Mary
Kellie Kreiss
I sat on the floor against the wall, avoiding a sticky spot that was waiting to be mopped up by a night janitor in a few hours. The floor of the hall was worn and dirty; the walls a fresh pansy yellow that contrasted with the aged terra cotta-toned floor. There were no benches or chairs, except for those at the end of the hall hugging either side of the entrance, more for decoration than for rest. The polish job on their dark stained walnut made them even more uninviting.
I pulled up my legs and crossed my ankles, curling myself into a ball to make myself feel safe. A quiet echo from the wind rattled distant windowpanes, resounding through the closed doors and swiftly passing by me. I was alone and I felt the loneliness. I heard no whispers or footsteps, only my own breath and heartbeat. It was a warm August day, and I became more aware of how thirsty I was with each passing moment.
West Texas is a landscape encased in sand and heat with an innate hostility that keeps even the most ambitious man modest in his undertakings. Growing up, I learned that the city isn't just a glorified storage facility for the neighboring mines and mills to keep their gravel and stones—Stowfield is a place where men who are too proud to admit their failures go to count their unhatched chickens. It is a utopia, a mirage, and an ever-deepening pit for the rest of us.
It was getting late. I had been watching the mid-afternoon light stretch slowly through the window and across the wall in parallel stripes that faded in and out of view with the passing clouds. Finally, the door beside me opened and three men came out, two dressed in jeans and poorly pressed button-ups, and a third in a casual suit with a blue tie. I stared at the pairs of dusty loafers lined up across the floor in front of me. The sight made me feel sick. I went to stand, and the man with the blue tie offered his hand to me. I took it, and regretted it.
“We won’t be able to submit your request to a judge today. I suggest you reassess your argument and seek legal advice elsewhere,” he said with the dry tone of an automated answering machine, subtly returning to me the discounted twenty-dollar fee I had been charged. I didn’t realize it then, but he was doing me a favor by sending me away.
I had traveled nearly two hours to keep my three o’clock appointment here at the Odessa Legal Aid Office. Stowfield is too small a town and word travels too quickly for me to have sought assistance at either of the two offices we have there. Not to mention the fact that the local courthouse both offices work with has a well-known track record of denying judicial bypass requests for minors. If only this had happened four months later. Then I’d be eighteen. Then I’d be able to make my own decision.
After spending weeks scouring the Internet, I’d determined that this office in Odessa had a reputation for being sympathetic to minors, particularly those traveling from neighboring counties. But I didn’t make the cut. I told the man with the blue tie what happened, why I needed to make this decision. I exposed my life’s most intimate details to a stranger who used his state-appointed power and a ballpoint pen to determine that my reasons weren’t good enough.
I had to start over. But as each day passed, I could feel the pit in my stomach getting bigger, threatening to trap me in Stowfield and devour everything I had worked so hard to keep from falling apart.
School was starting next week—I’d told my dad I needed to make the two-hour trip to Odessa with a friend to buy something nice for the first day of classes. He didn’t question me or ask which friend. This trip was the only option I had. It was the only way I was going to be able to get the signatures I needed. And I had barely been able to come up with enough money from my summer job to pay for the trip to Odessa, not to mention the three-and-a-half-hour bus trip I’d need to take to the San Antonio Women’s Clinic.
I left the Odessa State Legal Aid Office with the maroon JanSport backpack I’d had since middle school pulled over my shoulder. Inside was a notebook, return bus ticket, and gray dress I’d bought earlier at a discount store so as not to come home from my shopping spree empty-handed. I walked three blocks back to the bus depot holding my head high despite feeling a numb panic rising in my chest. It had already been a few weeks since I first saw those two faded pink lines appear next to each other in the test result window, meaning I could be almost six weeks pregnant by now.
The sun had just begun to set as I took my seat on the bus. I twisted my hair up off my neck, fastened it with my hair tie, and leaned back against the seat. The bus jolted to a start, and we made our way toward the highway. Staring out the window at the streetlamps passing by, at the jutting rooftops in a city I didn’t recognize, I knew I had to find a different way to get the pill—I needed a new plan.
~ ~ ~
The next morning, a Tuesday, I woke up at 7:30 a.m. and biked over to the Stowfield City Library where I worked part-time during the summer. Even working eight-hour days, the minimum wage for three days of work per week didn’t add up to much. But being in the library gave me access to an anonymous, reliable internet connection that, between helping people find children’s books and how-to manuals, I was able to use to weigh my options. My next day off was Thursday, so I had to figure out something by then.
Another trip out of town wasn’t an option—I spent much of my savings on the trip to Odessa and needed the rest for my appointment at the clinic in San Antonio on Monday. I made the appointment two weeks ago, as soon as I saw the double lines appear on the pregnancy test, well-aware that the waitlist could be over a month. I got lucky—they had a cancelation.
I couldn't reschedule the appointment. Once school started, it would be impossible to make another appointment during the week. The idea of scheduling an appointment on a weekend was a joke. Besides, pushing the appointment back by even a week would put me outside of the seven-week legal limit for the pill. Then my only legal option would be surgery, which I could never afford. Signatures or not, I was keeping the appointment.
My only option was to make an appointment for Thursday morning at one of Stowfield’s legal aid offices. I settled on the one run by the welfare department, which seemed the most likely of the two to consider my case.
~ ~ ~
While waiting for my shift to end, I thought about how it would be nice to have someone to talk to—an objective confidant to work things through with. I couldn’t really talk to any of my girlfriends—none of them were reliable enough to share something like this with. My parents just weren’t an option. And I couldn’t risk going to my doctor.
Dr. Blanton is also my dad’s doctor—and my mom’s—and their decade-long tradition of taking summer fishing trips out at Lake Balmorhea, chasing down bass and catfish, had made them close friends. They’d never canceled a trip until last year when my mom got sick.
My mom was first admitted into the state hospital in February, just as the weather was beginning to change, with the sun bringing warmth back to our winter-soaked skin. She’d been struggling with her drinking since before I was born—since before she and my dad had met. It was always just subtle enough to not seem like a huge problem. But in the years that had passed since her own mother’s death, it got worse. And then it became too much for any of us to ignore.
My dad has always been a hard worker. Dedicating long hours to the mill outside of town, often coming home after the sun had already set, even in the longest days of summer. He has always been a strong, sweet man; never asking for anything more than he needed. He liked his schedule—his nightly cigarette on the porch, his fishing trips with Dr. Blanton.
