| |
You must think I’m obsessive-compulsive, and you may be right. But I’ve got one more section of the puzzle to add.
I head back into the kitchen, dumping the residual water in the sink. I dry off the pitcher with a hand towel and put it back in its place. Next, I press the “Order” button on the fridge and verbally request the Alexa unit to add a bottle of shiraz, the wine I opened earlier, to our shopping list.
Speaking of electronics, we have too many of them. Because of Denny’s job, he insists we have and use the latest inventions available. Not only are Wi-Fi-enabled listening devices in all rooms except the bathrooms, but also there are smart televisions, smart cellphones, smart kitchen appliances, smart beds, smart watches, smart vehicles, and smart security cameras in our possession, plus—if you can believe it—smart audio sunglasses and smart clothing. Say the word, and these things come to life and obey our every command and demand. Yes, we’re well-connected to the Internet to make our lives easier and more organized. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, as I constantly must ask my husband how to do things with them.
Denny loves trying them out and playing with their features—says they’re great innovations that keep getting better as he walks around with earbuds all day long, speaking to his clients as if they’re physically in front of him. He’s the reason you are in my head right now; when his company was approached by a start-up looking for test subjects for their new mind-reading AI program, he convinced me to participate in it, and I agreed, mainly because the company pays you an ample sum to do it. Surely, there is no harm to me in you being here, right?
And get this: Last week, the newly released multiverse hologram system arrived, so Mark, another salesperson at Denny’s company, and he have been tinkering with it. It’s so real, it’s bizarre. When I first saw it in action, I thought Mark had flown into town and was upstairs in the office, chatting away about the last Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. I rarely enter Denny’s office—his chamber, his asylum—as if it’s holy ground. When I tapped on the door and entered the room, I had to do a double take, because it looked like Mark was sitting in one of the wingback chairs. Then the two of them duped me by having Mark reach out to hug me. Scared me to death when I grabbed nothing but air and realized he wasn’t there in person. Creepy real. Have you seen or used a visual holoporter yet?
Back to the topic, let me tell you about Mark.
Nice guy but has issues like all of us. I only mention him because he went through quite an ordeal.
You see me open the nearby junk drawer that holds everything from batteries and phone chargers to rubber bands, small used votive candles, and rolled paper holders for coins. The drawer is an issue between my husband and me. He wants it cleaned out and most of its contents dumped in the trash; unfortunately, I continue to add odds and ends to it. Mindlessly I sort through it, hoping to discard a couple of useless items.
Here’s Mark’s story: He’s several years older than Denny and has been working with the company for over eight years. He covers the Arizona and Nevada territory while Denny covers Southern California. Mark and Denny get along fine since they’re not competing for the same clients or commissions. Often the company has contests and quotas, forcing the two to be competitive for bonuses and rewards, but there’s nothing wrong with that in the corporate sales world. Denny enjoys it when Mark comes to town for meetings. The two have a good, solid friendship.
Mark and his wife, Melissa, live in Tucson, Arizona. Guess they’ve been together for at least ten years. Like us, they moved in together before they got married, trying to get used to being able to put up with each other. Good, moral people. Amy would interject that we’re big-time sinners, fornicators who ignored the marriage bed, but who let her be the judge? These days, everyone—straight or gay or whatever—shacks up before a major commitment like marriage, and some never marry. No big deal, it’s the way it works nowadays. Trial run, so you don’t divorce later.
Years ago, Melissa got pregnant—this was before they had tied the knot. So, Mark decided it was the right thing to do to propose to her at the Rose Bowl football game in Pasadena. Yes, the one with a zillion people in attendance. This was before COVID hit, and the stadium was packed to the max. And, if that isn’t the most unromantic thing ever, they got married during the Masters golf tournament the same year. I know, not romantic, but if you knew Mark, sports and romance are the highlights of his life. I’m surprised he didn’t arrange to be married at Augusta National, right in the “Amen Corner” on the golf course. They married during the tournament, not at it, and, of course, not during Sunday’s final eighteen holes. Who said golf isn’t a silly sport?
Everyone thought everything was going great with Melissa’s pregnancy, except when she went to the doctor at the beginning of her second trimester and found out the baby would have Down’s syndrome. No history on either side; it appeared out of nowhere.
