The Abortionist's Daughter (29 page)

In her mind she was always swimming to France. She imagined the choppy waves of the English Channel, the gray sky, the sound of the boat next to her.
Shall we keep going?
they would shout, and she would shout back,
Keep going!
because what they would not know was that she felt like she could swim forever, not just to France but to Egypt and India and the barren shores of Australia.

She turned up the speed, swimming straight into the wake of an unseen boat. Within minutes she was in machine mode, hands cupped, arms pulling down and around, legs
whuffing
steadily behind her as she lost herself in the rhythmic expulsion of bubbles through her mouth. Sometimes while swimming she heard music. Sometimes she composed letters to old high school friends. Sometimes she went back to the lake house of her childhood, the choppy water, the smell of hemlock, the fat yellow spiders drooping on their webs beneath the rickety dock.

Today, however, she simply swam. Maybe it was because of the scotch. It didn’t matter. She became numb. Her arms turned like water wheels. Her legs kicked. Her mind went blank.

Suddenly the jets stopped. Unable to react in time, Diana shot forward, scraping her knuckles on the front edge of the pool. Pushing back, she found her footing and squinted through her goggles. Oh. Frank.

She lifted her goggles and sucked the blood from her knuckles. “Don’t do that.”

Frank loomed above her. “Get out.”

“Sorry about lunch,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe my day.”

Frank picked up the highball glass she’d set by the edge of the pool and flung it across the room at the ficus tree, glass shattering against the green tiles. “If you are at all interested in saving any thread of this marriage,” he said, calmly gazing at the mess, “get out of the pool.”

Diana couldn’t help but stare at this uncharacteristic behavior. “Jesus fucking Christ, Frank,” she said. “Where do you get off, talking to me that way?”

Frank squatted down. He laced his fingers and let his hands dangle between his legs and continued to gaze at the ficus tree. She rarely saw him like this, wound up and tense and ready to spring. “Go get a drink, Frank.”

But her words seemed to float past her husband. In what seemed like a trance, he swished his hand in the water. Then suddenly he grabbed her arm. “What is your problem!?” she exclaimed, wrenching it away.

“Get out. We need to talk.”

Diana hoisted herself, dripping, onto the edge of the pool, making sure to keep an arm’s distance between the two of them. She picked at the rags of skin hanging off her knuckles. “What the fuck, Frank.”

Frank cleared his throat. “I used to wonder,” he said, lightly splashing water against the side of the pool, “whether I was wrong all those years.”

“Wrong about what?”

“Wrong to let you get your way all the time.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. And this isn’t the best time to bring up heavy-duty issues, by the way. You have no idea what kind of a day I had.” There was water in one ear and she shook her head to the side. His fingernails had left three little pink smiles on her arm.

“Never any consequences,” he went on. “You let her talk back to you. You let her break curfew. You gave her beer and pot. ‘She’s going to do it anyway,’ you said. ‘She might as well do it in the safety of our own home.’ How old was she when you put her on the Pill?”

“I never put Megan on the Pill!”

He held up a round pink case. “Then how’d this get in her bureau drawer?”

“There are other doctors in town, Frank. Honest to god.”

“Do you remember,” he continued, “the open enrollment debacle?”

During open enrollment at the end of fifth grade, Diana had insisted on letting Megan make the choice as to which middle school to attend. To Frank’s dismay, Megan chose the unstructured arts school over the more academically oriented neighborhood school. Diana viewed the decision as a sign of maturity. Then in mid-September they got a call from the principal informing them that Megan was floundering: she needed more structure, he said, and he advised that she transfer back to the neighborhood school. Frank was unabashedly bitter and smug.

“Of course I remember. So what?”

“And how long did she last?”

“What’s your point?”

“She was ten years old! And you insisted that
she
should be the one to make the choice.
We
should have made that decision! But no, you wanted to give her autonomy, just like you wanted to let her set her own bedtime and decide what to eat for dinner.”

“This is what’s bugging you so you have to come home and beat me up?”

Frank rubbed his eyes. “My point is you were never willing to impose any limits.”

“Oh. That again.” They had been over this issue so many times before—or had they? Diana suddenly realized that many of their so-called discussions on this matter had actually taken place inside her own head, whenever she was angry with him for something else. She tried to remember a real, face-to-face confrontation.

