Screwed. Part 6

It was so wonderful having young people in the house. Vera, George, and Ada were good company, but there was nothing like listening to children chattering away about their lives. On the cusp of adulthood, they found everything exciting and new; the world was rife with possibility. It made her feel lighthearted and free, although she hadn't felt that way herself when she was seventeen. When Helen had been their age, she was still trying to find her way in America, still trying to master the language and lose her thick accent, which had made her feel gauche and ugly. She had been living with a distant cousin, trying not to look like an immigrant, and starting her freshman year at Barnard. It was in September of 1950 that she had met Abraham for the very first time. Two weeks later he had proposed, and by Thanksgiving they had been married. Life was funny that way. You never knew what was going to happen next. Something wonderful could be just around the corner. The day before she met Abraham, she was wishing she had died with her family in Poland - she had been that miserable. She must remember to tell that story, except for the death wish part, to Grace, who could certainly use a little dose of optimism, considering all that had happened to her.

Distracted by all the drama in the last couple of weeks, Grace had nearly forgotten that she still had to get through senior year. During her first three years of high school she couldn't remember any girls with beach b.a.l.l.s for bellies waddling through the halls of Silver Lake High School. A dubious honor to be the first. Instead of enjoying the euphoria of senior spring, she would be going into labor in AP Psychology and giving birth in the nurse's office. But Helen's gla.s.s-half-full att.i.tude was contagious, and for the first time she thought that maybe everything could work out. Taking a sip of ice water, Grace smiled at her miraculous hostess. As Charlie described the collection of Faberge eggs at the Hermitage, enamel-covered treasures dotted with diamonds and emeralds, Grace was almost, but not quite, able to enjoy her first evening in her temporary new home.

Lying in bed later that night, unable to fall asleep in spite of the incredibly comfortable bed, Grace wondered if her parents were still awake. Were they thinking about her, or had they banished her from their minds as they had banished her from their house? She stared at her phone, dialing the first three digits of her parents' number over and over, unable to finish. What would happen if she called them? Would they answer, or would they just let the machine pick up?

CHAPTER 7.

Dear Baby, I don't know what you are yet, so I will just call you Baby. Poor sweet Baby. You're almost eleven weeks old, about the size of a lime, and you have tiny fingernails. The baby book says you can swallow and you've started kicking, but you're still too small for me to feel. I'm looking forward to feeling you moving inside me, but I think it will be kind of scary, because then everything will become real. Right now I still find it hard to believe that you are living inside me, like a tiny tenant in a studio apartment who will outgrow your quarters in seven months.

Love, Grace It was September ninth, the first day of senior year. Instead of enjoying the relief that should come with gearing up for the last lap of high school, Grace was on the verge of a breakdown, not sure she had the strength to suck it up and slog through the day. Suddenly uncertain if she'd made the right decision about the bean baby, the time for changing her mind was running out. Standing under a tree outside school, waiting for Jennifer, Grace felt certain that everyone knew, that she gave off some fecund pregnancy scent, or that Nick had blabbed, and she might as well have a big red A tattooed on her forehead. Rivulets of sweat ran down her back, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached inside her painfully tight bra. Certain that pregnancy had caused her to swell up like a pair of cantaloupes, which would be another dead giveaway, Grace wore a sports bra that, while it flattened out her chest, was incredibly uncomfortable. Something had to give, because the way she felt at this moment, she wasn't going to last another week, let alone until April.

Although Charlie had driven her to school in Aunt Helen's gleaming silver Mercedes, he had left her to attend a meeting of some singing group he was thinking of joining. Credit to him, he had said she could tag along so she wouldn't be alone, but she had refused. The time had come for her to stand on her own two feet, at least until Jennifer arrived - or until her ankles became too swollen to hold her up, which she felt was going to happen any second, but according to the pregnancy book was a treat that was still a few months away. Where was her best friend, who had promised her that she would be there through thick and thin, which definitely included being pregnant on the first day of senior year? Checking her watch every fifteen seconds, as if that would hasten Jennifer's arrival, Grace waved and smiled, pretending to be normal.

