But this wasn’t a doll. This was a baby who had been living inside her. Now it was dead. She didn’t have to ask; the battered little head said it all.
Strange. The doll had fallen while Daddy had been doing things to her. His foot had hit the dresser and the doll had come down. Daddy was responsible for that. Daddy was responsible for this.
Mommy played a part-at least in the deception. Mommy had lied to her. Maybe she was just trying to shield her from this tragedy. But she would never again be able to trust her mother. Never.
Babs felt so alone. More alone than ever before.
Twelve was terribly early to be on one’s own. But she felt strong. Extraordinarily strong for one so young. How many girls her age coming from an ostensibly stable home had been pregnant and had an abortion? None that she knew of. And, in effect, raped by her own father?
The doctor, mask dangling from his neck, appeared in her line of vision. “So, how do you feel?”
“Okay.” She tried a brave smile, but it was weak. At least she was doing well holding back her tears.
“Everything went well.”
She nodded.
“Just rest. We’ll take you to the recovery room. Then after a little while, you’ll be taken back to your room and you can see your mother. I’ll go give her the good news.” He left the room.
Good news? What was good about this news? Maybe that she hadn’t died-at least not in the sense of physical death. Something had died in this room this morning-something in addition to the baby. Something inside Barbara.
Trust.
No one close to her could be trusted. Not her father. Not her mother. Not the doctor.
Barbara had no way of telling how long she lay in the recovery room. But after some period a cheerful attendant wheeled her to the elevator and took her to her room, where her mother, now beaming, greeted her. “I’ve talked to the doctor, darling. Everything is going to be fine.”
Barbara fixed her eyes on her mother’s. This was rare if not unique in their relationship. Claire felt a shiver.
“I know,” Barbara said.
Claire didn’t need to ask.
In that instant, Barbara resolved that, whatever else happened, she would not follow in her mother’s path.
The Present
Barbara was only a little more than six weeks overdue. This afternoon, all possible doubt and hope had crumbled in the face of the lab report.
Just a couple of hours ago she’d been sitting in the leather chair in the ob/gyn’s office. The doctor half stood, half sat, in front of her, one buttock on his desk, his left toe barely touching the floor. His right leg dangled in a small, lazy circle.
“I don’t know whether to sympathize with you, or congratulate you, Barbara.” He fiddled with his stethoscope, a habit she found irritating. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, I know this is not a planned pregnancy.”
She stared at him stonily. Her mood grew darker by the minute. “Do I remind you of the Happy Homemaker?” She made no attempt to mask her bitterness. “Of course I didn’t change my mind. I was relying on you and the modern miracles of medical science. Some miracle!”
“Now, now. I’ve told you over and over there aren’t any miracles. Not even any sure bets … with the exception of total abstinence.”
“Do I look like a vestal virgin?”
“That would be a loss. But seriously, we’ve been all over this. After I worked everything out for you, you decided on a diaphragm-which we fitted. That plus a spermicidal jelly held out the best hope for you.
“But nothing is foolproof. A diaphragm can slip, particularly if you’re highly active. Jelly can miss any number of sperm. A condom can tear or perforate, or even overflow. IUDs have been known to coexist with a fetus. And you wouldn’t hear of rhythm.
“The most reliable method of birth control-outside of abstinence-is the Pill. But that’s contraindicated because of your diabetes.
“Okay, so you took a chance and you lost. You’re not the only woman for whom birth control didn’t work.”
Her mood, already sullen, was deteriorating. “Something tells me that if men were the ones who got pregnant, we’d have long since found the ‘miracle’ of perfectly dependable birth control.”
Silence.
“Barbara,” he said finally, “the next logical item of business is what you want to do about this. You’re early in the first trimester-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know as well as I …” The unfinished sentence hung in the air. He didn’t use the “A” word.
“I suppose,” she said, “you’re suggesting an abortion.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. What you do about this is up to you.”
She stood and began to pace. “I don’t know …. I just don’t know ….”
“That surprises me.”
“You thought I’d jump at an abortion.”
“It’s early enough so there would be comparatively little danger. I doubt that you have any moral or religious reservations about it. And since you haven’t changed your mind, I assume you want neither a pregnancy nor a child. So …”
“So?”
“Why the hesitation?”
“I’ve got to think about it. I need more time. I’ve been thinking about it practically constantly ever since that missed period. But”-she shook her head-“now that I know for sure … well, this is a bigger decision for me than you imagine. There are too many complications. I need more time.”
“Well, don’t take too long. Either we have to end this pregnancy soon, or we begin preparing you to be a mother.”
Two
Mother. Mother? Mother! Motherhood!
Barbara Ulrich, to this point in her life, had never associated this concept with herself. Even as a small child playing with dolls, she was not their “mother.” They were things her parents had given her. Eventually, she wrecked them, as she did all her toys.
Her mother, even her father, had worried about that. They were concerned that, as an only child, Babs had no sibling to relate to. Dolls were supposed to stand in for the missing siblings.
As time went on and each dismembered doll joined the burial ground of the rest of Babs’s toys, her parents acceded to her every request and demand.
They should have worried about denying her nothing.
Now, if things ran their normal course, Barbara would be a mother. Her child could not be flung into a corner and forgotten. Her baby could not be discarded when she tired of it. She could not treat her child as she had her toys.
For one thing, it was against the law.
It was now just a couple of hours since her doctor had dropped the bombshell. Slowly, she was assimilating all the implications of this new possible role fate had flung at her.
Barbara sat before the mirror at her dressing table. Over frilly step-ins she wore a lacy slip. It accentuated rather than obscured her body’s perfect lines.
If she allowed this pregnancy to progress, her life would change. Her life would change in ways she had never planned.
She had seen grossly pregnant women. Inwardly she had laughed at their awkward, ungainly attempts at such normally simple acts as walking or sitting down or picking things up.
The alternative: an abortion. But she’d been there, done that. She remembered it all too vividly. She dreamed about it-always that little head, crushed beyond recognition. Never again.
In addition, there was that intriguing question: who was the father?
It certainly wasn’t her husband. God knows how long it had been since they’d had sex together.
And yet her husband had no other woman on the side. In all candor, Barbara knew that while she might have an equal somewhere, no one could be better in bed than she. No, it was that other bugaboo: work. Al Ulrich had singlemindedly given himself to Adams Bank and Trust. He had risen through the ranks to branch manager.