Separate Beds (10 page)

“There are day-care centers,” Catherine noted defensively.

“Which don't accept a child until he is toilet-trained. Did you know that?”

“You're really laying it on heavy, aren't you?” Catherine accused.

“These are facts,” continued the counselor. “And since you're not the kind to go man-hunting as a solution to your problem, shall we explore another option?”

“Say it,” Catherine challenged tightly.

“Adoption.”

To Catherine the word was as depressing as a funeral dirge, yet Mrs. Tollefson went on. “We should explore it as a very reasonable, very available answer to your dilemma. As hard as it may be for you to consider adoption—and I can see how it upsets you by the expression on your face—it may be the best route for you and the child in the long run.” Mrs. Tollefson's voice droned on, relating the success of adopted children until Catherine jumped to her feet and turned her back.

“I don't want to hear it!” She clutched one hand with the other. “It's so—so cold-blooded! Childless couples! Adoptive parents! Those terms are—” She swung again to face Mrs. Tollefson. “Don't you understand? It would be like feeding my baby to the vultures!”

Even as she said it, Catherine knew her exclamation was unjust. But guilt and fear were strong within her. At last she turned away and said in a small voice, “I'm sorry.”

“You're reacting naturally. I expected it all.” The understanding woman allowed Catherine to regain composure, but it was her responsibility to delineate all choices clearly; thus, she went on.

Catherine again listened to the facts—adopted children tend to develop to their fullest potential; adopted children are as well- or better-adjusted as many children who live with their birthparents; child abuse is almost nonexistent in adoptive families; parents who adopt are generally in an above-average income bracket; the adopted child runs a better chance of graduating from college than if parented by an unwed mother.

A great vise seemed to tighten, thread by thread, at Catherine's temples. She dropped to the sofa, her head falling back as an overwhelming weariness pervaded her.

“You're telling me to give it up,” she said to a shimmering reflection on the ceiling.

Mrs. Tollefson let the old guilt-laden term pass for the moment. “No . . . no, I'm not. I'm here to help you decide what is best for your welfare, and ultimately, for the child's. If I fail to make you aware of all eventualities, of all avenues open to you, and of all that may close, I am not doing my job thoroughly.”

“How much time would I have to decide?” The question was a near whisper.

“Catherine, we try not to work with time limits here, which sounds ironic when each young woman is here for a limited time. But no decision should be made till the baby is born and you've regained your equilibrium.”

Catherine considered this, then her concerns came tumbling out in an emotional potpourri. “Would that really happen? Would I resent the baby because he slowed me down? I only want to make a decent life for him so he won't have to live in the kind of home I had to live in. I set out to get a college education to make sure of that, only to find out, if I pursue it, I may defeat my purpose. I know what you said is true, and it would be hard. But a baby should have love, and I don't think anybody could love it as much as a real mother. Even if money is a problem, it seems like copping out to give the baby away because of the expense.”

“Catherine.” Mrs. Tollefson leaned forward, caring deeply, her face showing it. “You continue to use the term
give away,
as if you own the child and are rejecting him. Instead, think of adoption as perhaps a better alternative to parenting the child yourself.”

Catherine's large blue eyes seemed to stare right through the woman before her. Finally she blinked and asked, “Have you ever seen anyone make it? With a baby, I mean?”

“All the way through college? Single parent? No, not that I can remember, but that's not to say you can't be the first.”

“I could get . . .” She thought of Clay Forrester's offer of money. “No, I couldn't.” Then she sighed. “It almost makes me look stupid for passing up an abortion, doesn't it?”

“No, not at all,” the kind voice reassured.

Again Catherine sighed, blinked slowly and turned her eyes to the blue sky beyond the window. Her voice took on a rather dreamlike quality. “You know,” she mused, “there's no feeling there yet. I mean the baby hasn't moved or anything. Sometimes I find it hard to believe it's in there, like maybe somebody's just pulling this big joke on me.” She paused, then almost whispered, “Freshman hazing . . .” But when she looked at Tolly again, there was true sadness in her face, and the realization that this was no hazing at all. “If I'm already feeling so protective when there's not even any evidence of life yet, what will I feel when he moves and kicks and rolls around?”

