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To my surprise, Maxwell stands when I enter a small room, apparently some kind of waiting room. He brushes his palms against his trousers as he stands.
“You’re still here?” I marvel.
He shrugs shyly. “Well, yes. Do you need anything? Is she all right?”
I don’t know what to say. I’m happy to see him, and yet I don’t feel like I can tell him anything. He is still a stranger, I remind myself.
But he is a stranger who waited for me. What kind of stranger does that?
“I just want to take her home now,” I explain meekly.
“I’ll go get the car.”
When I return to Landry’s room, to my surprise, she is already seated in a wheelchair with her discharge papers on her lap. She lets me push her down the hallway, and we roll past rooms where families are gathered around their loved ones.
Maxwell greets us at the door, automatically reaching for the brakes on the wheelchair and helping Landry into the back seat. Again I feel that sense of relief that someone is here with me, carrying some part of the load that needs to be carried.
Because of the pregnancy, Landry is only allowed a bit of Tylenol before bed. Maxwell offers to make us some tea and I tuck Landry in, trying not to overly smother this woman who is about to be a mother herself. I can barely stand to look at the bruises on her face. And I can barely stand to think about the way that she got them.
“Is everything really all right?” Maxwell asks me as he hands me a mug of tea in the kitchen.
“She’s already asleep,” I shrug. “That has to be good, right?”
“Yes,” he agrees. “I am sure that is good. Did she tell you what happened?”
Automatically, I want to dodge the question. But when I look in his eyes, his interest seems sincere.
You have to trust somebody sometime, I tell myself.
As soon as I begin to start talking, the whole story spools out. Landry was living with her boyfriend. She didn’t want anyone to know. He has been abusive, but she’s pregnant now. Her choices have narrowed.
Maxwell sets his tea down and scowls. “She has so many options,” he objects. “How far along is she?”
This seems like an
invasive question. “She’s about thirteen weeks,” I explain.
“Well, she doesn’t have to have the baby if you act quickly,” he answers.
My mouth drops open a little bit. “She doesn’t want an abortion,” I reply, hearing that strange word hang in the air between us. “It’s up to her. She doesn’t want one.”
“I see,” he answers.
“Perhaps I can ask her to consider adoption?” I muse. “She’s so young. It will be like it never happened.”
He nods thoughtfully. Clearly this isn’t a conversation he is comfortable having.
“She may even want to keep it,” he says softly.
I take a step away and straighten up. Suddenly I feel very defensive about all this. Who does he think he is?
“I’m sure we can figure it out,” I say coldly.
He finally senses my emotion and looks startled. “I’m sorry, it’s really not my business,” he adds quickly. “She’s just so young. You’re right. This is none of my business. I’m only trying to help.”
“We will be all right,” I mutter, grinding my molars together. “She’s in very good hands.”
“Oh, certainly!” he objects apologetically. “Really, I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry, Clarissa.”
