Choice Words Page 16

Veiled for so long it is impossible to bare the truth.

  You remember it well, but no one else does,

  Because no one else knew about the weekend

  You spent holed up in an old hovel of a clinic

  While blood, hope, and the whisper of a life flowed away.

  Now no one would believe it. It doesn’t fit

  The frame of the flawless family picture. It’s easier

  To forget, pretend, and propagate the family lore.

  You hate to disturb other people’s dreams, always

  Altering your own narrative to fit theirs, to bury

  Your hurts and deny your suffering, and simply

  Carry the elephant of guilt on your shoulder until

  Your heart is buried too deep to pulse with life.

  SHE DID NOT TELL HER MOTHER (A FOUND POEM)1

  Kenyan Teenagers and Annie Finch

  “Are there young girls who have died during abortion?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “She took the medicine, but she did not tell her mother. She started crying at night. Her mother gave her painkillers, and she died.”

  “A woman used a stick to perforate the amniotic fluid…. She inserted the stick and rotated it like this … the placenta came [out], but the girl died.”

  “She did not tell her mother. She started crying at night. Her mother gave her painkillers.”

  “There is a lady who was trying to help her daughter abort, so she took three different types of trees, mixed them and mashed them, and then mixed [it] with water, and gave it to her daughter … and the girl died.”

  “She started crying at night. Her mother gave her painkillers.”

  “My roommate, last year in January, left school. It was an old woman in the village who advised her on the method she used. After she used it, she bled and bled until she died.”

  “We don’t have anywhere to go for help.”

  “She did not tell her mother. She started crying at night.”

  “She did not tell her mother. She started crying at night.”

  THE LADY WITH THE LAMP

  Dorothy Parker

  Well, Mona! Well, you poor sick thing, you! Ah, you look so little and white and little, you do, lying there in that great big bed. That’s what you do—go and look so childlike and pitiful nobody’d have the heart to scold you. And I ought to scold you, Mona. Oh, yes, I should so, too. Never letting me know you were ill. Never a word to your oldest friend. Darling, you might have known I’d understand, no matter what you did. What do I mean? Well, what do you mean what do I mean, Mona? Of course, if you’d rather not talk about—Not even to your oldest friend. All I wanted to say was you might have known that I’m always for you, no matter what happens. I do admit, sometimes it’s a little hard for me to understand how on earth you ever got into such—well. Goodness knows I don’t want to nag you now, when you’re so sick.

  All right, Mona, then you’re not sick. If that’s what you want to say, even to me, why, all right, my dear. People who aren’t sick have to stay in bed for nearly two weeks, I suppose; I suppose people who aren’t sick look the way you do. Just your nerves? You were simply all tired out? I see. It’s just your nerves. You were simply tired. Yes. Oh, Mona, Mona, why don’t you feel you can trust me?

  Well—if that’s the way you want to be to me, that’s the way you want to be. I won’t say anything more about it. Only I do think you might have let me know that you had—well, that you were so tired, if that’s what you want me to say. Why, I’d never have known a word about it if I hadn’t run bang into Alice Patterson and she told me she’d called you up and that maid of yours said you had been sick in bed for ten days. Of course, I’d thought it rather funny I hadn’t heard from you, but you know how you are—you simply let people go, and weeks can go by like, well, like weeks, and never a sign from you. Why, I could have been dead over and over again, for all you’d know. Twenty times over. Now, I’m not going to scold you when you’re sick, but frankly and honestly, Mona, I said to myself this time, “Well, she’ll have a good wait before I call her up. I’ve given in often enough, goodness knows. Now she can just call me first.” Frankly and honestly, that’s what I said!

  And then I saw Alice, and I did feel mean, I really did. And now to see you lying there—well, I feel like a complete dog. That’s what you do to people even when you’re in the wrong the way you always are, you wicked little thing, you! Ah, the poor dear! Feels just so awful, doesn’t it?