Mrs. Tollefson had no answers.

“Do you know, they say a baby has hiccups before it's born.”

The room remained still again, flooded with late sunshine and emotion while Catherine dealt with possible eventualities. At last she asked, “If I decided to give him up—” A raised index finger stopped her. “Okay, if I decide on adoption as the best route, could I see him first?”

“We encourage it, Catherine. We've found that mothers who do not see their children suffer a tremendous guilt complex which affects them the rest of their lives.” Then, studying Catherine's face carefully, Mrs. Tollefson posed a question it was necessary to ask. “Catherine, since he has not been mentioned so far, and since I do not see his name on the card, I must ask if the child's father should be a consideration in all of this.”

The blond young woman rose abruptly and snapped, “Absolutely not!”

And had her attitude not changed so quickly, Mrs. Tollefson might have believed Catherine.

The records office of the U of M refused to give out Catherine's home address, thus it took Clay three days to spot her again, crossing the sprawling granite plaza before Northrup Auditorium. He followed at a discreet distance as she cut between buildings, following the maze of sidewalks until finally at Fifteenth Avenue she turned northward. He kept sight of her blue sweater with the blond hair swaying upon it until she turned into an old street of homes that had been stately in their younger day, but hovered now behind massive boulevard trees in a somewhat seedy reflection of the grandeur they once knew. She entered a gargantuan yellow brick three-story with an enormous wraparound porch. The house had no marking other than a number, but while Clay stood wondering a very pregnant woman came out and stood on a chair to water a hanging fern. He might not have thought anything of it if he hadn't suddenly realized, as she turned, that she was not a woman, but was, instead, a young girl of perhaps fourteen. As she raised up on tiptoe to fetch down the plant, the sight of her swollen stomach triggered Clay's suspicion. He looked again for a sign, but there was none, nothing to indicate it was one of those homes where girls went to wait out their pregnancies. But when the girl returned inside, Clay wrote down the house number and headed back toward the campus to make some phone calls.

By the time Catherine had been at Horizons a week and a half she found herself accepted without question and knew her first taste of sorority. Because so many of the girls were in their young teens they looked up to Catherine, who, as a college student, seemed to them much more worldly. They saw her leaving each day to pursue an outside life while they themselves had forfeited theirs for the duration of the stay, and their admiration grew. Because Catherine owned a sewing machine which was often in demand, her room came to be the gathering place. Here she heard their stories: Little Bit was thirteen and wasn't sure who was the father of her baby; plain-faced Vicky was sixteen and didn't talk about the father of hers; Marie, age seventeen, spoke amiably about her Joe, and said they still planned to get married as soon as he graduated from high school; the unkempt Grover said the father of her baby was the captain of her high school football team and had taken her out on a bet with a bunch of his team members. There were some residents of Horizons who cautiously avoided getting too close to anyone, others who brazenly swore they'd get even with the boy responsible, but the majority of the girls seemed not only resigned to living here, but enjoyed it. Especially nights like this when, all together, a group was working on a pair of nightgowns for Little Bit to wear during her hospital stay, which wasn't far off.

By now Catherine was accustomed to the banter at times like these; it was a combination of teasing and gaunt truths.

“Someday I'm gonna find this guy and he's gonna have hair like . . .”

“Don't tell me. Let me guess—hair like Rex Smith.”

“What's the matter with Rex Smith?”

“Nothing. We've just heard the story before and how he's just going to
know
you're the woman he was made for.”

“Listen, kiddo, don't forget to tell him somebody else thought the same thing before him.” Laughter followed.

“I want to be married like Ali McGraw in
Love Story . . .
you know, make up my own words and stuff.”

“Fat chance.”

“Fat chance? Did somebody say
fat
chance?”

“Hey, I'm not always going to be shaped like a pear.”

“I want to go to school and learn to be one of those ladies who cleans teeth. The kind of job where you nestle the guy's head in your lap so you can move in close and throw your charms at him.”

