Heart on a Shoestring (16 page)

His hands shook violently as he braced himself on the chair. He looked back to Dad, then to Mom, then back to me. “I can’t tell you how many babies I murdered when the mother ended up weeping on the floor while her man stood there, unfeeling like you.” He looked at Dad, who was staring right at him, listening . . . oddly enough. My heart thumped in my ears. I wiped my palms on my jeans and stepped toward Derek. I reached for his hand, but he jerked away.

“I would stand there at the edge of this bed in a sterile room,” he continued. “White walls. Beeping machines. And I’d dig around inside these women with a suction curette.” His tone deepened and loudened all at the same time. “The stuff I’ve seen and done . . . .” He shook his head and raised his voice. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” He pointed at Dad. “Here you are wishing your child was never born, treating him like a piece of trash. You’re no better than me. You’re not shoving scissors into the skulls of little babies and pulling off their limbs, but you’re killing your baby in other ways, ripping him apart.”

Dad walked out of the room. Max left long ago. No idea when, I didn’t notice. I reached for Derek. He let me hold his arm.

“We were trained not to call them babies,” he said to the rest of the gaping mouths and wide eyes. “But I know better now. I’d have blood all over me as I tried to put together pieces of these little babies. They looked like people. Little tiny people. Arms, legs, heads. Some of them even sucked their thumbs. I could tell when I had to do an ultrasound for some women. We needed to make sure we got it all out of the woman.” He swallowed hard. Glassy and red, his eyes shined in the light coming through the window. “So sometimes we used the ultrasound. Either way, my gloves would be covered in blood as I counted limbs and body parts. The worst part was that some of them were born alive.”

He coughed away his tears and lashed out at himself, throwing his arms back and almost knocking the chandelier off the ceiling. “There are some people . . . people like me . . . who don’t deserve forgiveness.” He looked at me. “Much less love.”

I tried to wipe the bitter tears from his face, but he pushed me away and walked to his car. I stood with Matt and Lydia as he sped from the house and down the street. Matt looked at me. I didn’t know what to say. What do you say to that? Apparently, none of us knew. So we stood there in silence until I mustered the strength to say goodbye to Max and go after Derek.

I pulled over. Couldn’t see straight. Didn’t know where I was. I left Miranda’s family and drove. No destination. Hot, angry tears on my face. Tears I held back for years. I didn’t allow many to fall, until the car rolled to a stop and into park. 

Miranda called, asked if I was okay. Unfortunately, although thousands of lives were taken by my own hand, I was okay.

I hated being okay.

“That’s not the worst,” I said. “Miranda, please don’t hate me.”

I set the phone on speaker, put it on my dashboard, and recalled the worst day of my life.

His tiny face haunted me. In my dreams and when I woke up. The rubbing alcohol scent filled the room as I pulled him out of Ashleigh only to find him alive. Still breathing. It happened a few times. Rare. It wasn’t supposed to happen with my own child.

She lied. Said she cheated on me and I was the only person she trusted to abort the baby. I’d already done thousands upon thousands of abortions. Clean and legal. Neighboring communities considered me a master. I made enough money to earn the title and was on the verge of starting my own “Family Planning Clinic.”

When I pulled him out of her he was older than she thought. Weighed just over two pounds and looked . . . real. I tried not to look at him as I set him in a tray across the room. His arms flapped above him like they do in the ultrasounds when they are still inside their mother. I ignored the arms. Wasn’t sure what to do or if I wanted to acknowledge that he was aborted alive. The nurse cleared her throat a few times as I finished cleaning up Ashleigh’s cervix and finalizing the procedure. His arms and legs flailed behind me. I could see the reflection in the metal of my “surgical instruments.” The nurse tried to ignore his slight, barely audible whimpers. His moving, grasping for life limbs. His lungs were not yet fully developed. He needed oxygen. He needed help. My boss entered. A bone-chilling man as arid as the room. Considered abortion a completely healthy way to make money and went to great lengths to preserve his “practice.” I believed him. Agreed with him. He saw the baby and flipped him into a bucket on the floor by the sink, then tightened the lid.

“Sir,” I said. “Isn’t it the law to try and save the child when the abortion fails?”

The nurse excused herself as Dr. Thompson kicked the bucket. “Have you ever seen what happens to one of these things when it gets taken to a hospital? Well, at least the one I worked at.” He stretched a glove over his hand and snapped it at his wrist. “Same thing, David. They leave it there to die while they go on taking care of the babies people actually want. Remember, I used to work at a hospital before this. I’ve seen it myself. This is our job, don’t let emotions get in the way.” He smiled. “Besides, Dr. Bennett, abortions never fail here.”

Ashleigh opened her eyes. Still out of it, but more alert and aware. She looked at me for reassurance. I shrugged. She tried to thrust her body off the table. I held her down. Dr. Thompson assisted.

The baby in the bucket. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wish I could lie and tell you that I actually believed Ashleigh, but I didn’t. I knew from the start I was aborting my own flesh and blood. I didn’t want to be tied to Ashleigh forever. Didn’t want that life. So instead, I tried to suck the life out of my son and traded what I believed would be a better life for hell on earth. I aborted so many other babies. What would be the difference if it were my own? We were trained to see it as a job, as an “it,” a “thing,” not as a person. My son was not a person. He was a fetus. A fetus who would make my life more complicated. That’s what I should’ve believed, but….

