Dancer (4 page)

Meanwhile I wanted to disappear. Sheer misery churned within me, soured my attitude. Turned me into someone unrecognizable.

Someone I despised.

4

A
nother day of working at Sizzle meant another day of puking in the parking lot and/or restroom.

As soon as I pulled up that morning, before shutting off the engine, I cracked the door and vomit spewed to the concrete.

Pink chunks ricocheted and landed on the side of my seat.

Disgusting
.

The worsening of my morning sickness meant I could hardly do my job. It was a wonder my boss hadn't noticed.

Or had he?

Approximately every thirty minutes I flew to the restroom. Never mind the curious glances from strangers.

To my detriment I put off calling the abortion clinic. I had to do it soon or it'd be too late. The bigger my baby grew, the guiltier I'd feel getting rid of it.

At random times I found myself reciting cute girl and boy names.

Not good. Not good at all.

If only I'd conceived under different circumstances. I'd always wanted to be a mother. I loved children... even when they were annoying.

Thankfully I hadn't sighted The Dancer or his wife in a couple of weeks. The last thing I needed was to see those two. I wasn't sure which hurt worse: Seeing him, seeing her or seeing them together.

On September the twentieth, I gathered the courage to call a downtown clinic. My hands violently trembled when I tapped in the number and spoke to the receptionist.

Once the appointment date was set, it seemed a countdown to doomsday had begun. In two weeks I'd be destroying this tiny being who lived inside me. Who depended on me.

Not exactly my idea of fun, and I hated myself for drinking too much at the nightclub. Hated myself for being so goddamn stupid. Allison assured me that mistakes happen,
shit
happens and there's no point in crying over what cannot be changed. All I can do is learn from my fuck-ups while moving forward.

During the weeks which followed I constantly reminded myself of those tropes.

It didn't help.

I dreaded the upcoming appointment, tried not to think of it. But anticipation would sneak in and remind me that I had precious few days left.

Five more days, Sam.

Then seventy hours. Forty-eight hours.

Twenty-four additional hours until doomsday, Sam.

Now. It was here. The day of destruction.

On a cloudy, dreary afternoon, Allison drove me to downtown Houston where the clinic was located. Said clinic loomed ahead like a bad omen, tucked amidst a row of taller buildings, a parking lot sprawled in the rear.

Quite uninviting with the center's plain, white angular construction and the giant sign that read
Women's Clinic
. A name which could only mean one thing.

Destruction
.

My anxiety worsened as we made our way to the entrance.

The interior was no more inviting than the outside. With white walls and navy blue carpeting, everything appeared cold and clinical.

Then again it
was
a clinic.

In the lobby, a handful of nurses and receptionists perched behind an L-shaped desk. Allison and I headed there to announce my arrival and fill out a thick stack of papers.

We lounged on ugly beige chairs, waiting. I kept stealing glances at the far left to a corridor lined with steel doors containing rooms where actual—
procedures—
were performed.

I shuddered.

A plump nurse waddled into the lobby. Short colorless hair didn't flatter her aged face, her small eyes.

She wouldn't let Allison accompany me to the surgical room.

Helpless, I tossed a backward glance at my friend. Allison shrugged, as helpless and confused as I. She flashed a tentative smile that gave little comfort.

The elderly nurse led me inside a small room with an examining bed and medical equipment. Odors of disinfectant and bleach permeated this room, burned my throat, triggered my gag reflex.

Gesturing at folded gowns stacked on a corner chair, the nurse said, "Take off everything, including your bra and put on one of these gowns."

When she left, I numbly went through the motions of undressing. I sank to the edge of the mattress, struggling to tie the gown in such a way that my ass wouldn't show.

Dressed in surgical scrubs, a middle-aged female doctor entered, hesitated and poised stiffly nearby. Her platinum hair was fashioned in a high ponytail.

"I'm Dr. Thomas. I'll be performing the abortion." As if bored, she spoke in a disinterested tone and wouldn't initially meet my gaze.

Trepidation twisted my insides as I listened to Dr. Thomas describe the procedure.

"First the nurse will give you misoprostol and ibuprofen. Then I'll have you lie down so I can insert a speculum into your vagina. An injection will be given to numb your cervix, a tenaculum will be used to hold the cervix in place while small rods dilate your cervix. After that, I'll place a tube inside your uterus to suction out the fetus and placenta." She went to the towering ultrasound machine and pressed keys.

To say the least—her description of the procedure did absolutely nothing to soothe my anxiety.

"How long will this take?"

"Around fifteen minutes," came the curt response as she observed the monitor.

I mercilessly chewed my bottom lip, tasted surging blood.

Dr. Thomas went on to casually describe each gory detail of potential side effects:
Nausea, cramping, heavy bleeding, blood clots, damage to the cervix, perforation of the uterus, infection...

I stopped listening. Until she ended it with a final shocking statement.

"Before we begin, state law requires us to perform a sonogram. You'll see the fetus on the monitor." She motioned at a grainy image. "I'll describe various fetal parts including an approximate gestational age. You'll also be hearing the heartbeat."

I choked back tears and all-consuming horror.
I'm forced to see my baby before killing it? Is this shit not bad enough?