Laughter again.

“I'm never gonna get married. Men aren't worth it.”

“Hey, they're not all bad.”

“Naw, only ninety-nine percent of 'em!”

“Yeah, but it's that other one percent that's worth looking for.”

“When I was little and my folks were still together, I used to look at this picture of them on their wedding day. It used to sit in their bedroom on the cedar chest. Her dress was silk and there were little pearls on top of her veil and it trailed way around the floor in front. If I ever get married, I'd like to wear that dress . . . 'cept I think she threw it away.”

“Wanna know something funny?”

“What?”

“When Ma got married she was pregnant . . . with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But she didn't seem to remember it when I told her I wanted to get married.”

And so the talk went. And somebody always suggested going down to the kitchen for fruit. Tonight it was Marie who won the honors. She waddled downstairs and was passing the hall phone when it rang.

“Phone call . . . Anderson!”

When Catherine came to pick it up, Marie was leaning a shoulder against the wall, a curious half-smile on her face.

“Hi, Bobbi,” she answered, glancing at Marie.

“Guess again,” came the deep voice over the line.

The blood dropped from Catherine's face. She sucked in a quick breath of surprise and remained motionless for a moment, gripping the phone, before the color seeped back up her neck again.

“Don't tell me. You followed me.” Marie continued toward the kitchen then, but she'd heard all she needed to hear.

“That's right. It took me three days, but I did it.”

“Why? What do you want from me?”

“Do you realize how ironic it sounds to have
you
asking
me
that question?”

“Why are you
hounding
me?”

“I have a business proposition for you.”

“No, thank you.”

“Don't you even want to hear it?”

“I've been propositioned—so to speak—by you once already. Once was enough.”

“You really don't play fair, do you?”

“What do you want!”

“I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I already told you—”

“Spare me the repetition,” he interrupted. “I didn't want to put it this way but you leave me no choice. I'm coming to get you tomorrow night at seven o'clock. If you won't come out and talk to me, I'll tell your father where to find you.”

“How dare you!” Her face grew intense with rage.

“It's important, so don't put me to the test, Catherine. I don't want to do it, but I will if I have to. I have a feeling he might have ways to get you to listen to reason.”

She felt cornered, lost, hopeless. Why was he doing this to her? Why, now when she'd at last found a place where she was happy, couldn't her life be peaceful? Bitterly, she replied, “You're not leaving me much choice, are you?”

The line was silent for a moment before his voice came again, slightly softer, slightly more understanding. “Catherine, I tried to get you to listen to me the other day. I said I didn't want to put it that—”

She hung up on him, frustrated beyond endurance. She stood a moment, trying to collect herself before going back upstairs. The phone rang again. She clamped her jaw so hard that her teeth hurt, put a hand on the receiver, felt it vibrate again, picked it up and snapped, “What do you want this time!”

“Seven o'clock,” he ordered authoritatively. “Be ready or your father finds out!”

Then he hung up on her.

“Something wrong?” Marie asked from the kitchen doorway.

Catherine jumped, placing a hand on her throat. “I didn't know you were still there.”

“I wasn't. Not for very long anyway. I just heard the last little bit. Was it anyone important?”

Distractedly, Catherine studied Marie, small, dark, her doll's face an image of perfection, wondering what Marie would do if Joe had just called wanting to talk to her tomorrow night at seven.

“No, nobody important.”

“It was him, wasn't it?”

“Who?”

“The father of your baby.”

Catherine's face turned red.

“No use denying it,” Marie went on, “I can tell.”

Catherine only glared at her and turned away.

“Well, you didn't see the color of your face or the look in your eyes when you picked up that phone and heard his voice.”

Catherine spun around, exclaiming, “I have no look in my eyes for Clay Forrester!”

Marie crossed her arms, grinned and raised one eyebrow. “Is that his name, Clay Forrester?”

Infuriated with herself, Catherine spluttered, “It—it doesn't matter what his name is. I have no look in my eyes for him.”