I couldn’t take it. I left Ashleigh with Dr. Thompson, grabbed my son from the bucket as he gasped for air, his skin raw and burned in places from the chemicals I injected before. I wrapped him in a hospital gown that quickly turned red and rushed him to my car, holding him on my lap as I sped to the hospital.

He stopped breathing right before I got out of the car. His small face crinkled as I sprinted inside and up the stairs. I guess with my uniform and the fact that I was well acquainted with the folks there, they didn’t say anything. Or maybe it was the bloody infant in the towel. I finally found who I needed. Some of them were even my “friends.” I told them what happened, but didn’t tell them the baby was my own. Explained the failed abortion and begged for help, but Dr. Thompson was right. No matter how much I screamed and pleaded for someone to help the limp child in my arms, there wasn’t an urgency for a child suffering from an abortionist’s hands. Unwanted. Discarded. Fragments of what could have been. Nothing more than a heap of trash ready for Monday’s big green truck to hull away.

That’s all these kids were.

I held his lifeless body. Analyzed his long fingers and full lips. His dark brown hair and bruised head. He reminded me of my baby pictures. Images scorched me. Images that could never be. His first steps and first cake-smothered birthday. The time I’d scare off his girlfriends and teach him to drive a stick. The life that could never be. The life I ended. The life I wanted, but it was too late.

Ashleigh and I had a private funeral. Buried him with a real stone and everything. I refused to be a “doctor” from that point on.

I realized there’s a fine line between helping people and hurting people and I wasn’t sure I was the man to help anyone heal. Not after that. 

I held my breath as I awaited Miranda’s reply. She sniffed, waited, then said, “Meet me at the park bench by my apartment in fifteen.”

She hung up. Wasn’t the response I hoped for, though I’m not sure I remember hoping for any response. I shifted the car into drive and a paper caught my eye, flapping in the breeze under my windshield wipers. I put the car in park, grabbed it, and sat back down.

There, on a tattered piece of green construction paper, twenty six letters ripped out of a magazine spelled something so simple, yet so profound, considering the person who wrote it.

They will forgive you if you ask.

I waited for Miranda on her favorite park bench as the August day began to settle into night. My past, finally exposed, made me feel naked. And that made me nervous. I loved Miranda. She fascinated me from day one, but I didn’t know I loved her. Not right away. Sometimes she irritated me like crazy, but those times seemed to be far less now. Perhaps it was me. Perhaps she softened the hardest parts of me. Something no woman ever tried to do. No one cared enough. 

Silky hands covered my eyes. I held them, brought them to my lips, and kissed them. She sat beside me. Her eyes sparkling in the last of the sun. She’d been crying.

“Thank you,” I said.

She sniffed. “For what?”

“For not hating me.”

“Is that why you refused to kill mosquitos?”

I nodded. 

“And the money?”

I nodded again. 

“How much did you make?”

“A lot. It’s a five-hundred billion dollar business.” I handed her the box Ashleigh gave me. “Look at this.”

She opened it and pulled out the tiny piece of plaster with a mini footprint on one side and a handprint on the other. Miranda’s eyes glistened as she looked at me. “Did you name him?”

I shook my head. “Not officially. Ashleigh did though.” I handed her his death certificate wrapped up in his birth certificate. “She had them made. I never knew until I opened this box.” She read the name as I read aloud. “Derek Thomas Rhodes Jr.” I tried to force my hands to stop shaking. “Killed by his own father.”

Miranda took my hand into hers. “Who you were then is not who you are right now. We all change.” She tried to laugh. “I’m proof. I’m not going to lighten what you did because we both know it’s as horrible as it sounds, but Derek....” She placed the back of my hand against her cheek and hung her head. “This doesn’t define you. Just like my clothes and hair don’t define me. You’re a new person. You have to let go.”

I ran my index finger along her cheek. “How do I let go of the thousands of lives I’ve stolen? How do I go on living and allowing myself to love and be loved when I helped steal the chance from so many others? Thousands, Miranda. I don’t deserve to live.”

“Is that why you planted all those flowers?”

I nodded. “One for each abortion.”

She squeezed my knee and leaned in. Centimeters from my face she whispered, “Live for them.”

“When someone murders another human being, they go to jail. People don’t consider abortion murder. They consider it a normal and practical option for women who, for whatever reason, don’t want their baby. I’ll never forget the abortion I did for a young mentally handicapped girl who was raped. Her parents and my boss, we all agreed it was the best option. So we made the decision for her and I left my office feeling proud that day. Honestly thought I was helping people. That’s what I believed, but after seeing my son take his last breath I can tell you this ... I deserve life in prison.” I exhaled, looked around at the people walking by, the birds flapping from tree to tree, and the squirrels scurrying up the electric poles. “Only the world doesn’t agree with me, so I’ve had to create my own prison. Who am I to say I deserve to live when for so long I believed those babies were embryos devoid of life? Little things, not children, that didn’t deserve a chance. My own son, Miranda, my own son...” I looked at her as my eyes stung with pain. “All because I didn’t want to be tied to Ashleigh.”