~ ~ ~
My appointment on Thursday was at 9:30 a.m. with a woman named Genevieve Watson. Considering how small our town is, I found hope in the fact that I didn’t recognize her name.
I woke early and got my papers in order, placing them discretely between the pages of my black college-ruled notebook. I decided the torn jean shorts I wore to the appointment in Odessa were to blame for the man with the blue tie dismissing me. So this time I wore a nice black cotton skirt, hoping I would seem more mature when meeting Ms. Watson.
I told my dad the night before that I was meeting a friend downtown in the morning, that we would probably end up getting lunch before I would head back home. His eyes were glossed over with a soft sleeplessness as he told me to have a nice time.
I wanted to tell my dad the truth, admit I was pregnant and needed help, but I was afraid if I uttered the words out loud to him that he’d shatter into pieces along with me. And I couldn’t ask my mom for help. I alone would have to take the pill; and it’s my body that would feel this loss, that would feel what it’s like to let go of part of itself.
~ ~ ~
The Stowfield State Legal Aid Office was in a brown-shingled building that gave it the look of a misplaced cabin. I approached the tinted glass door slowly, glancing at myself in the reflection to see if I still looked like the same person I was when I left the house.
I pushed the door open and heard the light ding of a bell that felt more embarrassing than welcoming and watched dozens of eyes from around the room peer in my direction. I checked in at reception, giving my name to a woman with rosy cheeks that reminded me of a fever. I took a seat and picked up a magazine from the table next to me, flipping through its pages without reading anything.
Fifteen minutes went by before the woman with rosy cheeks called for me to follow her. I kept pace with her down the thin hallway lit with fluorescent lights and lined with a worn green carpet reminiscent of muddy grass in springtime. She didn’t speak as she motioned to a half-open wooden door to my left, a mounted plaque with the words “Counseling Office” embossed across it.
Inside was a woman in her mid-thirties with delicate brown hair tossed thoughtlessly across her shoulders. She was sitting at a desk, writing on a yellow legal pad, and I wasn’t sure she noticed I was there at all. I glanced at her desk, which looked like something out of the sale section of an Ikea catalogue.
After a moment, she looked up and invited me to sit, her voice cool and soft with an inflection that reminded me of the summer my family went to California. She motioned to a chair next to her, resting her hand on its arm like a close friend.
“You can sit here if you want, so we can talk more easily—the desk just makes these meetings so impersonal,” she said with a welcoming smile. I took the chair closest to her, its hard wooden back and well-worn navy cushion giving me little comfort.
“Ms. Watson, I …”
“You can call me Genevieve, or Gene if you’d like—my mom has always hated it when people called me Gene. I don’t mind, though.”
Gene had a way of speaking that made it seem as if she had a funny story she couldn’t wait to tell you. On the wall behind her hung a law degree from a college I didn’t recognize the name of and a framed letter with a seal and signature. Just behind her desk, a large canvas bag was slumped over on the floor. I imagined Gene as the type of woman who was always surrounded by people who thought they loved her, and she didn't mind.
“I was hoping you could help me get a judicial bypass for an abortion,” I blurted out, speaking my well-rehearsed opening line cautiously.
“I really wish it were that simple. Cases like yours are harder to get approved as state regulations change. We need to make sure you have your argument ready before approaching the judge. You don’t need to worry about convincing me, I understand, but convincing the judge can be a tall order depending on who it is. Luckily, you’ve been assigned to Judge Michaels—I’ve worked with him before and can usually read him well enough.”
Her tone was soothing, though not lacking in severity. She began reciting her by-the-book speech to me about the legal process, my status as a minor, and the ambiguity surrounding my need to provide convincing evidence that I am mature enough to make this decision.
I had already read most of what she listed off to me, including the “A Woman’s Right to Know” booklet, inconspicuous with its pink floral cover and filled with images that make your head spin. She was required to give me a copy, which I placed face down on my lap.
I listened to Gene carefully, anticipating her next inquiries and suggestions, checking each of them off a mental list of topics I’d gathered, all while tearing at the top corner of the composition notebook I had clutched in my lap.
“Your paperwork says you’ve had your sonogram completed already, is that right?” she asked. I’d been dreading this question.
“I have—I had it done in Odessa before my appointment with the attorney there.” I knew she sensed the hesitation in my voice. I pulled out a twice folded photocopy from the crisis pregnancy center I’d visited in Odessa. I knew it wasn’t what she wanted to see. Gene was quiet for a few moments as disappointment, or maybe pity, dimmed her eyes and pierced the rouge of her lips together. “You went to the crisis pregnancy center?” she asked, knowing the answer.
I explained that I couldn’t go to my doctor for the sonogram, that he and my dad were too close, and I couldn’t risk my parents finding out I was pregnant, much less seeking an abortion.
“The CPC was free,” I said, panic setting off an alarm inside of me making me shake. “I know it doesn’t meet the requirements. But it was the only option I had and I—”
Gene raised her hand softly into the air between us to stop me. “I understand—I just hope Judge Michaels does, too. If we’re lucky, we can pass it off as proof of your maturity and show you’re using all the services available to you to make your decision—we’ll make this work.” She smiled and we both took a deep breath.
~ ~ ~
I knew getting a sonogram at the CPC was risky, but I couldn’t show up for my appointment in Odessa without it, so I settled. The crisis pregnancy center in Odessa was able to see me right away while the other clinics I’d called had waitlists and fees that would never work.
At the CPC, I didn’t tell them I wanted an abortion, just that I suspected I was pregnant. They offered the sonogram free of charge, as I knew they would, along with information about being a new mother. I felt like an imposter, so I tried to imagine I was someone else entirely.
I had to give them my real name and address—it was to be printed on the official document stating I had the sonogram done. I filled out their survey with the responses I knew they wanted, filing away packets of information into my notebook with a nod. And when it came time for the sonogram, where they were to show me the shapes hidden within the black and gray static of my abdomen, a woman dressed in a salmon-pink dress with a brown curl escaping from her headband told me confidently, “Oh—why you’re not even five weeks in!”
Her optimism was nauseating, and I felt my cheeks flushing red. Five weeks wasn't possible—it had been at least eight weeks since my last period and I knew the date of conception because it was the first time my boyfriend and I had slept together in weeks—and it was the last time. I had to be six weeks, almost to the day. I swallowed my frustration and grabbed my sonogram release form before making my way to the door.
