Read Before the Storm Online

Authors: Diane Chamberlain

Tags: #Family Life, #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Mothers and Sons, #Psychological Fiction, #Arson, #Patients, #Family Relationships, #Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, #People With Mental Disabilities

Before the Storm (32 page)

BOOK: Before the Storm
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me. “But I do know he’s handled criminal cases. His name’s

Dennis Shartell and I met him through a friend of a friend. He’s

all the way in Wilmington, though, but he might at least be a

starting point for you.”

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I stood up. “Thanks again,” I said.

Walking back through the hallway, I clutched the card in my

hand. I’d call this man, this Dennis Shartell. By the time I

reached my office, my hopes were pinned on him. He’d be the

one to stem the tide of suspicion that was rising against my son.

I’d made mistakes in my life. Failing Andy a second time would

not be one of them.

Chapter Thirty-Two
Laurel

1991–1992

WITH THE REALIZATION OF MY PREGNANCY came the

sucking, sticky grip of a depression that made the black mood

I’d experienced since Maggie’s birth seem like little more than

a rainy afternoon. A voice in my head repeated incessantly
You’re

a liar,an adulterer,a hideous mother.
I hated myself.I withdrew from

everyone, including Marcus, never going to Talos, although he

still came to The Sea Tender a few nights a week to drink and

watch TV. He probably attributed the change in me to my desire

to avoid the hot tub and a repeat of that night in his guest room.

I missed him. He was my best friend. My only real friend.

I was afraid, though, that spending too much time with Marcus

would lead me to tell him what I didn’t want him to know.

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I knew I couldn’t have this baby, the child of my husband’s

brother, another child I would ruin with my lack of maternal

instinct. A child I certainly didn’t deserve and who didn’t

deserve to be born with me as his or her mother. But getting

an abortion required picking up the phone, making an appointment, driving myself alone to the clinic in Wilmington

as well as back home again, and every time I thought of all I

needed to do to make the abortion happen, I crawled into bed

and cried until I fell asleep.

I was lying in bed one afternoon when I felt the flutter of

bird wings between my navel and my hipbone. Just a quick

little ripple, but it scared me. Could I possibly be that far

along? The sensation finally motivated me to get out of bed

and call the women’s clinic.

“When was your last period?” the woman asked me on the

phone.

I glanced at the calendar on the wall of the kitchen. It was

still turned to the page for May, although I knew we had to be

well into June.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Probably two, or maybe three,

months ago.”

She gave me an appointment for the following day.

There were protestors, maybe twelve or thirteen of them,

on the sidewalk in front of the clinic. They carried signs I

avoided reading as I parked my car.
I have to do this,
I told

myself.

I felt the hungry eyes of the protestors on me as they waited

for me to get out of my car. I opened the door, shut it quietly

behind me and started walking in the direction of the clinic door.

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“Don’t kill your baby!” they chanted as I passed them.“Don’t

kill your baby!”

One woman thrust her sign in front of my head so that I had

to dart to the left to avoid running into it.

A young woman greeted me on the walkway to the clinic.

“I’m your escort.” She smiled, and I let her take my arm and

guide me inside. I walked into a waiting room, where a receptionist sat behind a glassed-in desk. I wondered if the glass was

bulletproof. Maybe today would be the day the clinic was

bombed. The idea didn’t distress me. I wouldn’t mind, as long

as I was the only person killed. Spare the greeter and the staff

and the other patients, I thought. Just take me.

The receptionist gave me a clipboard covered with brochures to read and forms to fill out. I took a seat and set to

work on them. Once I’d filled out the forms, I let my attention wander to the people sitting around me. Who was here

for birth control? Who was here for an abortion? One

teenager caught me looking at her and gave me a snarly, scary

look that made me study my hands. I didn’t lift my gaze again

until a nurse brought me a paper cup and pointed to the water

cooler in the corner of the waiting room.

“You need to drink water for the sonogram.”

I stood up. “A sonogram?” I whispered to her. “I’m here for

an abortion.”

“We need to know how far along you are so you can have

the correct procedure,” she said.

I drank the water, cup after cup, until I was certain my

bladder would burst. Finally, I was led into a dressing room

where I changed into a thin yellow gown, gritting my teeth

against the need to urinate. Once I was on the examining

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table, I became aware for the first time that my belly was

round—a smooth, gently sloping hillock above the rest of my

body. I felt the flutter of wings again.

“Hey, there.” The technician, a woman with short, spiky

dark hair, swept into the room carrying the clipboard and my

forms. “How are you today?”

“Okay,” I said.

She wasted no time, reaching for the tube of gel, smearing

it across my stomach. The sonogram screen was turned toward

her as she pressed the transducer on my belly.

“Hmm,” she said. “About eighteen weeks. Do you want to

see?”

“Eighteen
weeks?
” I asked in disbelief. Could it possibly have

been that long since that night with Marcus? “What date is it

now?”

Her gaze darted from the screen to me. “What do you

mean?” she asked.

“Today. What date is today.”

“Oh. July twenty-first. Would you like to see the sonogram?” she asked again.

I shook my head. No. I was still stuck on the fact that we

were well into July when I thought we were still in June. I

pressed my hand to my forehead, rubbing hard, as if I could

stuff the cotton back into my brain. “I’m so confused,” I said,

unaware that I was speaking out loud.

“Well—” the technician turned off the ultrasound machine

and wiped the gel from my stomach with tissues “—pregnancy

can
be pretty confusing sometimes. That’s why we have counselors to help you think things through.” She offered me a hand

to help me sit up.“You can empty your bladder in the bathroom

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diane chamberlain

across the hall. Then get dressed and go to the first room on

the left and the counselor will talk to you about the abortion.