Mark was devastated. He wanted Melissa to abort the fetus due to its imperfections, but she refused. He told us he couldn’t deal with a child who may have multiple disabilities; he wasn’t cut out for it and wouldn’t know how to raise him or her, let alone pay for the medical expenses.
Although I never pegged her as being religious, Melissa kept saying God had her get pregnant, so He would help them with this, no matter how many defects the child had. She stayed strong while Mark crumbled with the expectancy of the newborn. Melissa won.
Matilda, or “Matty” as they called her, was born with disabilities due to abnormal chromosomes, a severe case, complete with small, odd-shaped ears, wide-set eyes, and an undeveloped heart. One could easily tell, by looking at the newborn, that there was something wrong. From the second she was born, the neonatal ward was Matty’s home.
Mark and Melissa stayed beside her incubator every minute, exhausted, as they prayed, begged, cried, and wished for a miracle.
The poor child died six days after she was born . . . never to grow up, go to school, marry, or have children.
I know, I’m cheery here, telling you all this. Sorry for the downer.
Maybe it was best for both Mark and Melissa, but to this day, I don’t understand it. How could God make parents go through such anguish? That is if there is a God.
And what if that happens to me?
Would I abort the baby if I found out it has the wrong number of chromosomes? Or would I keep it, taking care of it day and night as it suffered—as I would suffer? It would alter the many plans I have for my life. What if it’s defective due to all the COVID vaccinations Denny and I have had? I’ve been reading nightmare stories recently about what many medicines could now be doing to our bodies.
So, I worry. What about this inside me? Is it healthy? Are there any problems with it that I should know about?
Can you help me stop worrying about everything that’s going on?
My fingers find a metal bottle opener in the junk drawer, so I move it to the drawer near the oven range that holds our wine and beer paraphernalia. Next, I locate an elastic hair band; you notice me pulling wayward strands of hair out of my face, securing them in a ponytail with the band. Much better.
I continue my train of thought.
After the draining funeral with the tiny casket and lots of pink roses, life went on with Mark and Melissa, and they still have no children.
In talking to her from time to time, Melissa rarely mentions Matty, God, or the thought of getting pregnant again. For months, she stayed consistent, impassive, and had a “forge-forward” attitude and appearance.
Mark didn’t. He drank, and a lot. According to Melissa, one time she found him sitting in the dark in their master bedroom closet, balled up in the corner among his shoe collection, crying. Then he drank some more. We’re not talking about a casual glass of wine here and there, but hard drinks and pot. Addiction took over. For over two years, Mark was not there, not happy, and not functioning. Dennis and I noticed his dark moods, anger issues, and permanent puffy circles under his red, glassy eyes. When Melissa found a bottle of Jack Daniels hidden in their master bathroom toilet tank, she confronted him and gave him an ultimatum: alcohol or her.
Because he loved her so much, including when he was in his stupor, he went to AA meetings and some other class and did a complete one-eighty. He stopped drinking, ceased being in his blue mood, and suddenly snapped out of it. Just like that! The fastest withdrawal program I’ve ever seen.
A whole new guy.
This abrupt change happened two months ago. When I saw Mark last month on a Zoom call, he looked and acted entirely different. It seemed that a new person had entered the body we knew as Mark. He told Denny when they were evaluating that hologram program on Tuesday how happy he was now that he and Melissa had found what they had been looking for all this time. He invited Denny to an online seminar coming up next week that has in-person classes here in the Valley, and Denny promised he would either watch it or go to one. For Denny to promise anything to anybody (unless of course, it’s Aunt Amy or, sometimes, me) took me by surprise. It must have impressed my husband to see such a sudden, for-the-better change in Mark.
In the drawer I’m digging through, I find a colorfully patterned N95 mask in bright reds and blues. It has a bohemian mandala design; I carefully fold and tuck it in the front pocket of my jeans, as I’m sure I’ll find a use for it, even though they’re now optional. Although the mandates have let up, at least this one can still be used when the next virus hits. It’s unique and artsy. Glad I found it.
Last night Denny was in his office on another marathon video call with Mark. It lasted for an hour and a half. When he climbed into bed later, Denny mentioned the class again, saying we should check it out. Yes, “we”—meaning including me. I’ve no clue why I’m now included. He mumbled that if it made Mark change so drastically, it must be good. I sleepily agreed.
