"Yeah, in Sweden," I said. "In case you didn't notice, we're not in fucking Sweden."
"I don't care. It's still rape. You consented to protected sex, not raw-dogging."
"Oh, thanks. So the stalking, the fucked-up pictures and everything else aren't enough for you? You have to make me a rape victim too, just to score some feminist points?"
"Yes," she said. "Because you minimize every shitty thing that man has ever done to you. He makes you get a tattoo - it's just fun and games. He howls outside your window like a cat in heat - he just misses you. He stalks you until you can hardly leave the house without having a panic attack, but oh, it's okay - because his mommy didn't love him. He fucking rapes you..."
As she spoke her voice started to turn into a kind of drone in my head, like the teachers in the Charlie Brown cartoons. I let the words wash over me and when I ended them with a slap, it was like someone else was doing it. She didn't clutch her cheek or stare at me in shock - she just stood there, one eyebrow raised and my handprint turning red on her face, her big tits like a wall or a mountain range in front of her. I hated her in that moment, because deep down I knew why I tuned her out.
"What are you going to do?" she said.
I burst into tears and she reached out for me, but even as I was crying on her shoulder she said "You know I can't keep doing this, don't you?" in a voice that, had I been less of an asshole, I would have known have meant I was breaking her heart.
There was no question of keeping it. I told myself that from the moment I saw the result on the first test. She was right - I was a mess, Justin was a mess and worse, I was a mess because of Justin. Neither of us were in any shape to be parents. Everglade drove me to the clinic, only for us to find it surrounded by protesters - some state level politician had recently said something that brought all the right-to-life crowd out of the woodwork. As soon as I saw the placards - like a nasty car accident and twice as gory - I begged her to drive me someplace where I could throw up.
"Don't let them guilt-trip you, Babycakes," she said. "That's what they want. We'll just have to be extra sneaky is all."
'Sneaky' came in the form of a 'Marilyn Monroe' wig that made me look like a cross between Harpo Marx and a low-rent party clown. I remember it well because it was one of the last times I laughed. I switched it for a bobbed brown wig that was much more convincing as real hair and Everglade called ahead to the clinic to ask if there was a way of sneaking in unnoticed. They arranged to see me out of hours, which was so kind of them that it started me off on another crying jag; the protesters had got to me, and now I felt as though I was planning murder, no matter how many times I told myself this was a necessary evil.
The clinic was like a fortress - metal detectors and razor wire. It didn't help my mood, knowing I was about to do something that some people considered so bad they felt it justified murder, just to prevent it. My mind was full of blood and death - those horrible placards had done their job - and for much of the afternoon I'd been wondering if it might not be easier to just kill myself. But then what if he changed as soon as he found out I was pregnant? Stranger things had happened. He might shape up and become the perfect father.
I never voiced these thoughts, obviously. I knew how Everglade would react.
A nurse led me into a room and ushered me behind a screen, so that I could undress and put on a paper robe. Everything felt as though it was happening to someone else, even while I was lying there with my feet in the stirrup cups and nothing but another sheet of paper between me and the whole wide world. A pretty Indian doctor came in and said a bunch of things I barely remember, although I remember that she said she wanted to 'just' do a pap smear 'while we're here'. She had an unexpected English accent that reminded me of my Dad and brought me to the edge of tears, tipping me over when she opened up the speculum and I felt something twist and hurt deep inside me. I lay there with my legs open and my arm over my eyes, knowing that I'd start sobbing if I looked at her.
"Okay," she said. "Looks like you're about six weeks along. That's fine."
"Thank you," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. I wanted to close my legs. I wanted to jump off the table and run out of the room.
"If you'd just like to step down for a moment," she said. "And we can have a little chat."
"Can't you just do it now?" I heard myself say. I was a monster, talking about killing Justin's baby like taking off a band-aid.
She pretended not to hear me and I climbed down out of the cups, my ass hanging out the back of the paper robe and my crotch gluey with lube. I had never felt so indecent in my life. "Was this a planned pregnancy?" she said. The past tense hit me like a rock and I sat there, reeling. It could be that simple - I was pregnant and now I’m not pregnant. I managed to shake my head, but this time there was no holding back the tears. I didn't just sob - I wailed. I howled. I shrieked like a banshee. The poor doctor didn't know what to do - she pushed a box of tissues towards me, held my hand and waited patiently for me to cry it out.