're just trying to make a point."

Not so sure that Grace's eviction was just a gesture, Helen stood up and said, "Well, until your parents come to their senses, you're coming home with me."

Taking Grace's hand, Helen led her around to the front of the house. "I'll send George over to get your clothes."

The front door flew open, and Brad stepped out onto the porch. He and Betsy had been watching through the windows, speculating on how long it would take Grace to fold, but now the elf in pink cashmere was back, seemingly determined to screw things up.

"Grace, where do you think you're going?" At the sound of Brad's harsh voice, Grace's shoulders tensed and her heart started to pound.

"Mr. Warren, I'm taking Grace back to my house until you come to your senses."

"You're not taking my daughter anywhere," Brad shouted. Betsy stood next to her husband, hands on her hips, saying nothing.

"It seems to me, Mr. Warren, that if you've thrown your daughter out of your home, out of your life, then it is really none of your business where I take her." Helen mirrored Betsy's hands-on-hips posture and glared back. At five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds, Helen Teitelbaum was surprisingly fierce.

"Well, it is our business as you are trespa.s.sing on our property, and I'm one minute away from calling the police," Brad said in his best lawyer voice.

Threatening people was one of his favorite activities. A former fatty who had never recovered from the merciless teasing he suffered at the hands of the kids who didn't have to wear Huskies and never chose him for their team in kickball, he spent most of his adult life tormenting others, not so unconsciously trying to compensate for a childhood spent crouched against the chain link fence in the corner of the playground with a transistor radio and his best friend, Mr. Goodbar.

"You can't intimidate me, Brad Warren. I survived the n.a.z.is. My parents and my sister died in the camps. Family is precious, and there are many worse tragedies in this world than an unplanned pregnancy." Not wanting to look at Betsy or Brad in case her bravado was more superficial than she hoped, Helen looked at Grace and nodded. When her mother had woken her at four o'clock that morning, Grace had imagined many scenarios, but this was not one of them. "Grace, come with me. "

"This is really none of your business, Mrs. Teitelbaum. You need to go home. Our family issues are not your concern." Betsy was furious and exhausted, once again being forced to defend her privacy, not quite able to believe what a day she was having. Since when did raising one's children become a group effort? she wondered, silently cursing Hillary Clinton and her "it takes a village" c.r.a.p. If Mrs. Teitelbaum had stayed out of it, Betsy was sure Grace would have backed down before dinnertime and come crawling back into the house, begging for forgiveness. She would have had the abortion, and all would be right with the world. But now Betsy didn't know what was going to happen. She had never seen any grandchildren with Mrs. Teitelbaum, so the old cow was probably desperate to get her hands on a baby, by whatever means.

"But if Grace is no longer living here, what difference does it make to you where she goes?" Helen asked.

Brad pulled his phone out of his pocket and waved it over his head like a teenager at a rock concert. "Trespa.s.sing is a misdemeanor, Mrs. Teitelbaum."

Helen wrinkled her nose and sniffed, as if she smelled something unpleasant, having trouble believing that these people could discard their own child as if she were yesterday's trash. "I rode in a cattle car. I was at Auschwitz. You think you can frighten me by threatening to call the Silver Lake police department?" She turned away from Brad. "Grace, you look pale. Have you eaten anything today?" Without waiting for an answer, she said, "Right now you need a good meal and a place to lie down."

Grace realized that she hadn't had a morsel of food since the night before and was in fact starving. As if the mention of a meal had triggered a ravenous appet.i.te, Grace suddenly felt that if she didn't eat something in the next five minutes, she would faint. "Thank you, Mrs. Teitelbaum." Without looking at either of her parents, Grace took Mrs. Teitelbaum's outstretched hand, and the unlikely pair walked down the driveway and disappeared behind the black iron gates across the street.

Betsy and Brad stood, speechless, surrounded by a sea of black plastic. That was not how it was supposed to go.