~ ~ ~
“It’s going to be tricky getting Judge Michaels to approve your judicial bypass in time for your appointment on Monday. We managed to get the meeting scheduled with him tomorrow morning, but there’s no promising we can persuade him to respond in such a short period of time, especially over a weekend.” Gene seemed uneasy, but with an assuredness that allowed me to feel a slight sense of security for the first time in weeks.
We finished our meeting after about an hour, spending an exhaustive amount of time going over what Judge Michaels might ask me. I left her office reciting the list of possible questions and answers over in my head while trying to drown out my anxiety.
~ ~ ~
I hardly slept that night and got up a little before 6:00 a.m. I got dressed and went to the kitchen, pulling a cup of yogurt from the fridge even though I wasn’t hungry. I went over my questions again, preparing myself as much as possible before leaving to meet Gene outside the courthouse at 10:15 a.m.
I stopped at a corner store a block away from downtown to buy a water bottle, appreciating the momentary escape from the blooming heat outside and the distraction of a scripted conversation with the same drowsy clerk who’d been there every morning since before I could remember. I left with my water and a spontaneous bag of pretzels, and again began imagining the possible outcomes of the meeting.
The pretzels tasted like salted paper and I immediately regretted buying them as their stale crunch between my chattering teeth made me feel miserable. I folded the top of the bag around itself with two severe creases, secured it with my hair tie, and then tucked it away carefully into my bag, thinking maybe it’d come in handy later.
I arrived at the courthouse with a little more than thirty minutes to spare. Thankfully, the courthouse is located in an inconspicuous plaza in the middle of downtown, where people could shop for everything from apples to shoelaces. At the center of the plaza there was a small park with benches and a children’s playground shaded generously by tall maple trees. I took a seat on one of the benches, facing away from the courthouse so it just barely appeared in my peripheral. I took out my notebook and began writing out my responses, as if getting them out of my head would calm the incessant fluster of words crowding my mind.
How did you first learn you were pregnant?
Where do you go to school?
Were you and your partner using protection?
Why are you seeking an abortion?
I stared forward blankly, my pen mechanically tracing across the paper on my lap, trained by years of practice copying down notes from the fluttering screen of an overhead projector. My pen stopped and I suddenly felt exhausted. More than anything I wanted to cry and let the anxiety and stress pour down my cheeks to relieve the pressure in my head.
I checked my watch, hearing the courthouse bells ringing behind me, reminding me of exactly what time it was so I didn’t actually need to look. I closed the cover of my notebook. I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I needed to enter the courthouse to meet Gene; this was my last chance to collect myself. I tried to remember the breathing exercise we were taught in last year’s psychology class, where you breathe in through your nose until you can’t anymore, and then release every drop of air from your lungs in one long exhale.
~ ~ ~
I approached the steps and could see Gene sitting on a brick ledge to the left, embraced by a sweeping veil of shade. Her hair was pulled up off her shoulders into a low bun, neatly secured but not in the least bit severe. She gave me a simple wave as I approached, almost as if she were admiring the flecks of light dancing across her hand rather than calling me over.
“Ready?” she said with a cautious, yet calming tone. “I can tell by the look in your eyes that you’ve gone over your questions more than a few times.”
Her smile was charming and sympathetic, and in that moment, I realized how thankful I was to have her there. I forced a half smile in return and admitted to my sleepless night filled with rehearsing and revising responses.
“Just be yourself—and remember sometimes the sincerest answer is better than the most rehearsed. We’re all just people.” Gene put her hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the doorway. In a way her words had helped, yet her comment about us all just being people made my head reel with all the definitions of personhood I’d read in recent weeks.
The hall was air-conditioned, which I was thankful for despite the chill it gave me. I suddenly became aware of just how much I had been shaking. The clicking of Gene’s shoes sent an echo through the hall, while mine responded with the muffled sound of scuff marks. I could hear my mom’s voice reminding me not to drag my feet.
We reached an open sitting area with chairs and side tables made of antique-looking hardwood. There were three doors to the left and large, gaping windows to the right, letting in stripes of sunshine that mixed with the shadows from the chairs along the floor.
Gene motioned to one of the chairs and told me to wait for her here. She quickly explained that she would introduce my case to Judge Michaels and then come get me when they were ready begin. I hesitated, not knowing which chair to take—suddenly the simplest decision seemed threatening. “You’re okay, you know,” she said, obviously noticing me clutching my purse strap with both hands. I took a seat on one of the benches along the far wall. I had been here a few times before for school field trips. It felt like a museum, and for a moment I imagined myself a casual visitor.
A few minutes passed before Gene stepped back out from the doorway and called to me. I stood up with a quiet exhale and walked over to her. Gene held the door open, flashing me a soft smile that mirrored itself across my own face as I entered. I would wait for her every cue, it told me. Judge Michaels stood behind his desk as we entered. He wore a plaid button-up shirt with short sleeves and a belt with an oversized buckle on it. He was young, but older than Gene, and handsome with his black hair cut short and firm features hidden behind a soft smile. I didn’t trust his eyes, but I smiled back.
“You must be Mary. Please, take a seat—make yourselves comfortable.”
His office was barren. In fact, you wouldn’t even know it was his if not for the filing cabinet in the corner with three large photographs crammed on top of it mingling with the dust.
He didn’t speak for a few minutes, taking time to shuffle his papers and look from their words to my face a few times. He started by reading my full name, and commented how my birthday was coming up in a few months. I corrected my posture and nodded. And then it began.
The meeting took forty-five minutes. When we finally left his office, my legs felt numb and my neck stiff from having provided details of my sex and sexuality that should only ever be disclosed in an environment of love and care.
As soon as Gene and I exited the courthouse, the warm glow of the sun again hit my skin; it reminded me of a shirt I had when I was little with Sun-Kissed in California printed across it. I thought of my mom and let myself realize how much I missed her, and for the first time understood the struggle that comes with feeling your life is out of your control.
“The hard part is over, now we just have to wait,” said Gene as we walked slowly down the stairs that lined the front of the courthouse.
We retraced my steps back to the park where I had been sitting before, taking solace on a bench adjacent to the one I had chosen an hour earlier. Now there were a few groups of children at the playground and pigeons were swooping around trying to grab leftover lunch crumbs. I looked intently at the bench, seeing a shadow of myself sitting there and wishing I could warn myself to answer a question differently, to fix the hairpin that fell out halfway through the meeting and made me stumble over my response. But I wasn’t there anymore, and I couldn’t go back—all I could do was wait.
We talked for a while about what would come next, when we would meet at her office on Monday morning to look over the papers Judge Michaels will hopefully have sent over by then. She asked me what time I needed to leave for my appointment to make sure I didn’t miss the bus to San Antonio. I had two days before I would find out if Judge Michaels had approved my judicial bypass or if I was going to have to start reimagining my future again.