  Oh, don’t keep trying to be brave, child. Not with me. Just give in—it helps so much. Just tell me all about it. You know I’ll never say a word. Or at least you ought to know. When Alice told me that maid of yours said you were all tired out and your nerves had gone bad, I naturally never said anything, but I thought to myself, “Well, maybe that’s the only thing Mona could say was the matter. That’s probably about the best excuse she could think of.” And, of course, I’ll never deny it—but perhaps it might have been better to have said you had influenza or ptomaine poisoning. After all, people don’t stay in bed for ten whole days just because they’re nervous. All right, Mona, then they do. Then they do. Yes, dear.

  Ah, to think of you going through all this and crawling off here all alone like a little wounded animal or something. And with only that colored Edie to take care of you. Darling, oughtn’t you have a trained nurse, I mean really oughtn’t you? There must be so many things that have to be done for you. Why, Mona! Mona, please! Dear, you don’t have to get so excited. Very well, my dear, it’s just as you say—there isn’t a single thing to be done. I was mistaken, that’s all. I simply thought that after—Oh, now, you don’t have to do that. You never have to say you’re sorry, to me. I understand. As a matter of fact, I was glad to hear you lose your temper. It’s a good sign when sick people are cross. It means they’re on the way to getting better. Oh, I know! You go right ahead and be cross all you want to.

  Look, where shall I sit? I want to sit some place where you won’t have to turn around, so you can talk to me. You stay right the way you’re lying, and I’ll—Because you shouldn’t move around, I’m sure. It must be terribly bad for you. All right, dear, you can move around all you want to. All right, I must be crazy. I’m crazy, then. We’ll leave it like that. Only please, please don’t excite yourself that way.

  I’ll just get this chair and put it over—oops, I’m sorry I joggled the bed—put it over here, where you can see me. There. But first I want to fix your pillows before I get settled. Well, they certainly are not all right, Mona. After the way you’ve been twisting them and pulling them, these last few minutes. Now look, honey, I’ll help you raise yourself ve-ry, ve-ry slo-o-ow-ly. Oh. Of course, you can sit up by yourself, dear. Of course, you can. Nobody ever said you couldn’t. Nobody ever thought of such a thing. There now, your pillows are all smooth and lovely, and you lie right down again, before you hurt yourself. Now, isn’t that better? Well, I should think it was!

  Just a minute, till I get my sewing. Oh, yes, I brought it along, so we’d be all cozy. Do you honestly, frankly and honestly, think it’s pretty? I’m so glad. It’s nothing but a tray-cloth, you know. But you simply can’t have too many. They’re a lot of fun to make, too, doing this edge—it goes so quickly. Oh, Mona dear, so often I think if you just had a home of your own, and could be all busy, making pretty little things like this for it, it would do so much for you. I worry so about you, living in a little furnished apartment, with nothing that belongs to you, no roots, no nothing. It’s not right for a woman. It’s all wrong for a woman like you. Oh, I wish you’d get over that Garry McVicker! If you could just meet some nice, sweet, considerate man, and get married to him, and have your own lovely place—and with your taste, Mona!—and maybe have a couple of children. You’re so simply adorable with children. Why, Mona Morrison, are you crying? Oh, you’ve got a cold? You’ve got a cold, too? I thought you were crying, there for a second. Don’t you want my handkerchief, lamb? Oh, you ha
ve yours. Wouldn’t you have a pink chiffon handkerchief, you nut! Why on earth don’t you use cleansing tissues, just lying there in bed with no one to see you? You little idiot, you! Extravagant little fool!

  No, but really, I’m serious. I’ve said to Fred so often, “Oh, if we could just get Mona married!” Honestly, you don’t know the feeling it gives you, just to be all secure and safe with your own sweet home and your own blessed children, and your own nice husband coming back to you every night. That’s a woman’s life, Mona. What you’ve been doing is really horrible. Just drifting along, that’s all. What’s going to happen to you, dear, whatever is going to become of you? But no—you don’t even think of it. You go, and go falling in love with that Garry. Well, my dear, you’ve got to give me credit—I said from the very first, “He’ll never marry her.” You know that. What? There was never any thought of marriage, with you and Garry? Oh, Mona, now listen! Every woman on earth thinks of marriage as soon as she’s in love with a man. Every woman, I don’t care who she is.

