Postmortem

Artificial overhead lighting. “American Pie” playing. The receptionist hands me back my insurance card and glances at the man next to me. I can hear her think, “So, this is the guy?” 

I smooth down my hair, frizzed from early summer’s humidity. My mouth tastes of metal.  

Awkward, embarrassing. Is she picturing us fucking? 

She would never ask, but how would I respond? 

“He’s someone I once knew. Someone who once knew the thoughts in my head and how it feels to move inside my body.”

The clock on the wall somehow ticks louder than the adult contemporary hits playing from the tinny speaker on the desk. 

There’s a foreboding calm in the room, like standing in the eye of a hurricane. Rows of vinyl upholstered chairs the color of blue scrubs. Sunny yellow walls. A strong smell of disinfectant permeating the room. It reminds me of needles. Stacks of raggedy tabloid magazines on a table—a token New Yorker issue on top, its cover a drawn caricature of a certain politician. 

The lights cast a bluish glow onto the patients. A woman in her twenties shushes a crying baby on her lap, a student with circles under her eyes presses a palm against her forehead, a middle-aged man biting his fingernails bounces his leg in time to the music. 

Is this what purgatory is like? If there is such a thing. If my Catholic mother’s beliefs are the definitive truth, or at least some version of it. 

Purgatory: a sterile waiting room, anxious occupants, 106.7 the Mix playing on an ancient portable radio, a medical assistant calling names off a list. 

The receptionist hands me a clipboard with a chained ballpoint pen and several sheets of paperwork attached under the metal clasp. She smiles at me.  “You can have a seat wherever you like. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, finding the nearest chair to slump into. He sits down across from me and picks up the New Yorker. I can feel how uncomfortable he is in my presence. It wasn’t always like this. 

“I can’t get the key in the lock,” I say. He’s laughing behind me, his hands pressed into my hips, kissing my neck. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I distracting you?” His mouth moves down to my shoulder.

I giggle like a small child, and feel sick with want.

The key slides in, I turn it, hear the cylinders rotate, and click. “Fucking finally,” I sigh.

We stumble into my on-campus apartment. He slams the door, spins me around, and pushes me back until the wood is flush against my spine.

“You,” he starts, “have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this all night.”

It’s January, and the snow is coming down hard. I am a Russian doll of clothing, and he wastes no time stripping me of each layer.

“I need you right now,” I moan.

I can’t bear to look at him, so I busy myself with the paperwork in front of me. 

I fill in my name and date of birth. Start of my last menstrual cycle? I don’t know the exact day or even the week. I think two and a half months ago. I put the last week of March. A lot has happened since then. 

I jot down medical history. No previous pregnancies, miscarriages, or abortions. No known allergies to any medications. 

I reach the informed consent sheet. Run through the statements.

I am choosing this abortion freely and voluntarily. Check.

I steal a glance at him sitting opposite me, engrossed in some, I’m sure, deeply depressing political opinion piece. His furrowed brow tells me all I need to know. 

I scrawl my signature. Date the page: June 5th, 2022.

The calendar says it’s spring, so does the semester, but the weather has not received the memo. It’s too cold to walk to our favorite bar. I’m exhausted from thesis research. He’s exhausted from grading midterms. 

“You would think college seniors would know how to write by now,” he tells me when I get to his place, his left hand moving wildly, marking red ink all over the page.

Greenery fills the windowsills of his home. One plant has gotten so tall, it wrapped itself around the large living room window. I pet it like a cat every time I’m there.

Chinese takeout, guilty pleasure movie, too much wine, up too late. A pair of insomniacs sit cross-legged on a bed across from each other. The only light in the room is the green numbers displayed on the digital clock. 2:37 am. 

I open my mouth to say something, then change my mind, and bite my lip.

“What?” he asks, head tilted.

“Nothing.” I shrug my shoulders. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Usually, I lie since it feels easier than admitting I find his dance moves cringy or that I think I’m falling in love with him. However, at this early hour, when we can exist in the in-between, I feel powerless to stop the honesty from spilling out of my throat. 

“I’m just trying to figure something out,” I tell him. 

“Figure what out?”

“Who’s going to hurt who.” 

I set the clipboard beside me and put the cap back on the blue pen. I check my watch. Only ten minutes have passed. Nothing left to do but pick at my cuticles, bite the skin inside my cheek, imagine I’m elsewhere.

He huffs, closes the magazine, and puts it back on the table. Clears his throat.