Already late, Jennifer skidded into one of the last open parking s.p.a.ces. Checking her face in the rearview mirror, she was startled by someone tapping hard on her window. "What the h.e.l.l do you want?" she hissed.

She stared up at Nick, hoping he might go away, but he continued knocking. "Let me in. I need to talk to you."

As gorgeous as he was, there was a cool detachment about him that transformed his flawless features into a death mask. Reluctantly, she popped the lock and he slid into the front seat. Trying to sound tough, Jennifer asked, "What do you want, a.s.shole?"

"I want you to talk some sense into your crazy friend. You need to make sure she gets this taken care of, now." Nick spoke in a monotone and stared out the windshield at a tree. It was like a scene out of a mafia movie. His next line would be something about concrete boots and sleeping with the fishes.

"What exactly do you mean, 'taken care of'?" Although Jennifer knew very well what Nick meant, she wasn't going to make this easy on him. She wanted to make him spell it out and prove what a sc.u.mbag he really was.

"Don't play dumb, Jennifer. You know what I'm talking about. She needs to get rid of this thing, this problem. If my parents find out, I'm dead. I don't think she's thought this through."

Realizing that if he came on too strong this girl was going to stonewall him, he tried to soften his voice. If charm didn't work, there was always time to get nasty later. Besides, she was kind of hot in a b.i.t.c.hy way, and it didn't hurt to keep his options open. The type of chick who always had to have the last word, she probably liked it a little rough, and definitely on top. She had possibilities, if she ever stopped talking. But now wasn't the time to think about a potential Number Twenty. Number Seventeen had to be dealt with first.

"Well, it doesn't look like you're going to get your way. Grace is having the baby, and probably giving it up for adoption, you douchebag." Blond hair falling just so over his forehead and miles of white teeth notwithstanding, it was easy to see that this guy was a total b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Jennifer wondered how brilliant Grace hadn't been able to see it.

"That's not good enough. This needs to go away, now." Playing nice wasn't working. Desperation rising like a wave inside him, Nick could feel his very loose grip on his limited self-control slipping. He didn't know Jennifer all that well, but she didn't look like someone who would give up when her back was against the wall. Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to hold it together, just a little while longer.

"Or else? Are you threatening me, you selfish p.r.i.c.k?"

If they hadn't been sitting in the crowded school parking lot, Jennifer wouldn't have been so b.a.l.l.sy. In spite of his reputation as a ladies' man, from what she could see, he was more of a bully. Nick didn't look above hitting a girl if he didn't get what he wanted from her. But the steady stream of kids and teachers made her brave. That and the can of pepper spray she kept under the seat.

"No, I just think that Grace should think a little more about what she's doing. Having a baby isn't like buying a f.u.c.king dog. I don't love her, I don't want to be a father, I'm not going to marry her, and I think I should have some say in how this thing plays out, a.s.suming it's even mine." That last bit was unnecessary and incendiary, and, even he knew, ridiculous, but it didn't hurt to keep that seed of doubt alive. "Can't you see what I'm going through?" In spite of the fact that Grace was the one who had to carry the baby, Nick felt like he was ent.i.tled to a little sympathy too.

Jennifer shook her head. "You're even more of a s.h.i.t than I thought. You probably should've considered all those things before you took your d.i.c.k out of your pants. But you don't have to worry your pretty little head. You're not going to be on the hook financially, and Grace doesn't plan on telling anyone who the father is, so why don't you go f.u.c.k yourself. And get the h.e.l.l out of my car." Jennifer sounded way more sure of herself than she felt. As little as she thought of him, he was still intimidating with his perfect profile and testosterone-fueled confidence.

"Just tell Grace what I said. And tell her if she wants anything from me she's going to have to get a DNA test." Nick got out of the car, slammed the door, and stormed off. "That was a waste of time," he mumbled to himself.