  Oh, if you were only married! It would be all the difference in the world. I think a child would do everything for you, Mona. Goodness knows, I just can’t speak decently to that Garry, after the way he’s treated you—well, you know perfectly well, none of your friends can—but I can frankly and honestly say, if he married you, I’d absolutely let bygones be bygones, and I’d be just as happy as happy, for you. If he’s what you want. And I will say, what with your lovely looks and what with good-looking as he is, you ought to have simply gorgeous children. Mona, baby, you really have got a rotten cold, haven’t you? Don’t you want me to get you another handkerchief? Really?

  I’m simply sick that I didn’t bring you any flowers. But I thought the place would be full of them. Well, I’ll stop on the way home and send you some. It looks too dreary here, without a flower in the room. Didn’t Garry send you any? Oh, he didn’t know you were sick. Well, doesn’t he send you flowers anyway? Listen, hasn’t he called up, all this time, and found out whether you were sick or not? Not in ten days? Well, then haven’t you called him and told him? Ah, now, Mona, there is this thing as being too much of a heroine. Let him worry a little, dear. It would be a very good thing for him. Maybe that’s the trouble—you’ve always taken all the worry for both of you. Hasn’t sent any flowers! Hasn’t even telephoned! Well, I’d just like to talk to that young man for a few minutes. After all, this is all his responsibility.

  He’s away? He’s what? Oh, he went to Chicago two weeks ago. Well, seems to me I’d always heard that there were telephone wires running between here and Chicago, but of course—And you’d think since he’s been back, the least he could do would be to do something. He’s not back yet? He’s not back yet? Mona, what are you trying to tell me? Why, just night before last—Said he’d let you know the minute he got home? Of all the rotten, low things I ever heard in my life, this is really the—Mona, dear, please lie down. Please. Why, I didn’t mean anything. I don’t know what I was going to say, honestly I don’t, it couldn’t have been anything. For goodness’ sake, let’s talk about something else.

  Let’s see. Oh, you really ought to see Julia Post’s living room, the way she’s done it now. She has brown walls—not beige, you know, or tan or anything, but brown—and these cream-colored taffeta curtains and—Mona, I tell you I absolutely don’t know what I was going to say before. It’s gone completely out of my head. So you see how unimportant it must have been. Dear, please just lie quiet and try to relax. Please forget about that man for a few minutes, anyway. No man’s worth getting that worked up about. Catch me doing it! You know you can’t expect to get well quickly, if you get yourself so excited. You know that.

  What doctor did you have, darling? Or don’t you want to say? Your own? Your own Doctor Britton? You don’t mean it! Well, I certainly never thought he’d do a thing like—Yes, dear, of course he’s a nerve specialist. Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, dear, of course you have perfect confidence in him. I only wish you would in me, once in a while, after we went to school together and everything. You might know I absolutely sympathize with you. I don’t see how you could possibly have done anything else. I know you’ve always talked about how you’d give anything to have a baby, but it would have been so terribly unfair to the child to bring it into the world without being married. You’d have had to go live abroad and never see anybody and—And even then, somebody would have been sure to have told it sometime. They always do. You did the only possible thing, I think. Mona, for heaven’s sake! Don’t scream like that. I’m not deaf, you know. All right, dear, all right, all right, all right. All right, of course I believe you. Naturally I take your word for anything. Anything you say. Only please do try to be quiet. Just lie back and rest, and have a nice talk.

  Ah, now don’t keep harping on that. I’ve told you a hundred times, if I’ve told you once, I wasn’t going to say anything at all. I tell you I don’t remember what I was going to say. “Night before last”? When did I mention “night before last”? I never said any such—Well. Maybe it’s better this way, Mona. The more I think of it, the more I think it’s much better for you to hear it from me. Because somebody’s bound to tell you. These things always come out. And I know you’d rather hear it from your oldest friend, wouldn’t you? And the good Lord knows, anything I could do to make you see what that man really is! Only do relax, darling. Just for me. Dear, Garry isn’t in Chicago. Fred and I saw him night before last at the Comet Club, dancing. And Alice saw him Tuesday night at El Rhumba. And I don’t know how many people have said they’ve seen him around at the theatre and night clubs and things. Why, he couldn’t have stayed in Chicago more than a day or so—if he went at all.