“So,” he says, the word coming out hoarse. He clears his throat again. “How have you been?”

I stop fidgeting, my face twisting into an incredulous grimace. “Please look at where we are. There’s your answer.” 

“American Pie: finally ends, eight minutes that felt like years. I welcome the interlude of quiet. Quiet besides the rustling of paperwork, a cooing baby, the squeaky scuff of rubber soles. The speaker starts up again, with the one-hit wonder 90s band Deep Blue Something, and I’m sucked back to the last time I heard this song. The memory prickles across my skin in crystal clear detail.  

“Fuck, this feels incredible,” I exclaim to the sky, standing outside Liber, the only bar in town both fun and free of undergrads. 

It’s a Friday night, and finally, the first glimpse of spring. Only 58 degrees, but after a long, cold winter, it feels like a tropical paradise. One that makes you want to wear your tiniest dress and run through the streets, sandals clacking on the sidewalk. 

The patio is packed, so we squeeze into the corner by a heat lamp, refreshing craft beers in hand. The band plays covers of hits from the 90s, and the late 20-somethings, including myself, sing along. 

“Good grief,” he says. “These songs are my generation’s.”

“Are you getting territorial over ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I ask, downing the rest of my beer. 

“Of course, I’m getting territorial over the 1995 masterpiece that is ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’”

I shake my head and laugh at him. “I’m grabbing us another.”

He nods, says thank you, kisses my cheek.

At the bar, a guy in a Cubs hat moves closer, his eyes flickering up and down my body. “Wow, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” I say, eyes on the bartender. “But not interested.”

“What? Do you have a boyfriend?” Cubs Guy asks. 

“Yeah, I do.”

“All good here?” His voice says behind me, his hand on my back

Seeing this is a losing battle, Cubs Guy picks up his drink from the bar and disappears into the crowd.

His mood shifts after that. No more singing or dancing. Smiles that don’t reach his eyes.

On the walk home, I ask, “I’m confused. Did I do something?”

He doesn’t look at me. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

“Okay, well, you’ve been acting weird and quiet since that guy hit on me. Is it that? Because it’s not like I bring that kind of thing on myself.” 

“You said I was your boyfriend,” he answers, finally looking at me.

My mouth falls open. “So, you’re mad that I said I was with you and didn’t give him the explanation of ‘Oh yes, I’m on a date with this guy who I’ve been seeing for months, but he’s not my boyfriend because we haven’t talked about labels. All of this to say, I’m not interested.’ Is that what you wanted?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts. “I just… do you think I’m your boyfriend?”

I stop and face him.

“Honestly, I don’t know what you are, but are you so allergic to the thought of being my boyfriend that you have to ruin the night?”

“I’m just not looking for anything serious.” His voice is too steady.

“Did I ask for that?” 

Silence. He stares through me, expressionless. 

I feel sick. “You know what? Fuck this. I’m going home.”

I leave him standing alone on the street.

He calls the next morning and says little more than, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” Leaving me with no say in the matter.

The conversation lasts less than a minute. 

I become a woman on autopilot. Go to class, research, write. Eat (unless I forget), sleep (unless I can’t), allow myself to cry once a day (unless it’s more). I sink into repetition. My roommate anticipates the question I ask her once in the morning, once at night. 

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“Honey, you’ve never once been the issue.”

But my chest, which aches all the time, says differently. 

Read, write, eat, sleep, cry, breathe. Again.

When my period is a few days late, I don’t think much of it. Too busy, too stressed. When I am two weeks late, worry sets in. I lay out a multi-pack of tests on the bathroom counter and take one. A faint pink plus sign appears, so I take another, and another, until four plastic sticks announcing my pregnancy rest on the tile floor.

My hands shake while scrolling through my contacts. Thumb hovering over his name, I press. It goes to voicemail, so I dial again. Voicemail. I don’t leave a message.

My feet bring me to his office, where I have only been once before. A visit that ended with me naked on his desk.

The door is ajar, and I push it all the way open. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me. Without any preamble, I say, “There’s something you need to know.”

All I can hear is the ringing in my ears and the ticking of that fucking clock. I envision taking it down and smashing it with my chair. 

The drained medical assistant enters the waiting room and checks her papers. “Grace Beaufort?”

He looks up and we lock eyes. I reflexively turn away, stand up, and grab my clipboard. “See you in a bit, I guess.”

