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Lauren pulled free, stumbled back. "No," she said in a small voice.
Mom sighed heavily. "If you couldnt make it through an abortion, how in Gods name do you think you can handle adoption? Or worse yet, motherhood? Go back to the clinic tomorrow. This time Ill go with you. Give yourself a chance in life. " The anger seemed to slide out of her then. She pushed the hair from Laurens eyes, tucked a strand behind her ear. It was perhaps the gentlest her mother had ever been.
The tenderness was worse than being yelled at. "I cant. "
Mom stared at her through eyes that w
ere glazed with tears. "You break my heart. "
"Dont say that. "
"What else can I say? Youve made your decision. Fine. I tried. " She bent down and grabbed her purse. "I need a drink. "
"Dont go. Please. "
Mom headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned back around.
Lauren stood there, crying. She knew the desperate plea to stay was in her eyes.
Mom almost started to cry again. "Im sorry. " Then she left.
THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, LAUREN woke to the sound of music bleeding through the walls. It was the Bruce Springsteen CD.
She came upright slowly, rubbing her swollen, gritty eyes.
Moms party had obviously turned into an all-nighter. It wasnt surprising, she supposed. When your seventeenyear-old daughter got herself knocked up, there was nothing to do but party.
With a sigh, she climbed out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, where she took a long, hot shower. When she was finished, she stood on the frayed scrap of a towel that served as their bathmat and studied her naked body in the mirror.
Her breasts were definitely bigger. Maybe her nipples were, too; she couldnt be sure about that, her nipples never having been high on her to-notice list.
She turned sideways.
Her stomach was as flat as ever. There was no sign there of the new life that grew within.
She wrapped a towel around her and returned to her bedroom. After making her bed, she dressed in her school uniform--red crew neck sweater, plaid skirt, white tights, and black loafers. Then she turned off her bedroom light and walked down the hallway.
In the living room she stopped. Frowned.
Something was wrong.
The ashtrays on the coffee table were empty. No half filled glasses lined the kitchen counter. The ratty old purple afghan that usually draped over the back of the sofa was gone.
Gone.
No way. Even Mom wouldnt--
She heard an engine start up outside; it was the throaty, unmistakable growl of a Harley Davidson motorcycle.
Lauren rushed to the window and whipped the flimsy curtain aside.
There, down on the street below, Mom sat behind Jake on the motorcycle. She was looking up at Lauren.
Lauren touched her fingertips to the glass. "No. "
Slowly, as if it hurt to move, her mother waved goodbye.
The motorcycle roared down the street, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.
