Decisions of the LaMont Women

The warm, phantom wind rolled off Lake Pontchartrain and struck Noelle’s teenage body as she sat on the roof of her mother’s cottage. She’d been out on the edge for thirty minutes, climbing from her bedroom window to try and quiet her mind. She leaned back on her elbows while the rushing air caressed her bare feet, her smooth legs, her anguished face. Up above the stars were scattered and burning brightly, glimmering eyes gazing out amid an ocean of darkness. Noelle’s eyes weren’t a reflection of the stars; they were much more wet, glistening you could say, not the distant burning fireballs of the great planetary realm.

‘What is this place?’ she muttered. ‘And why am I here? For music? For business? Why am I here?’ A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed it down hard. ‘For Andre? To be his wife? For … motherhood?’

There was no reply. The stars, it seemed, weren’t ready to speak. Then a vagrant smell arrived on the wind, something from a nearby restaurant. It was meat, burning and overcooked. A sharp pain bore into her eyebrows and her stomach turned over, prepping to spew out the undigested contents. She sighed and crawled quickly back to the window. It was still open and she climbed inside and left the stars and smells behind.

Her bedroom was dark and she switched on the overhead light. Alone in the long and narrow room with pink walls and framed pictures of musical icons. She wasn’t thinking of the icons, her heroes hanging on the walls — not of Bob Marley, Janis Joplin, or Harry Connick Jr. Not at that moment. She was thinking about her boyfriend, Andre.

He’d been gone a month after enlisting in the Marine Corps. South Carolina was his new home, the 3rd Recruit Training Battalion on Parris Island. There wasn’t much talk between them, but still she thought of him. Too much time really, too many thoughts — thoughts saddled by a grinding agony, this deep pain hard to accept. Just once, she said to herself, just once fly me to the island before I leave for school. I miss him so much. Please, just once.

His training was grueling and so was her life without him. Maybe he’d call soon and plans could be made for the trip. Maybe he’d come home to Louisiana before flying off to another destination. As far as Noelle was concerned, either would be perfectly fine. These dreams kept her sanity intact.

But she didn’t want to see him too soon because the last two days were hell. An evil bug took reign of her immunity and kept her bottled up in the bedroom. It had to be some virus, though she didn’t know anyone else who was sick. Pounding headaches, nausea, vomiting, dehydration. The sickness kept her pent up with more time to think and she thought about Andre and she thought about her songs. 

That morning, lying around with a waste can near her head, she read a magazine piece about Neil Young. He wrote a batch of hit songs one day while flu and fever stricken. Down by the River, Cinnamon Girl, Cowgirl in the Sand. Well aware of the drive to create — the punishing ambitious path — she found inspiration. Discipline is required to produce songs, discipline to sit down every day and put in work. Even when sick. That would make her prolific, more likely to craft a hit. The great songwriters penned hundreds of songs, and she wanted to be a great songwriter, hundreds of songs to her name. That was her foremost passion, writing and performing songs. There was purpose in that. Though lately she lacked focus and only wrote when inspired. Better than nothing, she thought. Ideas were still being generated, perhaps even a good song if lucky. But at the demands of her mother she’d soon be off to college to study finance. Music be damned!

She glanced across her room where the magazine pages lay open to that inspiring article. Lying in bed she typed into a tablet — ideas and themes and song names, verses and symbols and poems. A few began to take some semblance of form, a song about summer, hot and muggy, named Out by the Lakeshore. Another about a boy, strong and kind, called The One. Scrolling to page two, a lyric dealing with sadness, worry, and sickness — song title, Anxious Heart. More and more she typed until three digital pages were full of her wandering mind and confused heart. A songbird trying desperately to fly.

A banished thought then reappeared in the back of her mind and stood firm. A career-shattering thought. It was another possibility, maybe more likely than all the rest. Was it true that she’d fallen ill not from some virus or bacterial infection, but rather, sickness due to pregnancy?

Leaving the comfort of bed she stumbled across the clean stretch of carpet to her desk. A candle burned on top, the scent of warm apple. She pulled open a desk drawer. The test was hidden there after lunch, after another meal that didn't stay down. Doubts had formed last night about her illness and she went out and bought the test. Pregnant or not? — the question had become torturous.

She unwrapped the package aggressively, her mind ready for the truth. Wandering alone in the cute cottage bathroom, safe from all judgmental minds, but still feeling embarrassed. Eighteen years young, the urine pouring down into a Dixie Cup, the test dipped down into her piss followed by two minutes that seemed universally long, each second a year, every six a century, every minute a millennium. Then sure enough, two solid stripes as pink as her bedroom walls. 

Positive.

Undeniably pregnant.

The experience hammered Noelle with more confusion. She was swept back to her bed, crumbling into the white fluffy mess of blankets like a skier in an avalanche. There was no oxygen to breathe, no space to squirm. What would Andre say? What would her momma say? Despair took hold and she wished for a kiss of death. Then conquered by emotional havoc, she blacked out.

