“Agatha, I need to be sure that you’re not being pressured or rushed into making this decision. It’s important that you’re sure. You’re safe here. Nobody can hurt you. Was it your decision to come here?”
“My parents want this.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Agatha, there are rules about terminations. Unless you give me the right reasons, it cannot happen.”
“What reasons?”
“I can’t put those words in your mouth.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you considered giving the baby up for adoption?”
“Is that possible?”
“Yes. My advice is to talk to your parents. They might be disappointed, but I’m sure they love you and will support whatever decision you make.”
We walked in silence back to my stepfather’s car. He held the door open for me. As I passed him, he slapped me in the face. Pain washed up and down in my eyes. He raised his hand but didn’t hit me again.
*
I put on forty-eight pounds during the pregnancy and haven’t worn a bikini since. At school I sat by myself like a leper whose condition might be infectious. It didn’t matter that other girls were having sex—I was having a baby.
One lunch hour I arrived at the canteen to find that every girl had shoved a jumper up her blouse and was standing in the queue, backs arched and legs bowed, waddling forward to collect her tray. The boys were laughing and hooting, enjoying the spectacle. Keeping my head down, I ate my food, determined not to cry. Afterwards I walked home through flurries of snow that made me miss Elijah because he loved the snow. He was lucky to be dead, I thought, because he didn’t have to experience such cruelty.
I stopped going to school and stayed home for the last two months, watching TV and eating too much, waiting for my baby to be born. I didn’t go to meetings at Kingdom Hall and I didn’t talk to my stepfather. My mother acted as though everything were normal, ignoring my pregnancy and treating me like a child.
My water broke in the middle of the night and I was taken to a maternity hospital. My voice, strangely detached, roared and groaned and whimpered for twelve hours as my baby fought to come out and my body fought to keep it inside.
She was born at 2:24 p.m. on March 24, weighing five pounds, nine ounces. The midwife put her on my stomach while she cut the cord. Such a tiny baby, with a wrinkled, mucky face and fine wispy hair. Her eyes were closed in concentration, as though she were making a wish.
I studied every feature of her, every wrinkle, curve, hollow, and hue. The rise and fall of her chest. The curling of her fingers. The softness of her skin. Her smell, her touch, her warmth, her beauty. I imprinted her onto my brain, creating a template that is just as vivid today.
The adoptive parents were waiting outside. I had met them once for a few minutes. They were awkward and nervous, but seemed nice enough. A social worker came to my bedside. “I’m here to collect her,” she said, not making eye contact with me.
All through the pregnancy I had refused to envision this moment, forcing it out of my mind, telling myself I was doing the right thing. Now everything changed. I had created a tiny, fragile, perfect human being—someone who belonged to me, my flesh and blood, my baby, who would love me and I would love her back.
“I’m not giving her away,” I whispered.
My mother answered. “You can’t do that, Aggy.”
“Why? She’s mine.”
“You signed a paper.”
“Tear it up.”
The social worker reached for the baby.
I tightened my grip. “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t take her! She’s mine!”
“I don’t want to get physical,” the social worker said, grabbing at my wrists. I kicked at her. She cursed.
Two male orderlies held me down, peeling back my fingers and forcing my arms down, pulling my baby away. My mother hugged me. I fought against her arms. I cried. I begged.
“Please, please, give her back!”
The social worker carried my baby away, while I went on screaming. I screamed to wake the sleeping and rattle the air and lift birds from the trees. I screamed for someone—anyone—to help me, but nobody came, nobody listened. A needle slid into my arm. My brain grew foggy.
I will never forgive my mother for what she did. Mr. Bowler may have robbed me of my childhood, but my mother and stepfather stole my future. Two weeks later, I ran away from home. They brought me back. I ran away again. A series of foster homes followed.
When I turned eighteen I asked the adoption agency about my daughter. That’s when I discovered my mother’s ultimate act of betrayal. She had tricked me into signing a document saying that I would seek no future contact with my child. With one flick of the pen, in my childish handwriting, I had condemned myself to a lifetime of wondering. Wondering if I did the right thing. Wondering if she’s happy. Wondering if she ever thinks of me.
Every mother who gives up a baby has these questions, but for me they echo loudest because I have no other children to ease the pain. My daughter will be twenty-three now. She could be at university. She could live a few streets away. She could be strolling down King’s Road in Chelsea, hips swinging and handbag swaying, checking her reflection in the shop windows.
I have no legal right to search for her, but now that she’s over eighteen my daughter can look for me. That is my hope, my dream, my prayer to the God who turned his back on me. I hope that one day I will open the door and she will be standing on the step. I will tell her that I didn’t abandon her and that I have loved and cherished her for twenty-two years. My daughter . . . my first child . . . the one who survived . . .
MEGHAN
* * *
Simon has left me a dozen text messages, all of them the same. He wants to see me. I’ve turned off my mobile and chosen to ignore him. In the meantime, I try to cheer myself up with some retail therapy.
John Lewis has a babywear and nursery department on the third floor, as well as a maternity section and gift service. My “fashion adviser,” Caitlin, is annoyingly perky and clearly has never had a muffin, let alone a baby. I let her show me outfits and sell me spa treatments. One particular dress catches my eye. It’s black and elegant and I have nothing in my wardrobe even half as beautiful.
“Sadly, we don’t have it in your size,” says Caitlin.
I don’t like her tone. I don’t like her skinny waist and her flat stomach and her high cheekbones. I take the black dress and head for the changing rooms, where I strip down to my bra and maternity knickers. Unzipping the black dress, I lift it over my head. The layers of silk begin to slide over my shoulders and then they don’t. I tug, squirm and pull, slowly working the dress down over my breasts and my bump.
I look at myself in the mirror. It’s horrible! The once sleek dress balloons out from under my bust like an empire-waist ball gown. Pop a bonnet on my head and I could audition for Pride and Prejudice—The Mourning Years.