Jennifer sat in her car, taking deep breaths and trying to figure out what to say to Grace about her babydaddy. When the first bell rang, she still hadn't decided how to broach the subject, other than to postpone it as long as possible. As her mother always said, bad news keeps. Reluctantly Jennifer got out of her car, pasted a smile on her face, and hurried to find Grace, who had to be furious that she was so late.

"There you are," Grace called out, relieved that Jennifer had finally arrived. There was no way she would get through this first day without a wingman.

"Sorry I'm late. Minor wardrobe crisis." It was not the moment to tell Grace that she had run into Nick in the school parking lot, and that he had urged her - more like threatened her - to talk some sense into Grace about her problem, as he called it. Jennifer knew she would have to tell Grace about her little encounter with the devil, but there was no rush.

"You look beautiful, so I guess it worked out," Grace said.

In a short navy blue sundress and red flats, Jennifer did look gorgeous. Grace wondered again why the boys couldn't seem to get past Jennifer's personality issues - her body was amazing, and her hair looked like spun gold. Grace's build was much the same, but she was already mourning the loss of perfect proportion and the advent of miles of elastic that would be needed to encase her rapidly swelling anatomy. This had been the first summer her mother had allowed her to wear a bikini, and now she would probably never look decent in one again. It was a minor problem in the grand scheme of things, but upsetting nonetheless.

"And you look just like you. No one can tell. I swear." Jennifer didn't have to lie. There was no suggestion of a bulge anywhere on Grace's slim frame. But according to the baby books Jennifer had consulted - she owed it to her best friend to be well informed - the change would happen overnight. One day soon, Grace was going to wake up looking pregnant; it was inevitable.

"Thanks for caring enough to bulls.h.i.t me," Grace replied as the second morning bell rang and they joined the herd of students lumbering into the first day of school.

Miss Tappan, the AP English teacher, tottered into the cla.s.sroom, a hippopotamus in clam diggers and kitten heels. "Welcome back, children." Her eyebrows rose. "Yes, you're still children. Enjoy it - it's almost over." She perched on the edge of her desk, staring at her cla.s.s over bright red gla.s.ses sitting on the end of her bright red nose. "I know you're all chomping at the bit, desperate to become adults, believing that therein lies some magical key to happiness. But let me be the first to burst your bubble. Adulthood means responsibility, making difficult decisions, some of them wrong, and with no one to come and clean up after you."

Although Grace knew it was practically impossible, she felt as if Miss Tappan were speaking directly to her. Could she know? Her face nearly as red as the teacher's, T-shirt clinging to the damp skin on her back, Grace fought the urge to run out of the cla.s.sroom. Fleeing would only raise more eyebrows, and her secret, if it hadn't already gotten out, would be that much closer to the surface.

Someone in the back of the cla.s.sroom raised his hand and asked, "Does this have anything to do with AP English? Are we going to be tested on this? Should we be taking notes?" Everyone laughed. It was a universal sentiment: unless it was on the test, n.o.body gave a d.a.m.n.

"Every word I utter and everything you see in this cla.s.s could potentially be on an exam. So pay attention. You never know what might be significant," Miss Tappan replied, hopping delicately off the desk and clicking over to the white board where she wrote a list of books and poems. "In case you're wondering, write this down - it's important."

Six hours and five cla.s.ses later, Grace collapsed in the front seat of Charlie's car. More than anything else in the world she wanted to free herself from her clothes, but that would have to wait. She was having trouble getting enough air, but she couldn't decide whether she was simply being strangled by her sports bra or was suffering a six-hour panic attack.

"You made it through the first day. Only one hundred and seventy-nine left to go," Charlie said as he started the car and turned the air conditioning on full blast. Grace's face was on fire, tiny beads of sweat dotting her forehead, even though it wasn't that warm out. It was obvious that she'd had a rough time of it. Charlie pressed a b.u.t.ton on the steering wheel, and cla.s.sical music floated out of half a dozen speakers. It was like a relaxation tank on wheels, but in Grace's state, cool air and a Bach concerto were of little help.