He nods. “I’ll be here.”

“Hello, how are you today?” She asks, leading me down the hallway and into an exam room. 

“Fine.”

She takes my vitals. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

I look around the room. Ultrasound machine. Another ugly blue chair. Posters of happy families on the wall. Computer monitor and a stool. An “I Stand with Planned Parenthood” sticker on the desk.

When the doctor comes in, we make quick pleasantries and get to business.

“I am required by law to give you the state-mandated counseling.”

She reads from a script:

“Science maintains that life begins at fertilization. There are several potential medical risks from an abortion, including hemorrhage, infection, impact on future fertility, and increased risk of breast cancer. Options besides abortion include parenting or adoption. If you choose to keep the baby, public assistance may be available to you…”

I half listen, nod, and mumble “uh-huh” after each statement. I think about what kind of ice cream to buy after this, or what it would look like if he got hit by a car. 

The doctor puts the sheet of paper down on the counter. “What I can tell you, is most of this is bullshit,” she says. “Do what is best for you.”

“I want the abortion.”

“Okay, then. Today, just the ultrasound is left. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.”

I search the room for something I can stare at and panic. 

“Actually, could you get the man I’m here with from the waiting room? I don’t want to be alone.”

She nods, leaves, and returns with him in tow. He looks surprised that I asked for him. I’m surprised I asked for him, too. He sits down in the chair a few feet from the exam table. The doctor turns on the ultrasound machine and spreads cold jelly on my abdomen. 

We listen to the electrical pulses, my eyes glued to his. Refusal to glance at the monitor. It wouldn’t change my mind, but what if there was a chance? I’d rather look at him and be forced to wonder why he didn’t want me than be faced with an intrusion of religion on my body. An attempt at guilt. An attempt to make me believe a fetus’s potential is more important than mine. I will not participate.

Looking at him, I’m reminded of that night on his bed. “Who’s going to hurt who?” I got my answer.

After, we leave. 18-hour mandatory waiting period, then back here for the pills. He gives me the cash I will need tomorrow before we exit to the pandemonium of the protestors camped on the street.

“Do you want me to come with you again? I might have to move some things around, but I can.”

I almost ask if he wants to.

“No,” I say. “There’s nothing else you can do. ”

The next night, I sit on my bed. The misoprostol in hand. I inventory my supplies. Instruction sheet, maxi pads, a bottle of ibuprofen, heating pad, electrolyte packets. In the kitchen, saltine crackers for nausea, strawberry ice cream for comfort. Extra trash bags in the bathroom. 

A knock on my door, and it creaks open. 

“Would you like me to be with you?” My roommate asks. “Doing this alone is not a good time. Trust me.”

“Yes,” I cry. 

She sits down on the bed next to me and strokes my hair. “I’ve got you.”

Eleven months have passed since that day in my apartment, where I bled out the last evidence that he ever touched my body. My diploma sits on the kitchen counter in our apartment. On top, a job offer. The two pieces of paper demand celebration. 

Liber bustles in typical fashion. My roommate and I weave through the crowd illuminated by shifting shades of blue, red, and purple light. Her in front, tugging me along, passing back tequila shots. We listen to the band and dance. 

I scan the crowd of strangers, but then, a familiar face. My head snaps back, and there he is in the corner we used to share. All those times that we touched, kissed, shared jokes only we knew the punchlines to. 

My stomach drops at the sight of him looking exactly as he did that day we parted ways at the clinic. That signature look of concentration with a slightly furrowed brow. The one he wore skimming the New Yorker in the waiting room, and looking into my eyes as the ultrasound scanned the mess we made.

Slow motion, nausea, I’m frozen. For all I know, the band could have come to a grinding halt.

Then, he sees me too. Eyes wide, a bobbing in his throat, his mouth slightly agape.

We don’t move or wave, we just look. My eyes sting, and I can’t take a deep breath. Time goes on indefinitely, like it doesn’t exist at all.

“Grace, are you oka—,” my roommate begins to ask, a hand on my shoulder. “Oh.” 

A metronome pulses in my chest. 

A blonde woman around my age approaches him and loops her arm through his. He directs his attention to her. Does she know?

The two turn to leave. He laughs at something she says, and I watch him fade into the night. A grown man whose greatest responsibility is a winding vine on a sill. I imagine it’s still there. Is this what you expected for yourself? I wonder. The way you wanted it to all turn out? 

I feel no regret. I feel no shame.