By Farrah Zerola
The nurse led us down the hall. I listened to the beeps coming from the machines. I counted my steps, trying to keep in time with the beeps, but as soon as one beep faded into the distance, the next startled me. 1…2…3…beep…1…2…3…beep…. Over and over. It felt like the beeps would never stop, and the hallway would never end. Going and going. The nurse said something to her when we made it to the room. She laid down on the bed, the white of the sheets and the white of the room and the white of her hospital gown playing with my eyes. White on white on white. The nurse said something about getting someone else. I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. What my girlfriend was saying back to her. My thoughts were too distracting. Too loud. The doctor came in, with her white coat bustling behind her and a big, bright smile. She talked with my girlfriend as I looked around the room. I inspected everything, walking slowly, to make it look as though I had a purpose for doing so. I just couldn’t bring myself to look at her. Lying there, her stomach exposed. I heard a slathering sound. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t do this. I wanted to leave; I was nauseous. “James?” Ava called, her voice gentle. I froze in my place.
“Yes?” I replied. I resumed inspecting. I was looking at the window. Not out the window. Just staring at the sill. Staring at the dust on it. I wasn’t ready to turn around.
“James, do you want to look?” Her voice cracked slightly. No, no, no. I’m too young. I’m not ready for this. I shouldn’t be a father. But I had to look. I couldn’t just keep standing there, pretending to be preoccupied. I couldn’t simply ignore the fact that my girlfriend was lying on a hospital bed attached to a machine, or wish away the child that the sonographer was pointing to on the black and white screen. I forced myself to turn around. But instead of looking at the screen, I kept my eyes down. I walked over to Ava, not even able to look at her, but I took her hand. I pressed my thumb on the back of her hand, feeling her. She was here, and she was real. She was just as here and as real as that baby that was on the screen. For some reason the thin barrier that was Ava’s stomach prevented my brain from realizing it. She squeezed my hand, and that was all I needed. My head lifted itself up, without my forcing it. And there it was. The baby. Our baby.
“There is the extra fluid, at the back of the fetus’s neck,” the sonographer pointed to the spot on the screen.
But maybe no one's baby.
Not that long ago we had been sitting in the medical geneticist’s waiting room. It was just us, and another couple. Both wore a ring, and the man rested his hand lightly on the woman’s stomach. They smiled softly at each other, but their eyes gave away the overwhelming emotion that was bursting inside of them.
I remembered what my mother had told me when I was younger. I was watching a movie, and the characters confessed their love to each other. “What’s love?” I had asked. My mother smiled softly. “Love…is a special bond that two people create. They not only know each other, but they understand each other. They can communicate without words,” she said as if she was talking to no one in particular. I was still confused. “But how? How do they do that?” I felt as though I was missing out on some sort of magic. “They use their eyes,” she said, her own sparkling.
When I grew up I began to realize the wisdom in her words, and understand what I didn’t when I was young. I understand now that that kind of bond was something that Ava and I didn’t have. But I was all that Ava had.
“Ava and James?” The geneticist poked his head out of his office, a broad smile pasted on his face. We gave each other a quick glance before standing up. Why are these doctors always smiling? You could never tell if the news was good or bad. Nonetheless, Ava smiled back as we approached him. The only difference was her’s was so clearly genuine. You could see the way her eyes curved at the corners just slightly. You could understand why she had smile lines at 21, the way she smiled so big. It was the same smile that I saw all those years ago as a junior in high school. That was the first time I had seen her, and in those first few seconds I knew I needed to find out who she was. She was just sitting there at the local coffee shop studying with a friend, twisting a lock of wavy, brown hair, and laughing.
“Okay, let's take a look at the results,” the doctor said, flashing us another smile as we sat down. Parents to be. That was us. Everyone was so happy. A new baby, a new life. Because that’s what babies entail. You become a parent and all of a sudden everything changes. And yet, that’s not what scared me the most. It wasn’t everything changing or even becoming a father so young that did it, it was what this smiley man grinning at his computer was about to tell us. “Let me pull up your file,” he said, snapping me out of my petrifying thoughts. As he clicked and scrolled and scanned, his brow became increasingly furrowed. I could feel my breakfast sloshing around inside, as if the toast I ate was about to make a reappearance. I couldn’t take the suspense. “Oh, yes…I just reviewed this one.” I couldn’t be strong anymore. I clasped Ava’s left hand in mine. With my right under and left over, her hand disappeared. I traced little circles on her fingers, staring at my thumb as it went up and down and up and down her hand, eventually making its way to the digitus medicinalis, a term that I somehow remembered from the AP biology class I had taken my senior year of high school. Probably because Ava had been in that class. Digitus medicinalis, otherwise known as the left ring finger.