"Don't remind me." Fiddling mindlessly with the thermostat, Grace said, "I don't think I can do this."

"Look, you got through today. You'll see how it goes tomorrow. Take one day at a time," Charlie said, trying to be supportive and sensitive, but worrying that he sounded like a refugee from one of those alcoholics' support groups that meet in church bas.e.m.e.nts once a week to trade plat.i.tudes and sobriety chips. Having spent much of his life in all-boys schools, he was a novice when it came to friendships with girls, and Grace wasn't your average teenage girl. That coupled with the fact that he felt different with her left him on edge. She made him nervous, in a really good way, but it was disconcerting. Searching for just the right words to comfort his new friend, he would do or say anything to make her happy, or at least make her feel better. He wished he could fast-forward to next April.

"I'm not sure that I made it through. Between the sweating and the hyperventilating and the paranoia, I have no idea what actually happened today. Even if I go to cla.s.s, I'm going to flunk all my courses." Grace flipped the visor down and examined the tomato that was her face in the mirror. "Yikes. I look like a pomegranate." She flipped it back up and stared out the window as the glacial, German-engineered air conditioning dried her damp skin and hair. Perhaps if she could go to cla.s.s in this car she could survive.

"You look fine."

What Charlie really wanted to say was that she looked beautiful and vulnerable and he would do anything to protect her. He had spotted the evil Nick in his history cla.s.s. With girls swarming around him like bees buzzing around a particularly luscious flower, Nick was impossible to miss. No wonder Grace had fallen under his spell - he looked deep into each girl's eyes, and the way they all batted their lashes and twirled their hair, it seemed only a matter of time until each one found her way into the back seat of the infamous Jeep Grand Cherokee. That this one guy could have random s.e.x with the entire female population of the senior cla.s.s, along with a healthy quotient of undercla.s.s girls, seemed entirely plausible, and that made Charlie even more furious about what he had done to Grace. As bad as it was to be in her unfortunate condition, it was that much worse, because she was clearly only one of many toys in this jerk's playpen. Charlie fantasized about sucker punching him, whispering, "How does it feel to get f.u.c.ked?" as Nick fell to the floor.

CHAPTER 8.

Dear Baby, You're twelve weeks old. That's the cutoff date, the end of the first trimester. We're in this thing for the long haul now, you and I. No backing out, no more flip-flopping. No procedures involving sc.r.a.ping and vacuuming. The only way you're coming out is head first, screaming your lungs out, and as scary as that is, I'm a hundred percent sure it's the right thing to do. You are fully formed already (I wonder whether you're a boy or a girl), a perfect miniature of a person. Your teeth are starting to grow in your gums. My teeth are pretty good. They're very white and I only had to wear braces for a year, so maybe you'll get lucky. I'm off to see the doctor. Wish me luck.

Love, Grace "Grace Warren?" A nurse who looked almost exactly like the nurse at Dr. Ryder's clinic, but in lavender scrubs, was holding a folder and calling Grace's name. Also different was that Betsy wasn't present, and this time Grace knew why she was here and what was going to happen. Helen looked up from a copy of Good Housekeeping and smiled encouragingly. When Grace stood, she held out her hand to her new friend and benefactor.

"Mrs. T., would you come in with me? Please?" Not exactly frightened after doing a spread-eagle for Dr. Ryder, all this doctor stuff was still new, and having an adult nearby - one who would offer kind words instead of lobbing insults and accusations - would be comforting.

"Of course, darling. Let's go meet Dr. Weston."

Helen followed Grace back to the examining room, where Grace put on the crunchy paper gown and sat, feet dangling over the edge of the examining table, waiting for the doctor. A few discreet inquiries to Helen's own physician had yielded the name of Dr. Annabelle Weston. She was young, well educated, and, most importantly, not judgmental. Grace didn't need to hear any more disparaging remarks about her moral character, and since Dr. Weston had spent her internship delivering babies at an inner-city hospital where virtually all her patients were under the age of twenty, examining a seventeen-year-old who was twelve weeks pregnant would be just another day at the office.

