An hour after we eat, I take the second round of pills. I wait thirty minutes and spit the pills out. This time, they’ve dissolved better.
We all climb into bed, Annabelle in her own and Bea next to me. Three hours later, I take the final four pills. I sit on the bathroom floor with the tablets under my tongue. After thirty minutes, I spit them out. And then I wait. I stare at the shower curtain. It’s torn on one side and it hangs from the pole. It reminds me of the torn roof lining in Dean’s truck.
I wait.
I pull my knees up and lean my forehead against them. I concentrate hard on my stomach, feeling for the cramps to come, even the slightest twinge.
I check the website again. The abortion is supposed to start within four to six hours after the first dose, sometimes even an hour after. But it can take twelve to fourteen hours after the first dose, so maybe I’m in that group. I’m afraid I’ll start bleeding, so I put a bunch of towels under me and lean back against the tub. I think about waking up Bea and Annabelle, but they need to sleep, especially Annabelle.
I put my hands over my stomach. Go away. Please, go away.
The minutes turn into hours, and I feel nothing. My body is exhausted, but my mind is racing, so sleep is not an option. Not a single cramp, not nausea, not chills or fever. I don’t need the bottle of ibuprofen. The box of maxi pads remains unopened on the bathroom counter. At five in the morning I get up, put on my pajama pants, and go into the bedroom.
“Guys?” I say kind of loudly.
“Everything okay?” Annabelle asks, her voice croaky with sleep.
Bea sits bolt upright.
“Nothing happened.”
Annabelle sits up and pushes the blankets away. “What?”
I grab the aspirin bottle off the nightstand and throw it into the trash. “It’s only eighty percent effective, and I must be that twenty percent of ineffective. Of course it wouldn’t work. Because why would it?”
Annabelle gets out of bed. “Okay, don’t panic. So, we wait a while longer—”
Bea runs into the bathroom and comes out with a glass of water. She holds it out to me.
I take the water and sink onto my bed. “It should have happened already. It’s not going to work.”
“Maybe we should try again,” Annabelle says. “Maybe we should get a different brand?”
“I can’t! There’s a whole thing I have to do. I have to wait for three days before I can try it again. I don’t have enough time to wait. I’m already eleven weeks pregnant now, and I can’t take the pills after twelve weeks. Meanwhile I’m getting more and more pregnant, and I can’t take it anymore!”
“Jesus, Camille, I’m so sorry,” Annabelle says. She holds out a tissue, but I don’t take it.
“This whole thing has been a waste of time and money and effort. I missed Willow. I probably can’t go back to the Globe ever again. I want to throw this glass against the mirror and watch it crack into a million pieces and not give a crap how many years of bad luck I’ll get from it.”
“Don’t do that,” Bea says. She takes the water glass from my hand. “Of course you can go back to the Globe again. Mr. Knight will be glad for you to come back.”
“No way. I can’t show my face there again. I’m the girl who gave up Willow because she was too scared to go. Every single actor at the Globe wants to go to Willow, it’s like winning the lottery, and I threw it away. Who does that?” I’m totally babbling but I don’t care. It’s all piling on me again, that avalanche of shame and despair that no one can help me fix. “What are my parents going to think about me when they hear the entire story? God, it will be the worst thing ever.” I double over and clutch my stomach. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
Annabelle bites her lip. She doesn’t say anything else, and that scares me. Annabelle always has an answer for everything, but she doesn’t have a plan for this.
“Maybe you aren’t pregnant anymore,” Bea says. “I’ve heard of women whose pregnancy disappeared.”
“Another podcast?” Annabelle asks.
“No, a TV show.”
“Like that would happen to me.” I clench my hands so hard, I can feel my nails biting into my palms.
They win—the crisis center people, the judge, the guardian ad litem, the protesters, even that Christian family in the Waffle Factory. They’ve all won, and I’ve lost. I imagine how happy they would be if they knew it, their realization that their prayers worked, their judgment worked. Think you can have sex? Well, think again.
It feels like a knife in my heart.
“First thing we have to do is see if you’re still pregnant. Maybe Bea is right.” Annabelle moves into action. She grabs her clothes from the bottom of her bed and starts to get dressed. “Bea, stay here with Camille. I’m going to buy a pregnancy test.” Annabelle leaves.
“Maybe it’s time to tell your parents.” Bea sits on the bed and puts her hand on my back, rubbing in little circles.
Tears gather into my eyes and spill onto my cheeks at the thought of it. I don’t bother to wipe them away. I don’t have the strength to lift my arms. To pick up my phone. To call my parents.
When Annabelle returns, I do the pee-on-the-end thing, and Annabelle takes it out of my hand, not caring that my pee is still dripping off it. She watches it for the three full minutes before throwing it in the trash. Her face tells me everything.
I feel hope drain out of me. There’s nothing left in me. This is what giving up feels like. An empty feeling, like you could cross a street in the middle of traffic and not care if a bus hits you.
I go into the bathroom and start packing my stuff. Like a robot, I brush my hair. My eyes are bloodshot from crying and lack of sleep.
I take out my phone.
Hi Mom. Call when you get a chance?
I dial the Houston clinic.
“Hi, this is Camille Winchester. I was in there last week for my first appointment. I had an appointment for this Monday, but I had to cancel it. Is it still available?”
“Camille Winchester?” I can hear the woman typing on her computer. “Oh yes. You had your sonogram with Dr. Esperanza. I’m afraid that space is no longer available. I can get you in on her first appointment in two weeks.”
“Two weeks? Isn’t there anything earlier with another doctor?”
“I’m so sorry, but Dr. Esperanza has to do the procedure, or else you’ll have to start over with another doctor. How many weeks pregnant are you?”
“Eleven,” I say. “The procedure costs more after twelve weeks, right?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I swallow. “Um, how much?”
“The price doubles, I’m afraid. And it’s a more complicated procedure. Have you tried New Mexico? There are no age restrictions or waiting periods there.”
“No. I didn’t know about New Mexico. I didn’t know they did that.”
“Give me your email address and I’ll send you a list.”