The Choice (7 page)

Brad's eight-year-old little brother was a brat.

“I hauled the TV from my parents' bedroom into his room, then locked him up with it turned to a scary movie.”

“You didn't.”

“No, he's watching a rerun of
Bonanza
.” Brad paused. “I had to get off to myself because all I can think about is you.”

Sandy sat on the bed and crossed her legs.

“What have been thinking?”

“How much I want to be with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If our parents weren't going nuts, I believe we could figure out what we should do.”

“Cool. I was thinking the same thing.”

Brad was silent for a moment.

“You know,” he said, “I've never felt what I do for you with any other girl, and I meant every word I said to you at the lake and the dance.”

Sandy melted.

“Me too,” she said. “I went steady with Chris Stevens for over a year, but I've never really loved anyone before.”

Brad was quiet for a moment.

“Hey, I have an idea. You'll think it's crazy, but at least listen.”

“Okay.”

“What if we took off on our own?”

Sandy's eyes opened wide. “You mean, like Las Vegas?”

“No, we can't drive all the way across the country. But Jack Harris told me that a seventeen-year-old girl who's pregnant doesn't have to get her parents' permission to get married.”

“We'd elope?” Sandy's head was spinning.

“Why not? Once we were married, our folks would have to deal with it and couldn't boss us around.”

Sandy had always imagined herself walking down the aisle of the church holding on to her father's arm and wearing a flowing white gown.

“Would you still want me to end the pregnancy?” she asked, using the phrase she'd picked up from the conversation with her parents.

“Yeah, but that doesn't keep us from loving each other. And if we're married and don't have any money, you can get an abortion for free.”

“For free?”

“Yeah. I found the notes my mom wrote down yesterday and called one of those clinics in Atlanta myself. I didn't give the woman who answered the phone my name, but I told her the whole story, and she said not to worry about the money. They just want to help girls like you who are in a jam.”

“Where would we get married?” Sandy asked, hardly believing the words were coming out of her mouth.

“I thought we could drive over to Richfield and see a justice of the peace. They have a place across the street from the courthouse where you get the blood test.”

The nearby town had a well-deserved reputation as a marriage mill.

“When would we go?” Sandy found herself asking.

“I'd like to do it right now, but it'll have to be when the courthouse is open.”

“You're sure you want to marry me?” Sandy needed to hear it again.

“Hey, this pregnancy thing hit me like a load of bricks, but I'm getting my feet under me now. I can't live without you.”

“I feel the same way about you,” Sandy said. “I love you.”

“And I love you.” Brad paused. “Hold on. Nate is pitching a fit. I've gotta go. We'll talk tomorrow.”

Sandy slowly lowered the phone to its cradle. That night sleep was impossible. As she tossed and turned, Sandy's mind raced through so many possible scenarios for the future that she felt she was going crazy. At 3:00 a.m., she sat bolt upright in bed.

“Stop it!” she cried out.

She listened, afraid that she'd awakened one of her brothers, but the house remained silent. She tried to command her mind to calm down, but it wouldn't obey. She knew her mother kept an extra bottle of sleeping pills in a cupboard in the kitchen, and Sandy had to have something to knock her out. Going through four more hours of torment wasn't an option. She walked softly down the hallway to the top of the stairs, placed her hand on the railing, then stopped in her tracks. She was pregnant, and a sleeping pill might be dangerous to the baby's development.

Sandy slid to the floor with her feet curled beneath her. She leaned her shoulder against the top post of the stair railing and buried her face in her hands. How could she walk into a clinic and ask a doctor to end the pregnancy when she couldn't force herself to go downstairs to take a sleeping pill? She'd talked seriously with Brad about getting an abortion, but she actually had no idea how the procedure was performed. She lifted her head and pushed her tangled hair away from her face.

“I can't do that,” she muttered.

She remained in a huddled mess at the top of the stairs and waited for a counterargument to surface. A couple of minutes passed. Nothing came. Pulling herself up, she shuffled back to her bedroom, where she collapsed into bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

The following morning Sandy was nauseated again and threw up in the bathroom. As she finished, there was a light knock on the door. Bleary-eyed, she opened it to find Ben, forlorn-looking and wearing his too-small pajamas.

“Are you throwing up because you're pregnant?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I feel better now.” Sandy forced herself to smile as she ruffled Ben's hair. “Get ready for school.”

“I think Brad Donnelly is a creep. You deserve a boyfriend who is tons better than him.”

“Don't say that about Brad.”

“I can if I want to.”

Ben pushed past her into the bathroom.

Sandy went to her room and didn't come out until she heard the boys leave the house. Then, still in her nightgown, she went downstairs. Her mother was sitting in the breakfast nook drinking coffee.

“Rough morning?” her mother asked.

“And night.”

Sandy poured herself a glass of milk and put a piece of bread in the toaster.

“When are you going to call Mr. Pickerel?” she asked while she waited for the toast to pop up.

“This afternoon. Or I may go by the school in person.”

“Why not call him?”