Frank continued: “Now. Fast-forward a few years. Remember that drawing class she took in tenth grade?”

“At the college,” said Diana. “Figure drawing.”

“With twenty-one-year-olds. Did you ever speak to the instructor? Did you ever make any effort to find out what might be going on?”

“Did
you
?”

“Don’t change the subject. Did it ever occur to you that they would have live models for the class? That they’d pay you to model? That Megan was into her clothes fetish at that point? Remember how much a shirt from Abercrombie cost?”

Diana threw her head back. “Spell it out, Frank!”

“In one evening she might have earned enough for two shirts,” said Frank. “But of course it probably never occurred to you to tell her there might be some limits here.”

“So you think she might have posed nude for a class. So what? Haven’t you ever taken a drawing class? Everybody poses. And it’s not about sex, in case you’re wondering. It’s about the human body.”

Frank held up a finger, the know-it-all teacher. “Maybe for those who are truly drawing. But what if your motive is something else? What if you’re carrying around a camera?”

“And who would do that? You are so paranoid, Frank. Can’t you for once assume that people are normal? And don’t play lawyer with me,” she snapped when he didn’t reply. He would do this in their arguments, and it drove her crazy, this legal gamesmanship that depended on one of them waiting out a silence. “What are you getting at, Frank? Cameras in an art class—Megan—nude photographs—” Then suddenly she stopped. Her mouth soured.

“The Pearl investigation?”

“Yes indeed,” said Frank.

“Pictures of Megan?”

“Yes indeed.”

“How do you know it’s her?”

“Do you want to see them for yourself?”

“No,” said Diana. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god is right, Diana,” said Frank.

Diana began to shiver. She stood up and put on her robe and slipped her feet into her flip-flops. “So what you’re saying is that Megan posed for the class, and someone took pictures and sold them to someone else who you’re investigating for this case?”

“You want to tell me how else they might have gotten online?”

She crossed her arms and began to pace. “Maybe they’re not really of her. Maybe they’re of someone else and they just superimposed her face on them.”

Frank cocked his head, as though listening to a flimsy excuse from a wayward child. “They’re Megan,” he said. “Right down to the mole on her stomach. Besides, what would it matter? If it’s her face, it might as well be her.” He stood up and, as was his custom during most of their arguments, headed out of the room. Diana flip-flopped after him.

“Don’t walk away on me, Frank Thompson!” she shouted, grabbing his arm. “Don’t come in here in the middle of my swim and dump a load like this and then walk away! Why are you looking at me like that? What, you think it’s my fault? You just got through telling me I don’t control my daughter, and now you’re telling me I do?”

“I hold you responsible,” Frank said icily.

“Oh!” Diana crowed. “Oh! Don’t you
dare
pin this one on me! Come back here!” she shouted, following him down the hall. “Son of a bitch, don’t walk away on me!”

Frank wheeled around and grabbed her arms and shook her once, hard, so that her neck snapped back. It was the second time that day someone had done this to her. She pushed away and rubbed her neck.

“By not giving her a little guidance once in a while, you’re now responsible, yes, I’m saying that,” he said. “But there’s more here. I’m talking about our marriage in general! Everything you wanted, you got! You got to raise Megan the way you wanted! You got to decide where we went on vacation! You got to get the kitchen remodeled when I wanted to just move into another house! You got that stupid pool, for chrissake!”

“You want to turn this into a money issue? We can talk about your Range Rover, if you want. Or your river trips.”

Frank tossed his head with disgust. “You’re completely missing the point.”

“Or that Emilio what’s-his-name suit you had to have,” she went on. “How much was that again?”

“See? You haven’t heard a word I said. You’re getting what you want right now, just by not listening.”

“I heard everything you said. You’re telling me it’s my fault if Megan made an error in judgment—”

“Wow, a miracle. You listened.”

“—and if she went and posed for these pictures, I’m somehow responsible. You blow me away, Frank.”

“Fine with me. At least I’ve gotten you to stop and think and hear my point of view. Because you know what? I don’t think you’ve considered my point of view since the day we were married.”

Diana laughed loudly; that was so untrue.