  Well, he was with her when we saw him, honey. Apparently, he’s with her all the time; nobody ever sees him with anyone else. You really must make up your mind to it, dear; it’s the only thing to do. I hear all over that he’s just simply pleading with her to marry him, but I don’t know how true that is. I’m sure I can’t see why he’d want to, but then you never can tell what a man like that will do. It would be just good enough for him if he got her, that’s what I say. Then he’d see. She’d never stand for any of his nonsense. She’d make him toe the mark. She’s a smart woman.

  But, oh, so ordinary. I thought, when we saw them the other night, “Well, she just looks cheap, that’s all she looks.” That must be what he likes, I suppose. I must admit he looked very well. I never saw him look better. Of course, you know what I think of him, but I always had to say he’s one of the handsomest men I ever saw in my life. I can understand how any woman would be attracted to him—at first. Until they found out what he’s really like. Oh, if you could have seen him with that awful, common creature, never once taking his eyes off her, and hanging on every word she said, as if it was pearls! It made me just—

  Mona, angel, are you crying? Now, darling, that’s just plain silly. That man’s not worth another thought. You’ve thought about him entirely too much, that’s the trouble. Three years! Three of the best years of your life you’ve given him, and all the time he’s been deceiving you with that woman. Just think back over what you’ve been through—all the times and times and times he promised you he’d give her up; and you, you poor little idiot, you’d believe him, and then he’d go right back to her again. And everybody knew about it. Think of that, and then try telling me that man’s worth crying over! Really, Mona! I’d have more pride.

  You know, I’m just glad this thing happened. I’m just glad you found out. This is a little too much, this time. In Chicago, indeed! Let you know the minute he came home! The kindest thing a person could possibly have done was to tell you, and bring you to your senses at last. I’m not sorry I did it, for a second. When I think of him out having the time of his life and you lying here deathly sick all on account of him, I could just—Yes, it is on account of him. Even if you didn’t have an—well, even if I was mistaken about what I naturally thought was the matter with you when you made such a secret of your ill
ness, he’s driven you into a nervous breakdown, and that’s plenty bad enough. All for that man! The skunk! You just put him right out of your head.

  Why, of course you can, Mona. All you need to do is to pull yourself together, child. Simply say to yourself, “Well, I’ve wasted three years of my life, and that’s that.” Never worry about him anymore. The Lord knows, darling, he’s not worrying about you.

  It’s just because you’re weak and sick that you’re worked up like this, dear. I know. But you’re going to be all right. You can make something of your life. You’ve got to, Mona, you know. Because after all—well, of course, you never looked sweeter, I don’t mean that; but you’re—well, you’re not getting any younger. And here you’ve been throwing away your time, never seeing your friends, never going out, never meeting anybody new, just sitting here waiting for Garry to telephone, or Garry to come in—if he didn’t have anything better to do. For three years, you’ve never had a thought in your head but that man. Now you just forget him.

  Ah, baby, it isn’t good for you to cry like that. Please don’t. He’s not even worth talking about. Look at the woman he’s in love with, and you’ll see what kind he is. You were much too good for him. You were much too sweet to him. You gave in too easily. The minute he had you, he didn’t want you anymore. That’s what he’s like. Why, he no more loved you than—

  Mona, don’t! Mona, stop it! Please, Mona! You mustn’t talk like that, you mustn’t say such things. You’ve got to stop crying, you’ll be terribly sick. Stop, oh, stop it, oh, please stop! Oh, what am I going to do with her? Mona, dear—Mona! Oh, where in heaven’s name is that fool maid?

  Edie, Oh, Edie! Edie, I think you’d better get Dr. Britton on the telephone, and tell him to come down and give Miss Morrison something to quiet her. I’m afraid she’s got herself a little bit upset.