Choice Words Page 3

  FIRST RESPONSE

  Desiree Cooper

  The moment we read the stick, some of us buckled on the bathroom floor. Having only bled once, we thought it was impossible. Having bled forever, we shook our graying heads and thought, “This is no miracle.” Susan, who at fourteen still slept with her favorite doll, bit back the tears and started packing her bags. We knew our mothers would not believe us. Abby bought a ticket to New York to secretly take care of it.

  We locked ourselves in the bathroom sobbing while the kids banged on the door: “Mommy, please come out.” For some of us, three healthy children were enough. For others, a special-needs child was one too many. One day, we would have many children. One day, decades later, we would still be child free.

  The ultrasound technician drew in a deep breath and did not let it out. We feared a perfect baby. Undecided, we waited too long. Decisive, we were instantly clear about what to do. We were happy about it until we weren’t.

  We borrowed cash from our friends so that it wouldn’t show on the insurance bill. We had no insurance. We had insurance, but the D & C was covered only for miscarriages. Brittany’s college roommates threw her a “baby shower” with vodka served in sippy cups. Our aunts said, “You’re lucky you won’t be butchered in someone’s basement like I was.”

  Lynne was dropped off by her stepfather, along with her suitcase and her cat. We called in sick at the firm even though it was tax season. Mary’s boyfriend slapped her and pushed her out of the car. “You better have dinner ready tonight. And your fat ass better not still be pregnant.”

  The bus. A cab. The heat. A bike. The snow. The traffic. We were late, but we made it. We were two hours early because we couldn’t sit at home alone.

  In the waiting room, we would not return a gaze. Our men held us tightly. Jan nervously fiddled with a ring from her make-believe fiancé. We were by ourselves and puffy-faced. Diane was already showing—every time, she seemed to show a few weeks earlier. One couple argued with the receptionist. They had driven from another state, but didn’t know about the twenty-four-hour waiting period. Some of us let the tears river while others slumped in pink chairs and listened to our iPods. We were horrified to be with these people. Full of shame, we fingered a rosary. Full of anger, we cursed God.

  “Relax,” the kind nurse held our hands as the doctor readied. “You’re going to be fine.”

  We wondered if anything would be fine again. Annie quaked; the doctor took off his mask and said, “I’m not doing this. You’re not ready.” We listened to the vacuum. We didn’t know what hit us. When the room went silent, we rose up in wonder; it had been so easy. The nausea was over at last. For Kita, the nausea from the chemo would go on. We wondered if we would ever forgive ourselves. We didn’t need anybody’s forgiveness.

  Every recliner in the recovery room was full. It was over; we looked up. Many smiled compassionately. Some felt theirs was the only good reason. Liz, who still had three AP exams, didn’t know who she was anymore. We wanted to hold hands. We wanted to get the hell away from these losers. We wanted to cocoon in our beds. We longed for our mothers.

  Some lovers promised: “We’ll try again when I get a job.” Cindy wouldn’t have to cancel her Paris vacation. Carrie forgot to ask if she could hustle that night. We realized how much our husbands loved us. Jenna had to wait until child protective services came to pick her up. We were relieved that our grandchildren wouldn’t see our swelling stomachs.

  Joyce didn’t have sex until she was married eight years later. Trish went back to work like nothing ever happened. We made a donation every anniversary. We were pregnant with memory for the rest of our lives. We never thought about it again.

  FROM THE WOMEN OF BREWSTER PLACE

  Gloria Naylor

  I lost my job today,” he shot at her, as if she had been the cause.

  The water was turning cloudy in the rice pot, and the force of the stream from the faucet caused scummy bubbles to rise to the surface. These broke and sprayed tiny, starchy particles onto the dirty surface. Each bubble that broke seemed to increase the volume of the dogged whispers she had been ignoring for the last few months. She poured the dirty water off the rice to destroy and silence them, then watched with a malicious joy as they disappeared down the drain.

  “So now, how in hell I’m gonna make it with no money, huh? And another brat comin’ here, huh?”