"Thank you again for finding me a doctor and taking care of everything."

In addition to finding an obstetrician, Helen had a frank discussion with Betsy and Brad, who in their fit of moral outrage had dropped Grace from their health insurance policy. After a twenty-minute debate on the Warren's driveway, Helen, backed up by her lawyer - since Brad had a law degree, it seemed wise to bring her own mouthpiece - convinced them to reestablish Grace's insurance coverage. Not that it mattered financially. Helen would happily have paid all of Grace's medical bills, but she didn't want Grace's parents to get away with such despicable behavior. Grace was their daughter, not their employee, and even if they had made her leave the family home, they couldn't make her leave the family. No matter what happened, Grace was their child, and Helen was determined to make sure they didn't forget that. As incensed as Helen was on Grace's behalf, she held out hope that someday, when the baby was placed with adoptive parents and Grace no longer looked like a pear, Betsy and Brad would come to their senses. There was no doubt that, in spite of what Helen saw as the Warrens's unforgivable treatment of their only child, Grace would happily run into those reproachful arms, forgiving and forgetting all their cruelty. Children were nothing if not resilient. Bringing that fractured family back together would be the culmination of Helen's rescuing career; at this point, she wasn't sure it could really happen.

"You're welcome, but there's no need to thank me. I enjoy your company tremendously, as does Charlie. You're a wonderful addition to our little household, and I'm sure it will all work out in the end. Your parents are having a hard time with this. Not everybody is able to look at the big picture and see beyond all the potholes that litter the road of life."

"I hope so. But I've never seen them this mad. I can't imagine they'll ever get over what I've done."

How long could she live with Helen? It didn't sound like she would ask Grace to leave after the baby was born, but Grace couldn't stay there forever. So much to think about, and her brain seemed to be stuck in low gear, unable to plan more than a few days, or sometimes minutes, into the future.

"I don't mean to sound like one of those awful inspirational speakers on Channel Ten, but I truly feel that everything works out eventually, even if it doesn't seem possible when you're in the middle of it. With every fiber of my being, I believe that they love you, very much, even if they can't show you right now." Helen spoke as if she were naturally well-adjusted and highly evolved, but it had taken years on Dr. Evelyn Needleman's black leather couch to get to this point.

"You've been through so much, losing your family in such a horrible way. But you're not angry? How is that possible? Do you think it was supposed to be that way?" Although Grace knew she was prying, she needed to figure it out. Did life just happen? Did fate steer your car where it was supposed to go, even if you tried to turn the wheel in a different direction?

"Not supposed to be that way. I would give anything to get my family back, but once they were gone, I decided that I had to live my life as well as I possibly could, make the most of it. Otherwise it would have been as if the n.a.z.is had killed me as well."

Natalie, Helen's older sister, had turned seventeen the day before the last day they saw each other, standing in the cold mud in that endless long line of people who had no idea that it was the last line most of them would ever stand in. More than once it had occurred to her that maybe she was trying to channel Natalie through Grace, retrieve a little bit of what she had lost so long ago. Helen wondered what Dr. Needleman would have to say about that.

Helen closed her eyes and she was standing next to her mother and sister, waving goodbye to her father, not understanding that she would never see him again after that day. "Bye, Papa. I love you," she had called to him.

"Be good, my precious girls. I'll see you very soon, and I will tell you the story about your Great-Uncle Max." In spite of the wind and the mud and the snow that was beginning to fall, her father never stopped smiling.

Wondering why her mother wasn't saying anything to Papa, Helen had looked up. At the exact same time, her mother looked down and their eyes locked. Helen was only ten years old, but she could see from her mother's petrified gaze that this was the line that led to the end of the world, and there was nothing left to say. Shaking with terror, Helen flung her arms around her mother's waist and grabbed Natalie's hand in a vain effort to keep her family from being torn away from her.