~ ~ ~
Saturday came and went, and I’d hardly noticed. Sunday my dad spent the day at home with me, discouraged and apathetic about news from the doctors that, despite my mom’s health improvements, they didn’t think she was strong enough to leave yet. She’d been sober for nearly a month. Her liver was healing. But it was too risky still.
“A few more weeks they think,” he told me.
Evening came and I cried quietly to myself as I fell asleep—regardless of Judge Michaels’s decision, but I knew I would make the bus trip to San Antonio either way.
~ ~ ~
Morning came with a flash of light breaking through my open window. It was just after six o’clock, so I stayed in bed watching the colors in the sky shift behind the illuminating cloud clusters outside the window. The birds were singing to each other, and I could hear my dad tiptoeing through the kitchen to grab the paper from the front step.
My appointment at the San Antonio Women’s Clinic wasn’t until two o’clock, but because of the three-and-a-half-hour bus ride it takes to get there, I needed to be on the 10:30 a.m. commuter bus, hopefully arriving with time to spare. Gene told me to meet her at her office at 9:00 a.m. to go over paperwork from Judge Michaels.
I took the same route to her office as I had the week before. I had my JanSport pulled over my shoulder, its contents jumbling and reminding me with alternating crunching sounds that I’d forgotten to throw away the bag of stale pretzels. I also had a change of clothes and the money for my bus ticket stashed away inside.
When I found myself standing outside of the Stowfield Legal Aid Office, staring intently at the front door, I could hardly manage to convince myself to turn the doorknob. I had a headache and the sun reflecting in the mirrored glass door blinded me so, this time, I couldn’t recognize myself in its reflection. I opened the door and stepped inside.
The air in the waiting room had the stale smell of having been locked up all weekend. And the room felt much darker than before. I noticed a few rows of fluorescent lights on the right side of the room were off. Maybe someone had forgotten to turn them on. Maybe they were broken. But there was the darkness. I moved toward the check-in desk where the rosy-cheeked receptionist had been replaced by a man with graying hair. I took my seat to wait for Gene.
At 9:05 a.m., the man went into the back and didn’t return. The phone rang until the voicemail machine clicked on, leaving the room silent except for the whisper of voices down the hall. The air conditioner clicked on with a tired groan in response.
A few minutes later, Gene appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, Mary—let’s head on back.” She smiled the kind of smile that people have on TV.
I followed her down the muddy, mossy carpet. Before we got into her office, she broke our silence. “So, I still haven’t heard anything …” She spoke slowly over her shoulder, glancing back at me. We were told to expect an answer by 8:30 a.m., which is why we scheduled our meeting for 9:00, to give Gene time to organize the paperwork.
As we entered her office she continued, “We requested an expedited decision, but it was never guaranteed …” Gene spoke slowly, sounding uncertain for the first time since I’d met her. She’d always been good at maintaining at least an outward sense of hopefulness. But now she seemed distracted.
“Could we just call him?” I suggested, sounding naïve even to myself.
But Gene had already followed up with him before I arrived and just got his voicemail. She said we should wait, that we didn't want to risk being too pushy. I caught her hint. But at this point, no response was the same as a negative response. If I missed the bus to San Antonio and had to reschedule, it would be too late.
“So, what do we do?” I asked as calmly as I could, trying to sound brave despite my obvious vulnerability.
“We could talk about a plan B if you’d like, just in case…. There is the option of requesting an appeal if Judge Michaels’s decision doesn’t go in our favor. I know it complicates your plans, but there are options. Just in case, of course.” The way Gene said “Just in case” made me want to vomit.
Panic started to rush across my skin as a chill, and then Gene’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and quickly pressed a combination of numbers that sent the call to the fax machine across the room. Slowly, it started churning, warming up, and then printing. Five sheets of warm paper slipped out facedown into the tray. Gene and I watched and waited for the final sound of its finishing, signaling to us it was time.
The fax machine sat on a table to my right, closer to me than to Gene. I looked back to her and then to the machine and reached for the papers. I didn’t dare turn them over and instead tried to find comfort in the warm crispness of the sheets between my fingers.
I handed them to Gene, and she straightened them on her desk, tapping them three, four times. I knew she felt my eyes on her, searching her face for any hint of the answer. She’d done this before; she was a professional and had the poker face to prove it. I saw nothing as she shifted the sheets over one another, delicately consuming the details.
As she looked up from the last page and settled the papers into a pile on her desk, I could feel the room shift. The darkness from the waiting room seemed to seep into the office through the cracks in the doorway. I couldn’t breathe. My body felt like it was disappearing.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” Gene spoke slowly. “He said the evidence wasn’t strong enough to approve the bypass without parental notification.”
I was waiting to hear what she would say next, what plan she had that would get me on that bus with the paperwork I needed in less than an hour. But she didn't say anything.
“Our best bet now is to ask for an appeal … or to talk about your other options,” Gene spoke simply, having regained her confident composure by burying the sinking feeling of disappointment somewhere deep inside of her.
I couldn’t focus on anything she was saying—my body was an explosion of nerves, and I felt like I was floating, as if I weren’t real and this was just a dream I knew I wouldn’t be waking up from. She continued to speak, but her voice became background noise.
Gene could see the panic on my face and handed me a tissue thinking I would cry, but I knew I couldn’t. She asked what I’d like to do, but I just shook my head and stared at the carpet.
“Look, let’s meet tomorrow—we’ve done all we can today. Take the afternoon to gather your thoughts. We will figure this out.” Gene’s composure was convincing but didn’t help.
As I left Gene’s office and stepped outside, I felt the sun envelop my skin and caress my flushed cheeks. It felt familiar, comforting. But even under the sun, my skin no longer felt like my own. My body didn’t belong to me anymore, and I was starting to feel as if it never did.
As I walked, my mind kept trying to find other options, to double back on old plans that maybe I hadn’t fully thought through. But every idea led me to a dead end. Every path seemed blocked. I pulled my backpack higher onto my shoulder and paused beneath the shade of a tree, not knowing which way to go. Looking around, I could see the plaza and the playground. I could see the road that led home where my dad was waiting. I could see a bench a few yards ahead, sitting empty beneath a rusted overhang, where the bus to San Antonio would be passing through in a little less than an hour.
“I have to try,” I whispered to myself as my feet began carrying me, numb and uncertain, toward the bus stop.