  The second change of water was slightly clearer, but the starch-speckled bubbles were still there, and this time there was no way to pretend deafness to their message. She had stood at that sink countless times before, washing rice, and she knew the water was never going to be totally clear. She couldn’t stand there forever—her fingers were getting cold, and the rest of the dinner had to be fixed, and Serena would be waking up soon and wanting attention. Feverishly she poured the water off and tried again.

  “I’m fuckin’ sick of never getting ahead. Babies and bills, that’s all you good for.”

  The bubbles were almost transparent now, but when they broke they left light trails of starch on top of the water that curled around her fingers. She knew it would be useless to try again. Defeated, Ciel placed the wet pot on the burner, and the flames leaped up bright red and orange, turning the water droplets clinging on the outside into steam.

  Turning to him, she silently acquiesced. “All right, Eugene, what do you want me to do?”

  He wasn’t going to let her off so easily. “Hey, baby, look, I don’t care what you do. I just can’t have all these hassles on me right now, ya know?”

  “I’ll get a job. I don’t mind, but I’ve got no one to keep Serena, and you don’t want Mattie watching her.”

  “Mattie—no way. That fat bitch’ll turn the kid against me. She hates my ass, and you know it.”

  “No, she doesn’t, Eugene.” Ciel remembered throwing that at Mattie once. “You hate him, don’t you?” “Naw, honey,” and she had cupped both hands on Ciel’s face. “Maybe I just loves you too much.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you say—she ain’t minding my kid.”

  “Well, look, after the baby comes, they can tie my tubes—I don’t care.” She swallowed hard to keep down the lie.

  “And what the hell we gonna feed it when it gets here, huh—air? With two kids and you on my back, I ain’t never gonna have nothin’.” He came and grabbed her by the shoulders and was shouting into her face. “Nothin’, do you hear me, nothin’!”

  “Nothing to it, Mrs. Turner.” The face over hers was as calm and antiseptic as the room she lay in.

  “Please, relax. I’m going to give you a local anesthetic and then perform a simple D & C, or what you’d call a scraping to clean out the uterus. Then you’ll rest here for about an hour and be on your way. There won’t even be much bleeding.” The voice droned on in its practiced monologue, peppered with sterile kindness.

  Ciel was not listening. It was important that she keep herself completely isolated from these surroundings. All the activities of the past week of her life were balled up and jammed on the right side of her brain, as if belonging to another woman. And when she had endured this one last thing for her, she would push it up there, too, and then one day give it all to her—Ciel wanted no part of it.

  The next few days Ciel found it difficult to connect herself up again with her own world. Everything seemed to have taken on new textures and colors. When she washed the dishes, the plates felt peculiar in her hands, and she was more conscious of their smoothness and the heat of the water. There was a disturbing split second between someone talking to her and the words penetrating sufficiently to elicit a response. Her neighbors left her presence with a slight frown of puzzlement, and Eugene could be heard mumbling, “Moody bitch.”

  She became terribly possessive of Serena. She refused to leave her alone, even with Eugene. The little girl went everywhere with Ciel, toddling along on plump, uncertain legs. When someone asked to hold or play with her, Ciel sat nearby, watching every move. She found hersel
f walking into the bedroom several times when the child napped to see if she was still breathing. Each time she chided herself for this unreasonable foolishness, but within the next few minutes some strange force still drove her back.

  MOTHERHOOD

  Georgia Douglas Johnson

  Don’t knock on my door, little child,

  I cannot let you in,

  You know not what a world this is

  Of cruelty and sin.

  Wait in the still eternity

  Until I come to you.

  The world is cruel, cruel, child,

  I cannot let you in!

  Don’t knock at my heart, little one,

  I cannot bear the pain

  Of turning deaf ears to your call,

  Time and time again.

  You do not know the monster men

  Inhabiting the earth.

  Be still, be still, my precious child,

  I cannot give you birth!

  (AMBER)

  Debra Bruce

  A girl holds her baby on a hint of hip.