However, tonight during our fight about my horrible imperfections, Denny dared to bring up Mark’s invitation. He sassily said the event involves Christianity. Umm. Well, my husband should know that’s not a fair way to fight.
Denny’s not an alcoholic; he—we—both drink beer, wine, and hard drinks but not to excess, so hopefully, the class won’t be about addictions. And to prove how open-minded and thoughtful I am (I, the one deemed a sinner who is inconsiderate of others), I’ll sit through a one-hour meeting for my husband’s sake and keep my opinions to myself, only because I agreed to go. I can show Denny I’m receptive and thoughtful of others’ views and beliefs, even if they differ from mine. See, I’m not like Amy.
Oh, well. The sacrifices and compromises we make to maintain relationships.
Back to my problem at hand.
I could tell you about many women I know who have had abortions and seem to do perfectly fine in getting on with their lives. Take Zoey, for instance, who lives in our complex. Although I’ve known her for only six months, we hit it off from the start. I consider her my best friend. Well, maybe my only true friend.
She’s seven years older than I am; we get along well because we both aspire to the same professional model. She’s a hardcore career woman who happened to get pregnant twice but felt it wasn’t the time for her to be a mother. The first guy was a college sweetheart, and she knew she didn’t want to be married or tied down to a child. They agreed it would be best to terminate the baby, and within a half year, the relationship dissolved. Her second time involved a married man who never found out about it; their relationship lasted only a couple of months because he decided to stay with his wife. Who would want to have to deal with that issue? Would you want a child who has no father figure around? Rochelle is dealing with that. No thanks.
Being a hoity-toity, well-paid financial wizard in the banking industry, Zoey knows what she wants and gets it. She doesn’t seem to have any problems being pro-choice; at least she’s never mentioned that her past actions bother her or that she wishes she’d done things differently.
I know a couple of other girls who decided to abort, and both act as if they survived. Even Jeremy, the coworker I mentioned, got a gal pregnant in college, but they didn’t want to keep the baby. The relationship had ended before they found out, but he still paid for half of the procedure and took her to the clinic. They moved on, never to see each other again. Do you wonder if either one of them thinks about it all these years later? Are there any negative ripple effects?
Hmm. What’s your take? You may think things have changed since Roe v. Wade was overturned at the federal level, but I live in California, which is still pro-choice, so I’m not concerned about seeking and getting quality healthcare in handling the problem. But if I lived in the Midwest, that would be an entirely different issue.
What would you do if you were in my shoes? And don’t give me that pat line, “I’d never be in your shoes,” as you never know until it happens to you.
You might tell me to ask my parents.
That’s certainly not going to happen.
Mom would smother me with affirmations to make my own decision; Daddy would say, “Whatever you want, Cupcake,” but be stand-offish and distant. Probably it would cause a wedge between them, and they would argue. The last thing I want is the two of them fighting.
And my sister? If Silvia knew I was even contemplating getting rid of this baby, she’d un-sister me and never speak to me again.
Also, I’d feel the shame of not matching up to the perfect person my parents, sister, and others think I am. I have my dignity and pride. It would make me look like I’m not in control. I’m always logical, and I’m always in control, even if I have to pretend to be. Always.
I could keep an abortion a secret from everyone, including Denny, my entire life. Would you keep silent about it if you had one? No one could or would know.
In a last-ditch effort, I glance over at my cell phone on the island counter and think about Zoey again. She might be able to tell me if she had any problems or concerns. I quickly pick up the device and send a short text message to her: Call me when you can, girl. Need your expertise.
She should be able to help me get through this strange phase. She can tell me if the procedure is painful and what to expect.
After contemplating, more like arguing all sides I can think of, I’ve made up my mind. The internal debate is over.
You notice me holding out my hands, staring at my manicured fingernails.
See my wedding ring Denny designed with a lovely marquise diamond on white gold? Silver thumb ring on the same hand? Young, vibrant hands? Determined hands.
That’s it. I’ve decided.
Pleased that I’ve made a decision and moved a couple of items out of the junk drawer as well, I close the messy box with ease and stretch my hands above my head. I feel a sense of determination.
Like the now-shut drawer, my problem needs closure.
I’ll find a local clinic after my parents leave town; I’ll get it handled and over with then.
Done.
No more discussion.
No more God-talk either.
And for that matter, it’s time to keep Denny away from Mark and his religion, meeting or no meeting.