A soldier raised his gun and yelled something Helen couldn't understand, and her father's line started to move away. He turned back, just before the line went around the corner of a low wooden building, blowing a last kiss to his girls; he was still smiling. Helen smiled and blew a kiss back to him. What else was there to do? And then he was gone.

"Mrs. T., are you all right?" Grace asked.

Waving her hand in front of her face, Helen said, "I'm fine. When you're old, sometimes the memories pop up out of nowhere. I was just thinking about my family for a second. You would have loved my dear parents. They were very special ... and my sister, too." Helen smiled and patted Grace's hand.

"You're amazing." How could Helen be so good, so understanding, after all that had happened to her? She had every right to be bitter and angry, but she was the warmest, most loving person Grace had ever met.

"Not amazing. Just practical. Ultimately, what's the alternative? Unless you fling yourself off a bridge, you're alive, and as long as you're breathing, you might as well do a decent job of it," said Helen.

The door opened. "Hi, I'm Dr. Weston. You must be Grace. A pleasure to meet you. And this is your ... ?" Although she was fairly certain this had to be the grandmother, Dr. Weston had once grievously insulted the mother of a pregnant teen by a.s.suming she was one generation more removed than she actually was. How was she to know that the pregnant girl had been a change-of-life baby and the mother had given birth at the age of fifty-two, making her sixty-nine when she walked into Dr. Weston's office with her daughter? Lesson learned: never a.s.sume anything, especially with the rampant use of fertility drugs.

"I'm Helen Teitelbaum, a close friend of Grace's." Helen scribbled on her notepad to remind herself to send Dr. Weston an e-mail explaining the specifics of Grace's situation, and suggesting that this young lady could use some extra attention and understanding during this difficult time.

Dr. Weston's eyebrows rose slightly but she said nothing. When a friend accompanied the patient, that usually meant there had been a brouhaha in the family over the unplanned pregnancy. The chart said seventeen, but this girl looked about twelve.

Cutting to the chase, Dr. Weston said, "Dr. Ryder sent me your ultrasound. The notes in your chart indicate that you hadn't yet made a decision about this pregnancy. You're about twelve weeks, so if you're going to terminate, you need to do so immediately. It's not so easy to find someone to perform one, except for medical reasons, when you get much further along."

Grace took a deep breath. "I'm definitely having the baby," she said, hoping that each time she said it out loud she would be more certain that she had made the right decision. Perhaps a few more times, and she would almost be there.

"Very good. So let's talk prenatal care. Are you taking vitamins?"

Grace nodded.

"That's good. And of course, you must eat well, because your baby eats what you eat. You don't look like a Pop-Tarts and Cheetos kind of girl, but keep in mind that you want to eat simply - lots of fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and lean protein. Try to keep the salt down. That will keep the swelling at bay. Avoid caffeine, and of course no booze, no drugs, no smoking." Dr. Weston ticked off on her fingers as she ran down the list of dos and don'ts she automatically recited to every expectant mother.

"I would never ...." Grace was more than a little dismayed that this doctor thought she might drink or smoke, or worse.

"Please don't be insulted. It's just boilerplate. I have to give that speech to everyone who comes through this office. I know you would never do anything to harm this child. You're very brave. Having a child at your age is a very difficult thing."

While Dr. Weston was tempted to throw in a few words about thinking more than five minutes into the future when some boy has his hand down your pants, she decided against it - once the horse was already out of the barn, what good would it do, especially with this girl? She didn't look like Dr. Weston's typical pregnant teen patient. Something about the way she perched on the edge of the table, ankles primly crossed, her hair pulled back in a tidy French braid anch.o.r.ed by a pink ribbon, simple pearl earrings - this girl screamed prude. She must have gotten pregnant her very first time. For a second, Dr. Weston wondered if she'd been raped, because she didn't have the look of a girl who would get swept away by a little sweet talk and a couple of Coors Lights. But there was nothing in the chart about that, and Dr. Ryder would certainly have noted such a situation. Some frat guy must have gotten her really drunk on wine coolers, which was ultimately irrelevant - knocked up was knocked up - but fascinating nonetheless. Dr. Weston had yet to meet a teenager who had gotten the message that s.e.x was a dangerous business, and five minutes of messing around really could change one's life forever.