Kellie Kreiss
I sat on the floor against the wall, avoiding a sticky spot that was waiting to be mopped up by a night janitor in a few hours. The floor of the hall was worn and dirty; the walls a fresh pansy yellow that contrasted with the aged terra cotta-toned floor. There were no benches or chairs, except for those at the end of the hall hugging either side of the entrance, more for decoration than for rest. The polish job on their dark stained walnut made them even more uninviting.
I pulled up my legs and crossed my ankles, curling myself into a ball to make myself feel safe. A quiet echo from the wind rattled distant windowpanes, resounding through the closed doors and swiftly passing by me. I was alone and I felt the loneliness. I heard no whispers or footsteps, only my own breath and heartbeat. It was a warm August day, and I became more aware of how thirsty I was with each passing moment.
West Texas is a landscape encased in sand and heat with an innate hostility that keeps even the most ambitious man modest in his undertakings. Growing up, I learned that the city isn't just a glorified storage facility for the neighboring mines and mills to keep their gravel and stones—Stowfield is a place where men who are too proud to admit their failures go to count their unhatched chickens. It is a utopia, a mirage, and an ever-deepening pit for the rest of us.
It was getting late. I had been watching the mid-afternoon light stretch slowly through the window and across the wall in parallel stripes that faded in and out of view with the passing clouds. Finally, the door beside me opened and three men came out, two dressed in jeans and poorly pressed button-ups, and a third in a casual suit with a blue tie. I stared at the pairs of dusty loafers lined up across the floor in front of me. The sight made me feel sick. I went to stand, and the man with the blue tie offered his hand to me. I took it, and regretted it.
“We won’t be able to submit your request to a judge today. I suggest you reassess your argument and seek legal advice elsewhere,” he said with the dry tone of an automated answering machine, subtly returning to me the discounted twenty-dollar fee I had been charged. I didn’t realize it then, but he was doing me a favor by sending me away.
I had traveled nearly two hours to keep my three o’clock appointment here at the Odessa Legal Aid Office. Stowfield is too small a town and word travels too quickly for me to have sought assistance at either of the two offices we have there. Not to mention the fact that the local courthouse both offices work with has a well-known track record of denying judicial bypass requests for minors. If only this had happened four months later. Then I’d be eighteen. Then I’d be able to make my own decision.
After spending weeks scouring the Internet, I’d determined that this office in Odessa had a reputation for being sympathetic to minors, particularly those traveling from neighboring counties. But I didn’t make the cut. I told the man with the blue tie what happened, why I needed to make this decision. I exposed my life’s most intimate details to a stranger who used his state-appointed power and a ballpoint pen to determine that my reasons weren’t good enough.
I had to start over. But as each day passed, I could feel the pit in my stomach getting bigger, threatening to trap me in Stowfield and devour everything I had worked so hard to keep from falling apart.
School was starting next week—I’d told my dad I needed to make the two-hour trip to Odessa with a friend to buy something nice for the first day of classes. He didn’t question me or ask which friend. This trip was the only option I had. It was the only way I was going to be able to get the signatures I needed. And I had barely been able to come up with enough money from my summer job to pay for the trip to Odessa, not to mention the three-and-a-half-hour bus trip I’d need to take to the San Antonio Women’s Clinic.
I left the Odessa State Legal Aid Office with the maroon JanSport backpack I’d had since middle school pulled over my shoulder. Inside was a notebook, return bus ticket, and gray dress I’d bought earlier at a discount store so as not to come home from my shopping spree empty-handed. I walked three blocks back to the bus depot holding my head high despite feeling a numb panic rising in my chest. It had already been a few weeks since I first saw those two faded pink lines appear next to each other in the test result window, meaning I could be almost six weeks pregnant by now.
The sun had just begun to set as I took my seat on the bus. I twisted my hair up off my neck, fastened it with my hair tie, and leaned back against the seat. The bus jolted to a start, and we made our way toward the highway. Staring out the window at the streetlamps passing by, at the jutting rooftops in a city I didn’t recognize, I knew I had to find a different way to get the pill—I needed a new plan.
~ ~ ~
The next morning, a Tuesday, I woke up at 7:30 a.m. and biked over to the Stowfield City Library where I worked part-time during the summer. Even working eight-hour days, the minimum wage for three days of work per week didn’t add up to much. But being in the library gave me access to an anonymous, reliable internet connection that, between helping people find children’s books and how-to manuals, I was able to use to weigh my options. My next day off was Thursday, so I had to figure out something by then.
Another trip out of town wasn’t an option—I spent much of my savings on the trip to Odessa and needed the rest for my appointment at the clinic in San Antonio on Monday. I made the appointment two weeks ago, as soon as I saw the double lines appear on the pregnancy test, well-aware that the waitlist could be over a month. I got lucky—they had a cancelation.
I couldn't reschedule the appointment. Once school started, it would be impossible to make another appointment during the week. The idea of scheduling an appointment on a weekend was a joke. Besides, pushing the appointment back by even a week would put me outside of the seven-week legal limit for the pill. Then my only legal option would be surgery, which I could never afford. Signatures or not, I was keeping the appointment.
My only option was to make an appointment for Thursday morning at one of Stowfield’s legal aid offices. I settled on the one run by the welfare department, which seemed the most likely of the two to consider my case.
~ ~ ~
While waiting for my shift to end, I thought about how it would be nice to have someone to talk to—an objective confidant to work things through with. I couldn’t really talk to any of my girlfriends—none of them were reliable enough to share something like this with. My parents just weren’t an option. And I couldn’t risk going to my doctor.
Dr. Blanton is also my dad’s doctor—and my mom’s—and their decade-long tradition of taking summer fishing trips out at Lake Balmorhea, chasing down bass and catfish, had made them close friends. They’d never canceled a trip until last year when my mom got sick.
My mom was first admitted into the state hospital in February, just as the weather was beginning to change, with the sun bringing warmth back to our winter-soaked skin. She’d been struggling with her drinking since before I was born—since before she and my dad had met. It was always just subtle enough to not seem like a huge problem. But in the years that had passed since her own mother’s death, it got worse. And then it became too much for any of us to ignore.
My dad has always been a hard worker. Dedicating long hours to the mill outside of town, often coming home after the sun had already set, even in the longest days of summer. He has always been a strong, sweet man; never asking for anything more than he needed. He liked his schedule—his nightly cigarette on the porch, his fishing trips with Dr. Blanton.