What kind of sick punishment is this?

"Do I really have to do this?" I asked, fidgeting and twisting my fingers till the knuckles cracked.

"Absolutely."

I reclined on the bed, preparing for a terrible fate.

Dr. Thomas tapped the keyboard, holding a weird plastic tool in the other hand. It resembled a—
vibrator
? And she put a fresh condom on that
thing
, made me raise my knees and part my legs.

She penetrated me with the vibrator thing. I winced.
Ouch, this fuckin' thing hurts.
My memory lit up with visions of the brutal time I'd lost my virginity.

Caleb was the one who'd popped my cherry.

Interrupting my musings, Dr. Thomas mumbled something about
transvaginal ultrasound
. A few additional keyboard clicks and a strange picture appeared on the monitor. She pressed another button that froze the image.

Skeletal, it resembled the outline of an alien creature and morphed in and out of focus. Thomas pointed out the head, arms and spine.

Guilt slipped into my conscience.
Intense
guilt. I closed my eyes.

"No, you have to look," Thomas ordered, jabbing my cervix with the vibrator. "Look at the screen, please."

Suck it up, Sam. The sooner you do, the sooner you can get this shit over with. Get the hell outta here.

I peeked.

"Gestational age is ten weeks and four days," she said.

Did I really need to know this? Really?

Dr. Thomas manipulated the device. The sound of a beating heart flooded the room.

A heartbeat that raced as quickly as mine. Synchronized.

Oh Jesus Christ. Oh dear god.

I took a closer look at the screen while my tiny baby's fluttering heartbeat flowed in my ears, tickling my maternal senses.

Thump thump thump thump.

"I can't. I can't do this." I yanked out the wand and hoisted myself upright. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Dr. Thomas."

"You have to do what you think is best." She clasped her hands together. I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or apathetic.

I stood, grabbed my clothes and got dressed in front of her. I didn't give a shit what she thought of me or my abrupt decision. She was welcome to judge me as much as she wished.

It wouldn't be the first time someone did.

Thomas quietly stepped aside and I left.

"Good luck," the doctor called.

Upon reaching the waiting area, I threw my arms around Allison. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it." Waves of relief came to erase all doubt.

I'd made the right choice for myself. For better or worse.

"It's okay Sam, it's okay." Allison stroked my back. "There's nothing written in stone that says you can't have the baby. People do it all the time. I'll help you any way I can. You know I will."

I know, Allison. And as I've already wondered a million times, what in shit's name would I do without you?

Would there ever come a time when I'd truly have to face that question?

* * * *

C
ourtesy of taking me on romantic dates and lavishing me with elegant dinners, Caleb slowly slimed his way back into my life.

During the next four weeks he showed his best side. Pretended he'd changed. Promised he'd begun therapy to deal with his issues. He pretended so well that I started believing him; because maybe people
could
change. Maybe I
should
give him another chance.

Everyone deserved a second chance. Even assholes like Caleb.

Furthermore, I hadn't regretted my decision in keeping the baby. Caleb, my baby and I could make a perfect little family. Anything was possible, no matter how small the odds.

No matter how much they were stacked against us.

Naturally there was just one problem—er two. I hadn't told my parents about the pregnancy. I hadn't told Caleb either.

Wouldn't be much longer before I'd start showing. Time was ticking, dwindling.

How much deeper would this hole get? Would I end up buried beneath this self-made mess?

Caleb wanted me to move into his apartment. Would my being pregnant by another man ruin Caleb's plans? Turn his optimism into bitterness? His sweetness to jealousy?

Nope. I couldn't take that chance. I wanted to enjoy Caleb a little longer before telling him.

I, Sam. The hopeless procrastinator.

Presently safe within the privacy of my room, I lay in bed and pilfered the slight swelling of my belly. Fascinated by this new creation inside, I poked and nudged.

Hey you in there. Are you a boy or girl? Will you have my dark hair? My big brown eyes?

Or will you possess The Dancer's hypnotic green eyes?

Since I had a baby bump, I made excuses not to have sex with Caleb. Those excuses were getting better and quite elaborate. So far I'd had ten bad yeast infections and two especially crampy periods this month.

I was afraid—with his body pressed to mine—he'd feel the hard slope of my pregnancy and think
'WTF is this?'

No. That wouldn't be good.

Either way I had to tell
someone.
If not I was going to explode. Other than Allison, someone else should know.

Even though I vowed never to tell my parents, the only other option was to hide my flourishing gut, eventually give birth in my bedroom and then hand the squalling infant to Mom and Dad as I say, "Congratulations. The title of grandparents is hereby bestowed upon you. Enjoy this new bundle of joy."

Yeah. It was high time to tell my parents. Then
that
problem would be out of the way.

As the saying went:
Easier said than done
.

5

I
blurted the news just to get it over with.

Too agitated to sit, I lingered by the foot of the stairs while Mom and Dad took their usual spots on the sofa.

They gaped at me in silence. Silence so thick and troubling that I heard my own heart hammering.

"You can't even take care of yourself—let alone a helpless baby." Dad raised from the couch, his face so red I feared he'd suffer a stroke. "What the hell were you
thinking
, Samantha?"