The Decision

NOTE: This story contains sensitive content re: abortion.

Chris plopped down onto her bed, stared up at the ceiling, and tried to barricade the thoughts flooding her brain. Three weeks after she'd visited Lansing for John’s birthday, she realized she was pregnant.

I can’t have this baby. I don’t even know who the father is. It might be Winston’s or it might be John’s. I can’t be a single mother. I can’t quit my studies. I’m too young. It would crush my parents. 

The reasons for an abortion flew at her, each one stronger than the last. Then an even stronger thought bolted through—How can I abort this baby when my birth mother didn’t abort me? I wouldn’t even be here if she’d had an abortion!  

For two nights, both sides wrestled in her mind. It wasn’t until she rose the second morning that she came to a decision, one that created more sadness in her than she could have imagined. She would end the life growing inside her. It flattened her, robbed her of any possible feeling of joy. But she would do it. She could see no other way.

Cilla got the call late on Thursday. After a minute’s hesitation, Chris rolled out the entire story of the pregnancy, her search for an abortionist. “Do you have any idea who might do it?” 

“Gee, I don’t, off-hand." She thought a minute, then had an idea. “You know my friend, Hal? He’s got a roommate, Luke, who’s a third-year med student. I could ask him. Maybe he’d know somebody.”

“Would you?" Chris sounded a little relieved. “I’ve asked everybody I know. I’m getting desperate.

“Well, I’ll definitely ask Luke. I’m having dinner at their apartment tomorrow night. I’ll ask him then.”

“Thanks, Cilla. I really appreciate it.”

“Are you okay? I mean…” she remembered how she’d felt when she thought she was pregnant. But she’d had Joseph, who was so helpful. Winston was far away. “I mean, Winston’s in Jamaica. Are you flipping out?”

“No—I’m so involved in trying to find an abortionist, I don’t have time to flip out.” Then she added, “But truthfully, I’m barely holding it together.”

The next day, Luke handed Cilla a torn-off piece of paper with a phone number on it but no name. “Tell your friend to call this number.” Cilla slipped it into her pocket.

“God, Luke, I can’t thank you enough. I know this could get you in big trouble. Why are you doing this?" 

“Because I think abortion should be legal. I’ve seen too many young girls die from their own attempts to end their pregnancy, taking one poison or another, turpentine or bleach, using coat hangers or knitting needles or sharp sticks—you name it. If a girl or woman doesn’t want to have a baby, she shouldn’t have to. It’s her body. And she definitely should be able to have a safe abortion.”

“But what would happen to you if anything were to go wrong?”

“Don’t worry about that. The guy who does this knows what he’s doing. He feels just like I do, that abortion should be legal. Just be careful not to give out any information about him. And don’t tell anyone who you got the number from.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul, not even the girl who needs the abortion! Thanks so much, Luke. I know, if the girl could thank you, she would.”

As they rose, he took her hand, and looked at her for a moment, his eyes warm with kindness. Then he said, “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

As soon as Cilla got home she called Chris. “I’ve got a number for you. When can you come over and get it?" 

“Just tell me.”

“No, not on the phone.” Cilla was too paranoid.

“I’ll be right over.” 

“Be discreet,” Cilla told Chris a few minutes later when she came by to pick up the number. She looked directly at Chris. “And the person I got this number from said to tell you that the guy knows what he’s doing. It’ll be okay.”          

“Thanks, Cilla. You’re a lifesaver.” Chris slipped the paper into her pocket and walked hurriedly back to her dorm. 

Up in her room, she sat on her bed, pulled the paper out, and unfolded it carefully. This number would end her pregnancy. Or kill her. 

All of a sudden, she wasn’t sure she could go through with it. What if, like so many other women, she ended up dead? What if she didn’t die, but regretted it? Was this what she really wanted? 

No, she realized, it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted Winston’s baby, but this baby might not be his. And not now. It was too soon. She loved him and she thought he loved her, but was that enough to raise a child together? They’d only spent a summer and a week of spring break together. The child would be mixed-race if it were Winston’s, making it even more complicated, at least if she stayed in the U.S. And what if it was John’s baby? She absolutely didn’t want to raise a child with him. And she couldn’t raise it alone. She wasn’t ready. 

Could she have it and give it away, as her mother had given her away? How many times had she wished her mother hadn’t given her up, had wanted to keep her? How many times had she sat by the window, waiting, wishing her birth mother would come to claim her? How many times had she wondered who her parents were, if they really were Jewish, as she felt they must be? How many times had she fallen asleep in tears, the feeling of rejection hitting her like a face slap? No matter why her mother had given her up, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t lovable. If she’d been good enough, her mother would have loved her enough to keep her. 

She couldn’t do that to her baby, make it feel so unwanted. Better that it die than live with that feeling. 

She got up from her bed, picked up the phone, and dialed the number on the paper.