~ ~ ~
My appointment on Thursday was at 9:30 a.m. with a woman named Genevieve Watson. Considering how small our town is, I found hope in the fact that I didn’t recognize her name.
I woke early and got my papers in order, placing them discretely between the pages of my black college-ruled notebook. I decided the torn jean shorts I wore to the appointment in Odessa were to blame for the man with the blue tie dismissing me. So this time I wore a nice black cotton skirt, hoping I would seem more mature when meeting Ms. Watson.
I told my dad the night before that I was meeting a friend downtown in the morning, that we would probably end up getting lunch before I would head back home. His eyes were glossed over with a soft sleeplessness as he told me to have a nice time.
I wanted to tell my dad the truth, admit I was pregnant and needed help, but I was afraid if I uttered the words out loud to him that he’d shatter into pieces along with me. And I couldn’t ask my mom for help. I alone would have to take the pill; and it’s my body that would feel this loss, that would feel what it’s like to let go of part of itself.
~ ~ ~
The Stowfield State Legal Aid Office was in a brown-shingled building that gave it the look of a misplaced cabin. I approached the tinted glass door slowly, glancing at myself in the reflection to see if I still looked like the same person I was when I left the house.
I pushed the door open and heard the light ding of a bell that felt more embarrassing than welcoming and watched dozens of eyes from around the room peer in my direction. I checked in at reception, giving my name to a woman with rosy cheeks that reminded me of a fever. I took a seat and picked up a magazine from the table next to me, flipping through its pages without reading anything.
Fifteen minutes went by before the woman with rosy cheeks called for me to follow her. I kept pace with her down the thin hallway lit with fluorescent lights and lined with a worn green carpet reminiscent of muddy grass in springtime. She didn’t speak as she motioned to a half-open wooden door to my left, a mounted plaque with the words “Counseling Office” embossed across it.
Inside was a woman in her mid-thirties with delicate brown hair tossed thoughtlessly across her shoulders. She was sitting at a desk, writing on a yellow legal pad, and I wasn’t sure she noticed I was there at all. I glanced at her desk, which looked like something out of the sale section of an Ikea catalogue.
After a moment, she looked up and invited me to sit, her voice cool and soft with an inflection that reminded me of the summer my family went to California. She motioned to a chair next to her, resting her hand on its arm like a close friend.
“You can sit here if you want, so we can talk more easily—the desk just makes these meetings so impersonal,” she said with a welcoming smile. I took the chair closest to her, its hard wooden back and well-worn navy cushion giving me little comfort.
“Ms. Watson, I …”
“You can call me Genevieve, or Gene if you’d like—my mom has always hated it when people called me Gene. I don’t mind, though.”
Gene had a way of speaking that made it seem as if she had a funny story she couldn’t wait to tell you. On the wall behind her hung a law degree from a college I didn’t recognize the name of and a framed letter with a seal and signature. Just behind her desk, a large canvas bag was slumped over on the floor. I imagined Gene as the type of woman who was always surrounded by people who thought they loved her, and she didn't mind.
“I was hoping you could help me get a judicial bypass for an abortion,” I blurted out, speaking my well-rehearsed opening line cautiously.
“I really wish it were that simple. Cases like yours are harder to get approved as state regulations change. We need to make sure you have your argument ready before approaching the judge. You don’t need to worry about convincing me, I understand, but convincing the judge can be a tall order depending on who it is. Luckily, you’ve been assigned to Judge Michaels—I’ve worked with him before and can usually read him well enough.”
Her tone was soothing, though not lacking in severity. She began reciting her by-the-book speech to me about the legal process, my status as a minor, and the ambiguity surrounding my need to provide convincing evidence that I am mature enough to make this decision.
I had already read most of what she listed off to me, including the “A Woman’s Right to Know” booklet, inconspicuous with its pink floral cover and filled with images that make your head spin. She was required to give me a copy, which I placed face down on my lap.
I listened to Gene carefully, anticipating her next inquiries and suggestions, checking each of them off a mental list of topics I’d gathered, all while tearing at the top corner of the composition notebook I had clutched in my lap.
“Your paperwork says you’ve had your sonogram completed already, is that right?” she asked. I’d been dreading this question.
“I have—I had it done in Odessa before my appointment with the attorney there.” I knew she sensed the hesitation in my voice. I pulled out a twice folded photocopy from the crisis pregnancy center I’d visited in Odessa. I knew it wasn’t what she wanted to see. Gene was quiet for a few moments as disappointment, or maybe pity, dimmed her eyes and pierced the rouge of her lips together. “You went to the crisis pregnancy center?” she asked, knowing the answer.
I explained that I couldn’t go to my doctor for the sonogram, that he and my dad were too close, and I couldn’t risk my parents finding out I was pregnant, much less seeking an abortion.
“The CPC was free,” I said, panic setting off an alarm inside of me making me shake. “I know it doesn’t meet the requirements. But it was the only option I had and I—”
Gene raised her hand softly into the air between us to stop me. “I understand—I just hope Judge Michaels does, too. If we’re lucky, we can pass it off as proof of your maturity and show you’re using all the services available to you to make your decision—we’ll make this work.” She smiled and we both took a deep breath.
~ ~ ~
I knew getting a sonogram at the CPC was risky, but I couldn’t show up for my appointment in Odessa without it, so I settled. The crisis pregnancy center in Odessa was able to see me right away while the other clinics I’d called had waitlists and fees that would never work.
At the CPC, I didn’t tell them I wanted an abortion, just that I suspected I was pregnant. They offered the sonogram free of charge, as I knew they would, along with information about being a new mother. I felt like an imposter, so I tried to imagine I was someone else entirely.
I had to give them my real name and address—it was to be printed on the official document stating I had the sonogram done. I filled out their survey with the responses I knew they wanted, filing away packets of information into my notebook with a nod. And when it came time for the sonogram, where they were to show me the shapes hidden within the black and gray static of my abdomen, a woman dressed in a salmon-pink dress with a brown curl escaping from her headband told me confidently, “Oh—why you’re not even five weeks in!”
Her optimism was nauseating, and I felt my cheeks flushing red. Five weeks wasn't possible—it had been at least eight weeks since my last period and I knew the date of conception because it was the first time my boyfriend and I had slept together in weeks—and it was the last time. I had to be six weeks, almost to the day. I swallowed my frustration and grabbed my sonogram release form before making my way to the door.
~ ~ ~
“It’s going to be tricky getting Judge Michaels to approve your judicial bypass in time for your appointment on Monday. We managed to get the meeting scheduled with him tomorrow morning, but there’s no promising we can persuade him to respond in such a short period of time, especially over a weekend.” Gene seemed uneasy, but with an assuredness that allowed me to feel a slight sense of security for the first time in weeks.