She awoke some time later to the ringtone of her cell phone. It was her mother calling but she didn’t answer. Three Little Birds by Bob Marley was the tone and the melody brought forth her revival. Marley was one of her absolute favorites, and though at times she felt the production was poor, she greatly admired his honesty and purity. She stepped softly from her bed and went to her old Washburn guitar the color of toast. She strapped in and played the simple progression of chords while humming the lyrics — the honesty, the purity, the simplicity, the power. Bob Marley, a musical shaman, for sure. She finished the tune off with an improvised solo played low on the neck then rose and unstrapped and smiled. Where was the confusion? The inner turmoil? Had sleep rejuvenated her soul, or was it the power of song coming to her at the right time? Whatever the case, there was no more self-pity, only acceptance. The facts were simply the facts. The sickness was real. The positive test was real. It was time to move forward. Besides, she thought, being pregnant was a gift not a curse. The chance to create life, to love as deeply as life will allow. She felt immense joy. 

She carefully leaned the guitar against the desk. Her smile turned into an eruption of laughter as she hopped barefoot down the stairs and left the cottage. She sat outside on the stoop, insects and frogs chirping. The air was fresh and the wind coming off the lake was like a long kiss against her rosy teenage cheeks. She thought of the summer night just before Andre deployed. They were hanging at a friend’s house. A fire had been built under the canopy of an oak, and she remembered the same lakeshore wind tugging at the fire, pulling smoke from it, and throwing it into the faces of the onlookers. She sat on Andre’s lap, his sturdy arms wrapped around her navel. The smoke stung her eyes and she stood up and walked away. Andre caught up fast and they hiked along the outer edge of a strawberry field until reaching a place where they could no longer be seen. Alongside some trees — lush oaks draped in Spanish moss — Andre let go of her hand and fell to the ground. ‘Damn it! I just tripped on that root.’

‘Oh, Andre,’ she said playfully. ‘You’re full of shit.’

From his knees he looked up and grinned, ‘Ain’t no fooling my baby.’ 

She knelt on the cool grass and nestled against him, her head under his chin, her face upon the muscle of his chest. Now absent of fire, they held each other for warmth.

‘How’s Ms. LaMont?’ Andre asked.

Noelle laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I know you don’t like my momma.’

‘So.’

‘I know she doesn’t like you.’

‘Don’t really know why. I used to try and be nice. She never returned the favor.’

‘Maybe never will,’ Noelle said, sticking her cold hand up his shirt, rubbing the hard pack of abdominals. ‘Let’s not talk about this. Let’s enjoy the moment for what it is.’

Andre’s chest filled with air, ‘Okay.’

From the fireside, a gust of muddled laughter began and traveled to her ears. ‘Do you have a condom?’

‘I can go get one,’ he said.

She shook her head, ‘Just be careful, okay?’

Along the street a truck came to a stop and roused her from the memory. It was her mother, Ms. LaMont, home from a night out with friends. Noelle’s stomach knotted and her mind darkened. There was obedience to her mother, this Christian woman with powerful local ties. Obedience to her mother’s wants, wishes, words. Obedience to her mother’s God and the community that held this force in manic esteem. 

But it was all eroding. 

Ms. LaMont stepped free of the truck with a bag of fast food. ‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘I brought home chicken baskets.’ Noelle’s joy vanished as she followed her mother into the cottage. In the kitchen Ms. LaMont rustled around the paper bag and pulled from it cartons of food. She placed some in front of Noelle, the smell rising like old bacon grease reheated on the stove. Again, she nearly puked.

‘Fast food?’ Noelle said, setting her phone on the table. ‘That’s not like you.’

‘Tonight was terrible. I just need a jolt. How’s your tummy bug?’

‘Terrible for me too.’

‘Maybe I’m catching what you got.’   

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh, c’mon now. You’re a kid headed for college, not a doctor.’

‘Yeah, but it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to read a positive pregnancy test.’

Ms. LaMont spit out her sweet tea. ‘Jesus Christ, Noelle. No way!’

Noelle shrugged and smiled. 

Her mother backhanded a basket of fries, launching them at Noelle like little golden spears.

'This parish is red. You know that just like everyone. We’re Republicans and folks here vote that way. People here fear God. They worship Christ. And we do the same! Yeah, sometimes I gotta put forth an act to get what I need, but dear God, Noelle. Pregnant? I’m a parish councilwoman! I can’t have you knocked up out of wedlock. As a teenager no less! I won’t get re-elected. Plain and true.’

‘Who cares about the election. You can go back to the law firm. Or you could help me with the baby.’

Ms. LaMont snickered, ‘Abortion is the way to go. The only way to go. I’ll pay for the whole mess. Don’t you worry. We’ll sweep this stupidity under the rug. Keep it all hush-hush.’

