Fear swirled as Phoebe imagined what lay ahead. Coldness overtook her. Jake slid in next to her. His shirt absorbed her dripping tears.
“We don’t have to go, Daddy.” Her words shook with her chills and chattering. “Please. Mommy can take care of me.”
Her mother swiveled from her husband to Phoebe. “Daddy’s right. I’m sorry, honey.”
Her father drove down Church Avenue until taking a sharp left turn when they reached Ocean Parkway.
“Where are you going?” her mother asked.
Blood leaked faster. How much before she died? Pain shot through her back.
“Coney Island Hospital,” said her father.
“Why not Margolis?” her mother asked, naming their family doctor. “You should have called him.”
“He’s not in his office at this hour and we certainly can’t wait until tomorrow when he’s there.”
“It’s a heavy period,” her mother insisted. “She needs extra pads, not a hospital.”
“Enough, Lola. Nobody in this car is stupid.” Her father stopped for a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as traffic sped across the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Hang on, sweetheart.”
Jake drew her closer. “I’m here for you. Always.”
Her mother muttered in the front seat. Phoebe caught one word: pig.
Moments after pulling up to the hospital emergency entrance, her father ran in and came out with two attendants wheeling a gurney. She clenched against screaming as they helped her on the stretcher, waves of cramps engulfing her. Jake’s hand scorched her icy one, but Phoebe kept squeezing.
They wheeled her into the bright, cold emergency room. She squeezed her eyes against searing lights as they rushed her to a curtained area. One nurse blocked Jake and her parents from entering the compartment. Two others peeled away the towels, skirt, and underwear in a mess of coagulated and fresh blood. Rusty stains covered her thighs. Wavy streaks of red lined her calves.
A doctor walked in and without preamble peppered her with questions. “What do we have here? When did this start? How far along are you?” His high forehead shone like the black stethoscope hanging around his neck.
“I—I don’t know. I never took a test.”
“Good God. You girls. How long since your last period?”
His face blurred. The nurse packed something between her legs, spread by the force of stirrups. An aluminum lamp hung down low to put a spotlight on her splayed body.
“I’m not sure,” she lied.
“Take an educated guess.”
The nurse repeated Phoebe’s whispered answer: “Two months.” Phoebe prayed her family and Jake had been hustled out of earshot.
“Is your husband here?” The doctor picked up her left hand, on which she wore her modest sweet sixteen ring: an amethyst stone set in silver.
“I’m not married.”
“Her family is in the waiting room, Doctor.” The nurse squeezed Phoebe’s ankle as she spoke.
The doctor stationed himself between her legs and then pulled away the packing, poking with a rubber-gloved finger as though testing for doneness. He examined the mess staining the cotton. Phoebe’s cramps slowed.
“Looks like early fetal material. Did you expel anything into the toilet or anywhere else?” he asked.
She shook her head, afraid that speaking would bring tears. And she’d rip out her eyes before she cried in front of this awful man.
He peered lower, bending before Phoebe, who now realized that humiliation had no endpoint. “Bleeding appears to be lessening. Nothing we can do now. You lost the baby, of course. Must be a relief to you. All’s well that ends well, eh? The nurse will clean you up and let you know what warning symptoms to watch out for.”
“I’m going home?” As much as Phoebe had resisted coming to the hospital, now she didn’t want to leave. She wanted cleansing and sleeping without seeing her father’s disappointed face, her mother’s angry one, and the confusion and guilt covering Jake’s. Unless she got the guts to tell the truth, he’d believe in his ultimate sin forever.
CHAPTER 6
Phoebe
Rising and falling voices woke Phoebe. Her mother’s strident tones pounded like jackhammers. The soothing words her father spoke indicated his prevailing patience.
A veil of grogginess hung heavy. After pressing a hand to her pounding head, Phoebe forced herself to turn toward the clock. Seven in the morning. Shards of nightmares clung. Everything felt sticky and sore. She put her hand down exactly where she didn’t want to touch. Gritty dried blood covered her inner thighs, but at least the thick pad from the hospital had held up. A wide piece of cotton batting backed by plastic sheeting lay beneath her. The nurse had slipped her the folded packet as though giving her a consolation prize. Congratulations! You lost your virginity, the man you loved, and every shred of dignity, but you get to go home with this blue bed pad.
“What kind of girl did we raise?” she heard her mother yell. “Rushing out to God knows where night after night and spreading her legs for that—for that nothing schmuck.”
“Quiet, Lola. You’ll wake her.”
“Good.” Her mother’s voice rose. “Our daughter should be awake and lying in the bed she made. Everything’s been handed to her on a silver platter. I’d kiss my parents’ feet if I’d been given half of what we gave her. College. Beautiful clothes. Whatever she wanted, we gave her, and she lets a nothing knock her up.”
Phoebe needed to pee but didn’t want her parents to hear her get up. The patches of dried blood itched. Grime covered her. She longed for a shower, but more, she wanted to hear her parents’ conversation.
“What bothers you so much about him?” her father asked.
“The apple never falls far from the tree. Look at his mother and father. Thieves. Dreck.”
“Them, not Jake. He’s a hard worker. His brother, too. Jake wants to be a lawyer.”
“Lawyers. Pure like the driven snow, right?” Her mother laughed. “Probably getting his degree in case his parents get arrested again.”
“Come on, they weren’t arrested.”
“The FBI came to their house!”
“One of my patients said they had a business problem.”
“A business problem? How very modern.” Her mother huffed. “His father put the so-called business in her name. What a coward. Is this who you want for your daughter?”
? ? ?
Before lunch, Jake arrived carrying white tulips. Phoebe, showered and numbed by a pain pill, lifted her hand in a weak wave.
“How are you?” Jake wrapped his fingers around her forearm. “My poor baby. So pale.”
Phoebe stared at the ceiling. “I’m okay. They told me to stay in bed for a few days.” Never leaving the achingly clean sheets on which she lay seemed like the perfect remedy.
“I’m sorry. For this.” Jake looked as though someone had punched the young right out of her. “For getting you into this mess.”