We finished our meeting after about an hour, spending an exhaustive amount of time going over what Judge Michaels might ask me. I left her office reciting the list of possible questions and answers over in my head while trying to drown out my anxiety.
~ ~ ~
I hardly slept that night and got up a little before 6:00 a.m. I got dressed and went to the kitchen, pulling a cup of yogurt from the fridge even though I wasn’t hungry. I went over my questions again, preparing myself as much as possible before leaving to meet Gene outside the courthouse at 10:15 a.m.
I stopped at a corner store a block away from downtown to buy a water bottle, appreciating the momentary escape from the blooming heat outside and the distraction of a scripted conversation with the same drowsy clerk who’d been there every morning since before I could remember. I left with my water and a spontaneous bag of pretzels, and again began imagining the possible outcomes of the meeting.
The pretzels tasted like salted paper and I immediately regretted buying them as their stale crunch between my chattering teeth made me feel miserable. I folded the top of the bag around itself with two severe creases, secured it with my hair tie, and then tucked it away carefully into my bag, thinking maybe it’d come in handy later.
I arrived at the courthouse with a little more than thirty minutes to spare. Thankfully, the courthouse is located in an inconspicuous plaza in the middle of downtown, where people could shop for everything from apples to shoelaces. At the center of the plaza there was a small park with benches and a children’s playground shaded generously by tall maple trees. I took a seat on one of the benches, facing away from the courthouse so it just barely appeared in my peripheral. I took out my notebook and began writing out my responses, as if getting them out of my head would calm the incessant fluster of words crowding my mind.
How did you first learn you were pregnant?
Where do you go to school?
Were you and your partner using protection?
Why are you seeking an abortion?
I stared forward blankly, my pen mechanically tracing across the paper on my lap, trained by years of practice copying down notes from the fluttering screen of an overhead projector. My pen stopped and I suddenly felt exhausted. More than anything I wanted to cry and let the anxiety and stress pour down my cheeks to relieve the pressure in my head.
I checked my watch, hearing the courthouse bells ringing behind me, reminding me of exactly what time it was so I didn’t actually need to look. I closed the cover of my notebook. I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I needed to enter the courthouse to meet Gene; this was my last chance to collect myself. I tried to remember the breathing exercise we were taught in last year’s psychology class, where you breathe in through your nose until you can’t anymore, and then release every drop of air from your lungs in one long exhale.
~ ~ ~
I approached the steps and could see Gene sitting on a brick ledge to the left, embraced by a sweeping veil of shade. Her hair was pulled up off her shoulders into a low bun, neatly secured but not in the least bit severe. She gave me a simple wave as I approached, almost as if she were admiring the flecks of light dancing across her hand rather than calling me over.
“Ready?” she said with a cautious, yet calming tone. “I can tell by the look in your eyes that you’ve gone over your questions more than a few times.”
Her smile was charming and sympathetic, and in that moment, I realized how thankful I was to have her there. I forced a half smile in return and admitted to my sleepless night filled with rehearsing and revising responses.
“Just be yourself—and remember sometimes the sincerest answer is better than the most rehearsed. We’re all just people.” Gene put her hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the doorway. In a way her words had helped, yet her comment about us all just being people made my head reel with all the definitions of personhood I’d read in recent weeks.
The hall was air-conditioned, which I was thankful for despite the chill it gave me. I suddenly became aware of just how much I had been shaking. The clicking of Gene’s shoes sent an echo through the hall, while mine responded with the muffled sound of scuff marks. I could hear my mom’s voice reminding me not to drag my feet.
We reached an open sitting area with chairs and side tables made of antique-looking hardwood. There were three doors to the left and large, gaping windows to the right, letting in stripes of sunshine that mixed with the shadows from the chairs along the floor.
Gene motioned to one of the chairs and told me to wait for her here. She quickly explained that she would introduce my case to Judge Michaels and then come get me when they were ready begin. I hesitated, not knowing which chair to take—suddenly the simplest decision seemed threatening. “You’re okay, you know,” she said, obviously noticing me clutching my purse strap with both hands. I took a seat on one of the benches along the far wall. I had been here a few times before for school field trips. It felt like a museum, and for a moment I imagined myself a casual visitor.
A few minutes passed before Gene stepped back out from the doorway and called to me. I stood up with a quiet exhale and walked over to her. Gene held the door open, flashing me a soft smile that mirrored itself across my own face as I entered. I would wait for her every cue, it told me. Judge Michaels stood behind his desk as we entered. He wore a plaid button-up shirt with short sleeves and a belt with an oversized buckle on it. He was young, but older than Gene, and handsome with his black hair cut short and firm features hidden behind a soft smile. I didn’t trust his eyes, but I smiled back.
“You must be Mary. Please, take a seat—make yourselves comfortable.”
His office was barren. In fact, you wouldn’t even know it was his if not for the filing cabinet in the corner with three large photographs crammed on top of it mingling with the dust.
He didn’t speak for a few minutes, taking time to shuffle his papers and look from their words to my face a few times. He started by reading my full name, and commented how my birthday was coming up in a few months. I corrected my posture and nodded. And then it began.
The meeting took forty-five minutes. When we finally left his office, my legs felt numb and my neck stiff from having provided details of my sex and sexuality that should only ever be disclosed in an environment of love and care.
As soon as Gene and I exited the courthouse, the warm glow of the sun again hit my skin; it reminded me of a shirt I had when I was little with Sun-Kissed in California printed across it. I thought of my mom and let myself realize how much I missed her, and for the first time understood the struggle that comes with feeling your life is out of your control.
“The hard part is over, now we just have to wait,” said Gene as we walked slowly down the stairs that lined the front of the courthouse.
We retraced my steps back to the park where I had been sitting before, taking solace on a bench adjacent to the one I had chosen an hour earlier. Now there were a few groups of children at the playground and pigeons were swooping around trying to grab leftover lunch crumbs. I looked intently at the bench, seeing a shadow of myself sitting there and wishing I could warn myself to answer a question differently, to fix the hairpin that fell out halfway through the meeting and made me stumble over my response. But I wasn’t there anymore, and I couldn’t go back—all I could do was wait.
We talked for a while about what would come next, when we would meet at her office on Monday morning to look over the papers Judge Michaels will hopefully have sent over by then. She asked me what time I needed to leave for my appointment to make sure I didn’t miss the bus to San Antonio. I had two days before I would find out if Judge Michaels had approved my judicial bypass or if I was going to have to start reimagining my future again.