  She’d never known that word before—injunction—

  until the lady outside the clinic stepped

  as carefully as counting and did not come

  too close or shout, but she spoke to the core

  of the girl going in, whose name she didn’t know,

  (Amber)—volunteers in pink at the door.

  Then Amber—just a few more steps to go—

  walked away. Now she yanks a pillow

  under her boyfriend’s head—didn’t he promise

  he’d babysit although it’s not even his,

  until he gets a job? And then the girl,

  just like the lady said, will find a way.

  She hasn’t seen the lady since that day.

  FROM THE KITCHEN GOD’S WIFE

  Amy Tan

  One day, perhaps six months after Yiku had been born, the servant girl came to me, telling me she had to leave. She was fourteen years old, a small girl, always obedient, so Hulan had no reason to scold her. When I asked why she wanted to leave, she excused herself and said she was not a good enough worker.

  That was the Chinese way, to use yourself as an excuse, to say you are unworthy, when really you mean you are worth more. I could guess why she was unhappy. Over the last few months, Hulan had started asking the girl to do lots of little tasks that turned into big ones. And that poor girl, who never knew how to refuse anyone, soon had twice as much work for the same amount of money I paid her.

  I did not want to lose her. So I told her, “You are an excellent servant, never lazy, deserving of even more money, I think.”

  She shook her head. She insisted she was unworthy. I said, “I have praised you often, don’t you remember?”

  She nodded.

  And then I thought maybe Hulan had been treating her in a mean way, scolding her behind my back, and now this girl couldn’t take it anymore. Oh, I was mad! “Has someone else been causing you problems?” I said to the girl. “Someone is giving you trouble, am I right? Don’t be afraid, tell me.”

  She began to cry, nodding her head without looking at me.

  “Someone is making it hard for you to work here? Is this so?”

  She nodded again, more tears. And then she told me who. “Tai-tai, he is not well, very sick. I know this. So I am not blaming your husband.”

  “Blame? What is your meaning for bringing up this word?” I said. It was summertime, but a chill rushed over my body and I ordered the girl to speak. I listened from a faraway place as the servant girl begged me to forgive her, slapped her own face twice, and confessed she was the one who was wrong. She said she was the one who was weak for letting him touch her. She cried and prayed for me to not say anything to my husband.

  And now I don’t remember exactly how I got all her words out, how I pulled them out, one by one. But that afternoon I found out that my husband had started to put his hands on her while I was in the hospital, that she had struggled each time, and each time he had raped her. She did not say “rape,” of course. A girl that young and innocent, how could she know such a word? She knew only how to blame herself.

  I had to ask her many times: The bruise on her face that she claimed was her own clumsiness—was that the time he had tried once before? The times she claimed to be ill, always in the morning—was that after it happened?

  Each time the girl confessed something, she cried and slapped her own face. I finally told her to stop hitting herself. I patted her arm and told her I would settle this problem for her.

  Her face became scared. “What will you do, tai-tai?”

  I said, “This is not your worry anymore.” And then I felt so tired and confused I went upstairs to Yiku’s room. I sat in a chair and watched my baby daughter sleeping, so peaceful in her bed.

  What an evil man! How could I have known such an evil man existed on this earth! Last year’s accident had taught him nothing!

  And then I thought, “What will people think when they find out? What will they think of me—if I take sides against my husband and defend a servant girl instead?” I imagined Hulan scolding me, accusing me of seeing only the worst in everything and everybody. I saw others criticizing me for not managing my house better. I could imagine people laughing—a husband who chases after a servant girl because his own wife is not enough—the classic old story!

  And then I thought to myself, “What he did was wrong, maybe it was a crime, but not a big one. Many men did those kinds of things with servants. And who would believe a servant girl?” My husband would say she lied, of course he would. He would claim that the girl seduced him, a big hero. Or he would say she had already slept with many pilots. He could say anything.

  And what would I gain by accusing my husband? I would get a big fight from him in return, pitiful looks from Hulan and Jiaguo, all that shame. So what would it matter if I tried to help that girl? What would I gain? Only trouble in my own bed. And then what would I lose? I could not even begin to imagine that.