It’s a two-day procedure at eighteen weeks. And you will absolutely have to have a support person with you to drive you home

each day.”

In the bathroom, I sobbed as I urinated. I felt completely

alone. I knew a second-trimester abortion was a two-day procedure. I was a nurse; I knew what it entailed. In my alcohol-

and-depression-fogged brain, I’d hoped I wasn’t that far along,

that an abortion would be easy. But it wasn’t the complexity

of the abortion or my inability to supply a “support person”

that upset me. It was that I could remember Maggie’s eighteen-

week sonogram with perfect clarity. She’d sucked her thumb.

Rolled a somersault. Waved at Jamie and me. The technician

that day had told us she was probably a girl. She’d been so real.

So perfect. A tender little bundle of potential, into which

we’d poured our hopes and dreams and love.

In the counseling office, I sat across from a woman with

short-cropped gray hair, thick white eyebrows and a deep

leathery tan.

“Are you cold?” She looked at me with real worry and I

realized my entire body was shaking.

“Just nervous,” I said. I clenched my teeth to keep them from

chattering.

She pulled her chair close to mine until our knees were

almost touching.

“The technician doing your sonogram said you seemed surprised to learn how far along you were,” she said.

I nodded. “I’m not going to have the abortion,” I said, “so I

guess I really don’t need to talk to you.”

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“It’s your decision,” she said. “What made you change your

mind?”

I knotted my hands together in my lap. “Because I remember my daughter’s sonogram at that…at eighteen

weeks, and I can’t…it would feel wrong to me, with the baby

being this developed.”

“Ah,” she said. “I understand.You must have very conflicted

feelings about this pregnancy to have waited so long.”

I nodded, thinking of the little market I’d passed on my way

into Wilmington. I could stop there to get a wine cooler on

my way home.

“Do you have some support at home?” She glanced at my

ring finger. “Your husband? Did he want you to have the

abortion?”

“He doesn’t know I’m pregnant,” I admitted.

“Is it his?” she asked gently.

None of your business,
I thought, but I shook my head.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

She looked at the clipboard on her lap, flipping through the

forms. “You live on Topsail Island? I can refer you to a therapist in Hampstead,” she said. “You have some hard decisions to

make and I think you’ll need some help.”

I nodded again, although I knew I wouldn’t go. I was still

afraid of seeing a therapist, afraid I might end up in a psych

ward if I opened up too much.

The counselor checked a Rolodex file, then wrote a name

and number on a card and handed it to me.

“If you’re sure you don’t want an abortion, please see an obstetrician right away to get started with prenatal care,” she said.

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diane chamberlain

“I will.”

“And one other thing.” She leaned forward, studying me

from beneath her white eyebrows. “The escort told me she

thought you’d been drinking this morning.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but didn’t have the

strength. I looked down at my hands where they clutched

the card she’d given me.

“Alcohol is toxic for your baby,” she said.

“I only drink wine coolers.”

“They have as much alcoholic content as a beer.”

I shook my head. “No, they don’t,” I said. “The label on the

beer says you shouldn’t drink it while you’re pregnant, but the

wine cooler label says nothing about it.”

“It should. Right now the law doesn’t require that they do,

but trust me, they contain the same amount of alcohol as a

beer.”

I thought she was wrong, or maybe making it up to scare

me. Probably, I thought, the brand of wine coolers I liked

simply didn’t have enough alcohol in them to merit the

warning.

“Okay,” I said to stop the lecture.

“Would you like me to find an AA meeting near your

home?” she offered.

“I don’t need an AA meeting.” I felt my cheeks flush.

I was shaken by her words, though. Shaken enough to drive

the hour home without stopping for a wine cooler, and once

at The Sea Tender, I found the remainder of the prenatal

vitamins I’d taken while pregnant with Maggie and popped one

in my mouth. When I opened the refrigerator door to look

for something to wash it down with, though, my choice was

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287

between the three-week-old carton of orange juice and the six-

pack of wine coolers I’d purchased the day before, which was

really like having no choice at all.

For another two weeks, I sat with my secret. I tried and

failed to cut back on the wine coolers, but I forced myself to

eat better and take the vitamins. I didn’t see a doctor. I asked

Jamie not to bring Maggie over, telling him I didn’t feel well,

which was certainly the truth.

Sara was so wrapped up with baby Keith that she rarely

stopped by anymore, and that was a relief. Marcus still came

over, and I wore loose beach dresses and was boring company,

my dilemma the only thing occupying my mind. I knew I’d give

birth to this baby, but I wondered if I should keep it. Maybe I

could go away someplace where I could have the baby and

place it for adoption with no one any the wiser.

One evening in my twenty-first week, Marcus was over

and we drank too much and ate pizza as we watched
Seinfeld.

He carried our empty plates into the kitchen and I followed a

moment later with our empty bottles.

“You look like you’re pregnant in that dress,” he teased me.

I was too taken by surprise to speak, and our eyes suddenly

locked.

He reached over to touch my belly, then jerked his hand

away. “Jesus!”

“It’s Jamie’s,” I said quickly.

“Jamie’s?”
he asked, as though shocked I’d slept with Jamie

during our separation.

“It was the week he and Maggie stayed here,” I said.

“Remember? When Sara had her baby.”

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diane chamberlain

“Does he know?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t decided what to do.”

“Looks like you’ve already decided to me. Why didn’t you

have an abortion?”

I rubbed my eyes, suddenly very tired. “Don’t ask hard

questions,” I said as I walked back into the living room and sat

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