in some mustached psychologist’s rec room when we were nine and eleven years old.
Lila picks up the photographs and puts them back in the envelope. “Did Mom call here last night?”
“No. Why would she?”
“Gram was in a car accident yesterday afternoon.”
I hear her, but the words don’t make sense, so I push them away with questions. “What do you mean? Is she okay? She’s fine, right?”
“I don’t actually know the details. She got into a fender bender in front of the Municipal Building and Dad brought her in. She needed a few stitches, and the doctor thought she might have had a tiny stroke while driving, which would have caused the accident. But there’s no way to prove that, and she was perfectly clear-headed with me. She’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I saw her.”
“Thank God.”
I picture Gram behind the wheel of a car careening out of control. I see her eyes widen with fear, and my own fill with tears. I don’t want to cry. My sister is not someone you want to cry in front of. I’m not sure she has ever cried, herself. She must have when we were little, but not that I can remember. I pull at the belt on my bathrobe. If I keep talking maybe I will be able to get rid of this picture of Gram hurt. I say, “Are you going to get mad at me if I tell you something?”
“What kind of something.”
“I want to tell you this one thing.”
“I won’t listen to your boy problems.”
“I’m pregnant. I told Joel last night.”
Lila turns her head and looks back at me, still with her searching squint. “You’re pregnant again?”
I try not to sound defensive. The tears are sitting behind my eyes, waiting for any opportunity to pour out. “Yes. I’m keeping the baby this time.”
“I should have told them to tie your tubes when I took you to that clinic. Why are you telling me this? You know I don’t want to hear things like this!”
I breathe slowly, in order to calm us both down. I don’t have the energy to deal with her anger. Lila has inherited a tsunami-like rage from our mother, who inherited it from her father. Lila is aware of the trait, and its path down our family tree, and it infuriates her. She concentrates on remaining very calm. Over time she has created a clinical, cool personality that harnesses all emotions underneath. But her demeanor is not a completely successful roadblock. When she is surprised, as I have surprised her just now, her control can blow away as easily as a thin piece of paper on a windowsill.
When Lila becomes angry, all logic, rationality, kindness, and volume control are lost. I have never been so hurt as I have been beneath the hard-driving, pointed, obliterating sleet of my mother’s and sister’s words. My father and I have tiptoed around them from day one, careful not to offend, or provoke, or, in Lila’s case, surprise. I have misstepped this morning. I should have put some thought into how I would tell her.
But Lila catches herself in time. Her slow breathing matches mine. We face each other. Lila is two inches taller than me, so I gaze slightly up, she looks slightly down. I can see the corollaries running through her mind: I’m not married, I’m not in love with Joel, I’ll have to tell Mom, Dad, and Gram, I don’t make enough money, I have a problem with commitment.
“Does Gram know?” Lila asks.
This almost makes me laugh. How could she think I’d be anywhere near ready, or able, to tell Gram that I am pregnant with an out-of-wedlock baby?
“Of course not.”
“Have you lost your mind?” My sister sounds curious.
The smell of the coffee, steaming, waiting for me across the room, makes my eyes fill with tears. I want it so bad.
I had an abortion five boyfriends and two and a half years ago. Three-quarters of the women my age that I know have had at least one. The trip to the abortion clinic (preferably one several towns away from where you live) is a massive silent rite of passage among white, well-educated girls of my generation. It is a careful, deeply held secret even the bigmouthed among us don’t discuss. Of the hundreds of Dear Abby letters I’ve received, only a handful have touched on the topic of abortion, and none have asked my advice on how to recover from one. This is a godsend, as I do not know the