~ ~ ~
Saturday came and went, and I’d hardly noticed. Sunday my dad spent the day at home with me, discouraged and apathetic about news from the doctors that, despite my mom’s health improvements, they didn’t think she was strong enough to leave yet. She’d been sober for nearly a month. Her liver was healing. But it was too risky still.
“A few more weeks they think,” he told me.
Evening came and I cried quietly to myself as I fell asleep—regardless of Judge Michaels’s decision, but I knew I would make the bus trip to San Antonio either way.
~ ~ ~
Morning came with a flash of light breaking through my open window. It was just after six o’clock, so I stayed in bed watching the colors in the sky shift behind the illuminating cloud clusters outside the window. The birds were singing to each other, and I could hear my dad tiptoeing through the kitchen to grab the paper from the front step.
My appointment at the San Antonio Women’s Clinic wasn’t until two o’clock, but because of the three-and-a-half-hour bus ride it takes to get there, I needed to be on the 10:30 a.m. commuter bus, hopefully arriving with time to spare. Gene told me to meet her at her office at 9:00 a.m. to go over paperwork from Judge Michaels.
I took the same route to her office as I had the week before. I had my JanSport pulled over my shoulder, its contents jumbling and reminding me with alternating crunching sounds that I’d forgotten to throw away the bag of stale pretzels. I also had a change of clothes and the money for my bus ticket stashed away inside.
When I found myself standing outside of the Stowfield Legal Aid Office, staring intently at the front door, I could hardly manage to convince myself to turn the doorknob. I had a headache and the sun reflecting in the mirrored glass door blinded me so, this time, I couldn’t recognize myself in its reflection. I opened the door and stepped inside.
The air in the waiting room had the stale smell of having been locked up all weekend. And the room felt much darker than before. I noticed a few rows of fluorescent lights on the right side of the room were off. Maybe someone had forgotten to turn them on. Maybe they were broken. But there was the darkness. I moved toward the check-in desk where the rosy-cheeked receptionist had been replaced by a man with graying hair. I took my seat to wait for Gene.
At 9:05 a.m., the man went into the back and didn’t return. The phone rang until the voicemail machine clicked on, leaving the room silent except for the whisper of voices down the hall. The air conditioner clicked on with a tired groan in response.
A few minutes later, Gene appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, Mary—let’s head on back.” She smiled the kind of smile that people have on TV.
I followed her down the muddy, mossy carpet. Before we got into her office, she broke our silence. “So, I still haven’t heard anything …” She spoke slowly over her shoulder, glancing back at me. We were told to expect an answer by 8:30 a.m., which is why we scheduled our meeting for 9:00, to give Gene time to organize the paperwork.
As we entered her office she continued, “We requested an expedited decision, but it was never guaranteed …” Gene spoke slowly, sounding uncertain for the first time since I’d met her. She’d always been good at maintaining at least an outward sense of hopefulness. But now she seemed distracted.
“Could we just call him?” I suggested, sounding naïve even to myself.
But Gene had already followed up with him before I arrived and just got his voicemail. She said we should wait, that we didn't want to risk being too pushy. I caught her hint. But at this point, no response was the same as a negative response. If I missed the bus to San Antonio and had to reschedule, it would be too late.
“So, what do we do?” I asked as calmly as I could, trying to sound brave despite my obvious vulnerability.
“We could talk about a plan B if you’d like, just in case…. There is the option of requesting an appeal if Judge Michaels’s decision doesn’t go in our favor. I know it complicates your plans, but there are options. Just in case, of course.” The way Gene said “Just in case” made me want to vomit.
Panic started to rush across my skin as a chill, and then Gene’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and quickly pressed a combination of numbers that sent the call to the fax machine across the room. Slowly, it started churning, warming up, and then printing. Five sheets of warm paper slipped out facedown into the tray. Gene and I watched and waited for the final sound of its finishing, signaling to us it was time.
The fax machine sat on a table to my right, closer to me than to Gene. I looked back to her and then to the machine and reached for the papers. I didn’t dare turn them over and instead tried to find comfort in the warm crispness of the sheets between my fingers.
I handed them to Gene, and she straightened them on her desk, tapping them three, four times. I knew she felt my eyes on her, searching her face for any hint of the answer. She’d done this before; she was a professional and had the poker face to prove it. I saw nothing as she shifted the sheets over one another, delicately consuming the details.
As she looked up from the last page and settled the papers into a pile on her desk, I could feel the room shift. The darkness from the waiting room seemed to seep into the office through the cracks in the doorway. I couldn’t breathe. My body felt like it was disappearing.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” Gene spoke slowly. “He said the evidence wasn’t strong enough to approve the bypass without parental notification.”
I was waiting to hear what she would say next, what plan she had that would get me on that bus with the paperwork I needed in less than an hour. But she didn't say anything.
“Our best bet now is to ask for an appeal … or to talk about your other options,” Gene spoke simply, having regained her confident composure by burying the sinking feeling of disappointment somewhere deep inside of her.
I couldn’t focus on anything she was saying—my body was an explosion of nerves, and I felt like I was floating, as if I weren’t real and this was just a dream I knew I wouldn’t be waking up from. She continued to speak, but her voice became background noise.
Gene could see the panic on my face and handed me a tissue thinking I would cry, but I knew I couldn’t. She asked what I’d like to do, but I just shook my head and stared at the carpet.
“Look, let’s meet tomorrow—we’ve done all we can today. Take the afternoon to gather your thoughts. We will figure this out.” Gene’s composure was convincing but didn’t help.
As I left Gene’s office and stepped outside, I felt the sun envelop my skin and caress my flushed cheeks. It felt familiar, comforting. But even under the sun, my skin no longer felt like my own. My body didn’t belong to me anymore, and I was starting to feel as if it never did.
As I walked, my mind kept trying to find other options, to double back on old plans that maybe I hadn’t fully thought through. But every idea led me to a dead end. Every path seemed blocked. I pulled my backpack higher onto my shoulder and paused beneath the shade of a tree, not knowing which way to go. Looking around, I could see the plaza and the playground. I could see the road that led home where my dad was waiting. I could see a bench a few yards ahead, sitting empty beneath a rusted overhang, where the bus to San Antonio would be passing through in a little less than an hour.
“I have to try,” I whispered to myself as my feet began carrying me, numb and uncertain, toward the bus stop.