“No,” said Frank, “I take that back. Let’s date it a little later. Since the day we found out about Ben.”

The nasty smile drained off her face.

“That’s right,” he said. “You stopped listening then. You were going to have Ben regardless of how I felt. Isn’t that the truth? You had to go and prove you weren’t just a heartless baby killer. Oh
no,
you were the great Dr. Duprey, the abortion doctor who decided
not
to abort her retarded child. Great way to refute the pro-lifers. Hey, it’s a matter of choice, see? What a photo op.”

Diana felt her knees weaken. By bringing Ben into this, Frank had ripped off an age-old Band-Aid, and with it an enormous scab.
Ben, her baby boy, her beautiful, happy, heartache of a baby boy.

“You loved him,” she whispered.

“Of course I loved him! How couldn’t I? But did I ever really have any say in the matter?”

“I listened to you,” said Diana. “I knew how you felt. There wasn’t a whole lot of middle ground in this issue, you know. How could we have compromised?”

Frank dropped his head and ran his fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Fourteen years.”

“Of what?”

“Of shutting myself down.”

“And this is why you wanted to have lunch?”

“No.” He gave a mean laugh. “This morning I actually had this delusion that we could become close again. Maybe I thought we could finally talk about this and heal things up. Then again, maybe I’m delusional now. I don’t know. God, I just don’t know.”

“Are you saying you want a divorce?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m tired. I’m tired of everything right now. I’m tired of my job. I’m tired of people who lie and cheat and steal. I’m tired of scumbags. I’m tired of people who sell pictures of children. I’m tired of making excuses for everyone.”

“Are you tired of me?”

She needed him to look at her then, but instead he lifted his gaze to the ceiling and closed his eyes. “I need to get out of here,” he said. “I’ll be back. I don’t know what I feel. I don’t even know if I mean what I’m saying right now. I’m going out. Go back to the pool. Finish your swim.” He turned and started climbing the stairs, leaving her in the front hallway. “Go on,” he said. “I’m going to change my shirt and get out of here. I have to do something. Go on.” Wearily he toiled up the stairs.

In a daze, Diana walked into the kitchen. She sat on a stool at the kitchen island, staring numbly at a catalog for outdoor gear. She felt sickened by his accusations but knew there was a measure of truth in his words. She
had
gotten professional mileage out of her decision, even if it wasn’t her intent. Someone had even written an editorial in the local newspaper about Ben: “The Doctor Makes a Choice,” they’d titled it. After that the clinic received a large bequest from an anonymous donor, which they’d used to add on the recovery wing.

But to say that she’d made the decision
just
to get professional mileage? She couldn’t believe he’d said that. She put her head down on her arms as memories of Ben came flooding in. They’d gotten the news that he was carrying the extra twenty-first chromosome on a Wednesday afternoon, and by dinnertime she’d made up her mind. To Frank it was going to be simple, she knew; it would be a matter of putting sound medical knowledge to use. But as she stood by the island watching him chop tomatoes, she knew she would never be able to abort this child. She needed to carry him to term and push him into this world; she needed to see his face and look into his eyes and hold him and nurse him and rock him, just as she had done with Megan.

They’d argued, through the night and for an entire raw, ugly week. He told her it wouldn’t be fair to Megan. She said they would
make
it fair. He told her he was afraid of raising a retarded child. She said he might be only
slightly
retarded. He told her she was letting her hormones make the decision. She said nothing then, merely leveled a stony gaze at him until he looked away. After a week he gave in.

“He could be severely retarded,” he said.

“I know.”

“He could die in his first year too.”

“Yes,” said Diana, “he could.”

“I couldn’t take that, Diana,” Frank said.

His voice had caught, and Diana, who up until that point had not wavered in her conviction, suddenly faltered. For the first time in a week she really looked at her husband. His eyes were getting pouchy, with that little flap of skin beginning to droop over his eyelid. And for some reason the mere sight of that little flap started unraveling everything in her. He was a good man. Who was she to subject him to the possible heartbreaks this baby might bring? Maybe he was right; maybe they were getting in over their heads. Maybe only IVs and slobber and a tiny pine casket lay ahead of them. Why introduce pain and grief? Why complicate their lives?