"I'm not brave at all. I'm scared to death," Grace said to the doctor.

"You wouldn't be normal if you weren't afraid. I won't lie to you - it's not a walk in the park. But if it were that bad, no one would ever have more than one child, and the human race would have died out long ago." Dr. Weston smiled and patted Grace's shoulder.

"I guess that makes sense, but it's still scary."

"It's the great unknown. Not having any idea what to expect is daunting. You can read one of those month-by-month baby books, so you know what's happening to your body, but don't read too much, and stay off the Internet. And don't listen to all the horror stories people are bound to tell you about three-headed, twenty-pound babies covered with fur."

It was a mystery to Dr. Weston why otherwise well-intentioned people felt the need to share their Guinness World Records carnival sideshow stories. Most of them probably weren't true anyway, and it was hard to imagine why anyone would want to make someone worry about a potential complication that they had probably never contemplated in the first place.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Grace, grateful that Dr. Weston made jokes instead of bawling her out. When the doctor was warning her about drinking and smoking, Grace had feared a morality lecture would follow, which was unnecessary since Grace delivered one to herself twice a day anyway.

"Look, you're young, you're in good health. The odds are with you that you'll have a healthy baby, and I'm sure you'll be a wonderful mother," Dr. Weston said with as much conviction as she could muster, as no seventeen-year-old she had ever taken care of turned out to be a wonderful mother - a teenager couldn't care for a child when she was still a child herself. But maybe this girl would be the exception. Determined not to become a cynic, Dr. Weston sincerely hoped for the best every time she had to tell a girl who was barely old enough to drive that she was going to be a mother.

Helen had remained silent throughout the visit, but now she spoke up. "Grace, didn't you want to talk to the doctor about that?"

"Yeah, um, I'm planning on giving the baby up for adoption. I can't raise a child. I wouldn't even have a place to live if not for my neighbor, Mrs. Teitelbaum. My parents kicked me out when I wouldn't get an abortion a few weeks ago at Dr. Ryder's office." Grace was able to say this without crying now, just barely.

Dr. Weston winced at hearing that this desperate girl's parents could be so cruel. Now all the pieces fell into place. "I'm sorry about that. You're lucky to have such a neighborly neighbor. What about the father? Is he in the picture? Does he support your decision?"

In Dr. Weston's experience, adoption was a smart choice for most girls, but sometimes, rarely, the dad wanted to keep the baby when the young mother didn't, usually because the boyfriend's parents immediately felt like grandparents and couldn't imagine giving that up. Some people found it impossible to imagine their flesh and blood being raised by other people, no matter what the circ.u.mstances of that flesh's creation. Such conflicts were painful and could be legally complicated. Dr. Weston hoped that wasn't the case here, as it sounded like Grace already had enough to worry about fighting with her parents - a court battle with the ex-boyfriend's parents would send her over the edge.

"The father wants me to have an abortion. I haven't spoken to him since I told him he got me pregnant, so I don't think he really cares what happens, to the baby, or to me."

Every time she thought about Nick, even so many months later, she kicked herself for not seeing through his gleaming paint job. Now it was obvious to her that he was all surface, but she had been bewitched, plain and simple. Wondering if she would ever stop punishing herself for her foolishness, Grace tried to keep the tears out of her voice. Daily floggings with her imaginary whip were such a waste of energy, and she knew they wouldn't fix anything, but she couldn't help it.

The girl's pain was palpable, but not knowing what she could possibly say that would make Grace feel any better, Dr. Weston simply said, "I'll put you in touch with an adoption agency. Many of my patients have used a place called Children First, and I've only heard good things."

CHAPTER 9.