“I want to ask him to check out the school Linda found in Atlanta.”

“Don't do that. Not yet. That's not what I want to do.”

“Do you have another idea?”

“No, but I feel like you're rushing me.”

“You'll feel more like talking later in the day,” her mother said. “Mornings were always hard for me when I was pregnant with you and the boys.”

“Don't talk about me that way!” Sandy raised her voice.

She spun away, knocking her glass of milk onto the floor, and ran out of the kitchen. Slamming her bedroom door, she lay face-down on the bed and put her pillow over her head. After a couple of minutes, there was a knock at the door. Sandy raised her head.

“Leave me alone! I'll clean up the mess!”

The door opened.

“You don't have to say anything, and I cleaned up the milk. Here's your toast. I put butter on it and poured a fresh glass of milk.”

Her mother set the milk and toast on the nightstand.

“Thanks,” Sandy muttered. “I'm sorry.”

Her mother held up her hand. “We're not going to talk now. Drink your milk and eat the toast. I have a dentist appointment in twenty minutes, then I'm going to the nursing home to see Mrs. Belhaven. It's been over a month since I stopped by for a visit.”

Mrs. Belhaven was a former neighbor who'd sold her house and moved into a nursing home when her health declined. She'd taught Sandy how to bake peanut butter cookies. Sandy sat up.

“Please don't tell her about me.”

“I won't. But even if I did, she wouldn't remember it by the time I reached the parking lot. She's going downhill fast.”

“Then give her a hug from me.”

“Okay. I'll be gone for several hours.”

Sandy lay on her bed until she heard the front door close behind her mother, then got up and went downstairs to the laundry room. There was a load of the boys' dirty clothes waiting to be washed. She put the clothes in the washer and started the machine. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen. If she was at school, she'd be in her honors Spanish class.

Unlike most of her classmates who despised foreign language study, Sandy enjoyed both speaking and reading Spanish. She'd brought home her Spanish textbook and the original Spanish version of
Don Quixote
. Returning to her room, she read a few chapters in the classic novel. Cervantes's portrayal of Dulcinea, the peasant girl whom the delusional Don Quixote believed to be a noblewoman, touched her. Sandy had never experienced life as an outsider looked down upon and laughed at by others. Until now.

When she went back downstairs, the clothes were ready to be put in the dryer. After they were finished, she neatly folded them and carried them up to the boys' bedroom. She hoped doing the laundry would be acceptable penance for her blowup in the kitchen.

Her mother hadn't come home by noon, and Sandy fixed an elaborate sandwich containing two meats, three cheeses, a tomato slice, lettuce, pickles, mayonnaise, and spicy mustard, all between two thick slices of French bread. She was amazed how quickly she could transition from nausea to famished hunger. She ate every bite of the sandwich and washed it down with two large glasses of water.

After lunch, time dragged by. To go from the frenetic pace of a high school senior to complete inactivity was a severe jolt. Sandy tried to take a nap but couldn't. Lying on her bed, she imagined what Brad was doing at school. She knew exactly where he would be throughout the day. In her absence he would have to endure all the scornful stares and snide behind-the-back comments.

At around two-thirty her mother returned. Sandy went downstairs to the kitchen.

“Thanks for doing the boys' laundry,” her mother said.

“You're welcome. It was boring around here. Did you talk to Mr. Pickerel?”

“Yes, and he went out of his way to be helpful. He made a couple of phone calls about the school in Atlanta while I waited in his office.”

“What did he find out?”

Her mother took a small notepad from her purse and flipped it open.

“It's one of the few options you have. Pregnant girls go to Metro High, along with students who've been expelled from schools in the Atlanta system, and are sent there for one last chance. The school also accepts students who've come through the juvenile court system.”

“That sounds horrible,” Sandy replied, her eyes wide. “It's a school for juvenile delinquents.”

“But Mr. Pickerel said the principal has a good reputation, and the overall graduation rate is fair. Remember, most of your credits for college will be from Rutland High. All you'll have to do is finish out the year in Atlanta.”

“You want me to go to this place?” Sandy asked in shock.

“The Atlanta school is one option,” her mother replied. “There are at least three others. You could leave school and be a dropout.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“Good. Second, you could withdraw from Rutland and reen-roll next year after the baby is born. Mr. Pickerel assured me they'd let you return. Finally, you could take the GED test. If you did that, you'd have a high school certificate, but it would be hard to get into a good college.”

Sandy quickly realized that passing the GED test might be the best path to take, especially if she married Brad. As a young wife, she'd probably attend a community college that wouldn't be picky about admissions.

“I bet I could pass the GED test now,” she said. “And I wouldn't have to leave home for seven months.”

Sandy immediately felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving her mother. Marrying Brad would mean moving out and finding another place to live, even if it was somewhere in Rutland.

“I thought about that,” her mother admitted. “But I really want you to consider going to Atlanta.”

“Daddy doesn't want me to go.”

“He's considering it. After I left the high school, I went by his office and talked to him for a long time.”