"How did that happen? I've a mind to ...." Brad firmly believed that Grace needed to learn a lesson, and there was no way she was going to do that if the meddlesome neighbor, who lived in a multimillion-dollar home with a guest house and swimming pool, swooped in to rescue her before she had experienced a moment of discomfort. As Brad understood it, unless Grace faced the logical consequences of her actions, how would she ever grow up? Drinking iced tea while relaxing by a pool was not conducive to introspection and thoughts of remorse.

"To do what, Brad? We kicked Grace out. We have no control over where she goes." Betsy, her shoulders sagging, was beginning to regret their power play.

They would just have to wait it out. What could they possibly say if they marched over there now? They would only look weak and inconsistent, and the first rule of parenting was to look like you were in charge and knew what you were doing, even when you didn't ... and always, always stick to your guns.

Brad stepped over a bag and opened the front door. "I just hope that houseman picks up these bags this afternoon." Relieved that the drama was over, at least for now, Brad kicked at a bag, sending it tumbling down the front steps, and returned to the comparative peace of his study. Although he had stayed home from work to support Betsy, he had been too distracted to put together a coherent sentence in the brief he was working on. Now his mind was clear. "Let that do-gooder Teitelbaum deal with Grace's mess if she wants to," he muttered to himself.

With loads of time and money and no one to spend it on, Mrs. Teitelbaum was the perfect person to step into the breach. He definitely wasn't up to the task. Part of him realized that this was not a shining moment in his career as a father, but the thought of Grace doing wicked things with some boy made him hate her. She was his baby, and now she was ruined, and he couldn't imagine ever getting over it. Although he realized on some level that he might be overreacting - Grace was nearly eighteen, and he couldn't expect her to remain a child her whole life, as much as he'd like her to - his need to separate himself from the source of his uncontrollable, irrational fury trumped any sense of parental attachment he might have.

CHAPTER 6.

Although Grace had said h.e.l.lo to Mrs. Teitelbaum nearly every day since the latter had moved into the giant stone house across the street, Grace knew practically nothing about her, other than that she looked like an apple doll in an endless array of pastel cashmere cardigans. Beyond diminutive, Mrs. Teitelbaum favored crisp white blouses and pearls; a pair of tortoisesh.e.l.l reading gla.s.ses always hung from a chain around her neck. Based on the way she dressed, Grace had a.s.sumed Mrs. T. was a retired spinster librarian, although a slight accent, vaguely European, suggested more exotic origins, and of course her house was not what you would expect a librarian to live in. It was ma.s.sive, surrounded by an acre of lush gardens, a huge black wrought iron fence, eight-foot hedges, and even a small fruit orchard. Grace figured her neighbor must have an unusual back-story, but nothing about her manner had suggested that Mrs. Teitelbaum had spent part of her childhood in a World War II concentration camp.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Even as she said it, Helen realized this was a stupid question. How could the poor child be okay? Opening the oversized mahogany front door, Helen called out, "George, where are you? Could you come here for a minute?"

A tall, slender older man in rumpled chinos and a blue work shirt appeared, carrying a toolbox. "I'm right here, Mrs. T. I was just going to fix the squeak in that door upstairs. Do you need me to do something else first?"

"Yes, George, if you could. This is Grace Warren, from across the street. She and her parents have had a, um, falling out ... and she's going to be staying with us for a while."

George dipped his head slightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Grace."

"You too," Grace said. She wasn't sure whether she should shake hands, so she just nodded in return.

"Anyway, George, could you run across the street and get Grace's things? You'll find them on the front porch in black plastic garbage bags. I think there are six of them; you should probably take the golf cart so you can get everything in one trip."

"Garbage bags?" George asked, and Helen nodded. "Sure thing. I'll be back in a flash. Where should I put them?"

George was curious about this girl's sudden appearance as well as her unusual luggage, but it didn't seem like the right moment to ask questions, and it would all come out in good time. His employer was always bringing home strays, although they usually had four legs.