‘How old were you when I was born?’

‘What? Why? You know how old I was. It doesn’t matter. Times were different then.’

‘What age?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘And look how well you’ve done.’

‘Times were different I said. We were dumb and married too young. Many ended in divorce, like your daddy and me. Then I had to work damn hard and have lucky breaks too. I fought my butt off to get through college while working. I did some things I won’t even mention.’

Noelle shook her head. ‘And I don’t want that. I want Andre’s baby.’

‘Look, little miss … you will not have this baby.’

'You can’t change my mind. And don’t call me that. I’m eighteen …’

‘Listen closely, Andre is no good for you. Alright? You’re a smart young woman. You have a good heart, a good spirit. The sky’s the limit for you. Trust me. I know best. I’m your momma.’

‘No you don’t. How many times have you preached about Christian values and the wisdom of God? So many times I can’t even count. And now you know best and want an abortion? You’re just another fraud.’ Her mother’s mouth dropped wide but no words were spoken. ‘This is not your child. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go puke.’

Noelle charged toward the bathroom and barreled through the door. She fell to her hands and knees and emptied her stomach. Her mouth and nose burned from the acid and her body quivered with stress. But her heart and mind held firm. This baby will be born, she thought.

She stood slowly and washed the grime from her hands and face. From the kitchen her phone rang, that sweet Bob Marley tune.

‘Well hello, Andre,’ Ms. LaMont said, her voice soaked with venom. ‘You will never see my daughter again. You will never step foot —’

‘Momma, no!’

Noelle ran to the kitchen and ripped the phone from her mother’s hand. ‘Andre? I’m sorry. Andre … you there?’

His voice was calm and untroubled. ‘Yeah, baby I’m here. How’s the songwriting coming?’

‘I have something to tell you.’

‘Okay … fire away.’

‘You know, baby, I love you. And I miss you. And I don’t have any other way to say it except point blank — I’m pregnant.’ She looked at her mother now sitting at the table, head buried in manicured hands. ‘I’m having the baby and I’ll care for this child with all my heart. Just want you to know that.’

‘So what about your songs? What about your school?’

‘You know I got drive. I can find a way.’

‘Wow. I mean, I don’t know. I mean … damn … I really don’t know. I had some free time and so I just wanted to call and say hi. It’s swim week here and I’m really tired. I got a swim test coming up in the morning. I think I need to go. Yeah, I do.’

‘Well are you supporting me?’

‘How do I even know it’s mine?’

‘Are you crazy? Don’t insult me like that. I don’t cheat on you.’

‘I ain’t been around. I don’t know that.’

‘Well …’

‘Hey, you do what you gotta do, Noelle. You’ll get as much support money as I can give and it won’t be much ‘cause I don’t make much. But I can’t be a daddy now. I’m freakin’ eighteen and can’t just up and quit the Marines.’

‘I said I’d take care of the baby ‘til you’re ready for us.’

‘You do what you gotta do. I need to go.’

‘Fine. I love you.’

But no response came. The call was over.

Noelle bit her lip and set the phone back on the table.

Ms. LaMont parted her hands and peeked at Noelle. ‘What did he say?’

‘He’s not able to be a daddy now,’ she said, walking to the kitchen window and staring at the dark street. ‘He said he’d support with money.’

The chair scratched across the kitchen floor and the fancy heels clicked closer and closer. She felt a warm hand at her ear sweeping back her hair. Her mother stood beside her and Noelle looked at her face, one that wasn’t curled up in despair, but stoic — a poker face if you like — though the tears that rolled down her cheeks gave away her distress. 

‘I’m going to help you,’ her mother said. ‘I’m going to help you and give all I can. Not from charity or pity. That’s not my manner. You know why I’m going to help you. Because I love you, that’s why.’

Despite Andre’s reluctance, Noelle felt a freedom sweep over her mind. ‘I love you too, momma. Thank you.’

For a few seconds they tenderly embraced until Noelle broke loose. ‘I’m going to sleep now,’ she said and pounced up the staircase, smiling like a happy child. She floated freely down the unlit hall, beaming amid the darkness as if some inner starlight had burst. She reached the bedroom window and slid it ajar. Climbing through it, climbing onto the roof, her bare feet stepped soft against the gritty shingles. The warm, phantom wind journeyed into her lungs. Though it was near midnight she was pleasantly awake. To the roof edge she went, feet dangling over the gutter. She sat calmly taking in the offering of warm air.

The earth was in motion yet she felt calm. She looked at her feet then at the sky. Venus blistered in the west. Jupiter to the north in deeper space. Then something happened she could not explain, a caressing of her spirit perhaps. The baby, she knew, was destined to be born. Looking skyward this is what she understood. No cross around her neck. No bible by her side. No mystery of faith. No dogma in her mind.

To Noelle, the stars were true. To her the stars were sacred.