  I sat down and remembered a saying Old Aunt used to tell me whenever I complained that I had been wrongly accused: “Don’t strike a flea on a tiger’s head.” Don’t settle one trouble only to make a bigger one.

  So I decided to say nothing, do nothing. I made myself blind. I made myself deaf. I let myself become just like Hulan and Jiaguo, that time they said nothing when Wen Fu slapped me.

  I gave the servant girl three months’ wages. I wrote her a good recommendation. She went away, I don’t know where. I think she was grateful she could quietly leave. And when Wen Fu asked two days later where the servant girl was, I said, “That girl? Oh, she got an offer from her mother to marry a village boy. So I sent her home.”

  Several weeks later I heard the servant girl was dead. Hulan told me while I was nursing Yiku. She said the girl had gone to someone else’s house to work. And one morning, after the girl knew she was pregnant, she used the old country way. She took a piece of straw from a broom, poked her womb until she began to bleed, but the bleeding never stopped.

  “So stupid to use a piece of straw like that,” said Hulan. “And the family who took her in—oyo!—so mad that she brought a ghost on them. Lucky for us she didn’t die in our house.”

  While Hulan talked, I felt strange, as if I were feeling that slap to my face all over again, everyone in the room looking down on me, saying this was my fault. I could see that girl lying on the floor, her blood spilled all around, people lamenting only that she had left a big mess behind.

  Of course, Hulan didn’t know it was Wen Fu who got that girl in trouble. Or maybe she knew and wasn’t saying anything. Still, how could she think this way! Criticizing a helpless servant girl, congratulating us for being rid of her before she turned into a ghost. Why was she not thinking of her own sister, the one who died almost the same way? And I was just as bad, because I had become almost like Hulan: no sympathy, only relief that I had avoided troubles for myself.

  After Hulan left, I pi
cked up Yiku and went upstairs. I told her, “Don’t be like me. You see how helpless I am. Don’t be like me.”

  When Wen Fu came home that night, I showed him my anger for the first time. I had waited until after the evening meal, after late rounds of tea and card games, gossip and laughter. “That little servant girl, you remember her,” I said when we were up in our room. “Today she died.”

  Wen Fu was taking his shoes off. “My slippers, where are they?”

  I could hear Hulan and Jiaguo, still talking downstairs in the kitchen. I closed the door to our room. I repeated what I had said, louder this time. “The servant girl is dead.” And when he continued to ask for his slippers, I added, “She died trying to get rid of your baby, you fool!”

  He stood up. “What’s your meaning? Whose lies have you been listening to?” he said. He leaned toward me, staring, one eye droopy, the other large and wide open. I did not look down. I stared back at him, so strong. I had a new feeling, like having a secret weapon.

  And suddenly—whang!—he knocked over a chair. He cursed. He was shouting at me. “Who are you to accuse me?”

  Yiku was now crying in the next room, a scared kind of crying. I started to go toward her room, but Wen Fu shouted for me to stop. I did not listen, and I went to her and saw she was standing up in her crib, reaching with one arm to be comforted. I picked her up and soothed her. Wen Fu followed me, still shouting, knocking things over, but I was not afraid. This time he did not scare me. I put Yiku back in her crib.

  “I know what happened!” I shouted back. “You pushed that girl down, ruined her life, who knows how many others. And now I’m telling you, you do your dirty business somewhere else. In the streets, I don’t care, only not in my bed anymore.”

  He raised his fist. I did not look away or cover myself. “Hit me, I still won’t change!” I shouted. “Hero, big hero! The only one you can scare is a baby.”

  He looked surprised. He looked toward Yiku standing behind me in her crib. She was crying hard. He put his hand down. He walked over to the crib very fast. And I thought he was sorry that he had made her cry. I thought he was going to pick her up and say he was sorry. And then, before I could even think to stop him, he slapped her—kwah!—hit her hard on the face, so hard half of her face turned red. “Quiet!” he shouted.