He finally angled the screen towards us, his face now in a knot, stuck in between a fake smile and a truthful grimace. Now I wanted nothing more than for that false-sense-of-security smile to be glued back on his face. I surveyed the screen immediately, only to discover that I couldn’t make sense of it. I saw numbers and words and percentages, but I couldn’t figure out what they were trying to convey. I felt stupid. I had waited and waited and finally I had what I was waiting for, only to be forced to wait more. I looked to Ava to see if she understood, but she was staring intensely at the doctor, waiting for him to speak. He clasped his hands together on his desk and leaned forward slightly. “I understand that you guys came here to ensure that nothing is wrong with your pregnancy or the baby,” he said, although only speaking to Ava. “And it’s certainly a good thing you did. You’ll notice here that the baby has an extra copy of the 21st chromosome,” he circled a spot on the screen with his mouse.
“What does that mean?” Ava’s voice was suddenly sharp. She didn’t like when she didn’t understand something, and she made it known. As for me, I couldn’t find any words. I was frozen. My terrible thoughts had manifested themselves into existence. I didn’t need to know what it meant to know that it was bad. I could barely wrap my head around being a father, let alone a father to a disabled child. I’m too young. I still have to finish school. I have a job. Why did I think I could raise even a normal child? Now it’s messed up? When am I going to raise a kid? How am I going to raise a kid? What if it needs help that I can’t give it? I’m already drowning in student debt. I had spent weeks researching all the outcomes and issues that a disabled child would have and could bring to a family. Just reading about it I was overwhelmed, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. But Ava just kept asking me to wait before jumping to conclusions. She thought we could do it. That was one of the greatest things that I loved about Ava. Her resilience and ability to remain calm in the most stressful situations. She never gave up until she had exhausted all options and done everything in her power. I also knew that this baby would be no exception.
“Your child most likely has Down syndrome.” This couldn’t have happened. Why does everything that could possibly go wrong, go wrong?
“Oh my God,” I found myself saying. I no longer had control. I wasn’t in my own body.
“It wil be a challenge, but I promise you that nothing is too difficult when it comes to your own child,” the doctor said with what appeared to be a genuinely pitiful smile. “I have a couple of informational sheets and we can discuss next steps or any questions you may-”
“I think we’ll need to reschedule for another time,” I interrupted him. This time it was the look on Ava’s face forcing me back into reality again.
“Oh, of course…” he said, confusion now the only emotion displayed across his face as I stood up. Ava was still frozen, staring straight ahead at the framed certificates that covered the white wall. I couldn’t tell if she was in shock and unable to think or so lost in her thoughts she couldn’t find the way out. I grabbed her by her upper arms and stood her up. I wrapped my arm underneath both of her shoulders and guided her out of the geneticist’s room, waiting room, and then hospital, all the way to the car. She obeyed like a doll.
“That fluid could be a sign of Turner syndrome, Trisomy 21, 18, or 13, heart disease, or another genetic or heart condition,” the sonographer continued, pulling me out of my daze. “Have you done any genetic testing like a chorionic villus sampling?”
“Yes, it’s probably Downs,” Ava winced weakly.
“Okay, well it’s certainly good to know this early,” the sonographer said quickly. And there it was. Confirmed. It wasn’t just a likely outcome anymore. I could no longer tell myself that there was still a chance. I could no longer lie to myself.
The car ride home was quiet. When we walked inside our tiny apartment off-campus, Ava went straight to the couch. At first she just sat there, looking down at her feet. I watched her from the kitchen. Then she laid down, scrunched up her legs, assuming the fetal position, and spread the singular, ratty blanket that was always in a ball on top of her. She started to cry. At first it was just a few tears, but I knew what was coming. I was surprised she had even lasted this long. At last I heard the broken sobs and moans and uneven breathing, her body finally giving in. Giving into the stress and the pain and the terror. After a few moments I walked quietly into the living room. “I don’t know what to say.” I straightened myself. I had to be indifferent. Emotionless. For my sake and for hers. I couldn’t let myself become attached. And I had to be strong. It wouldn’t help anything if both of us stopped functioning. But as I gazed at Ava who was sliding off of the couch and onto the floor, tears and snot streaming down her face, wailing as if she had been struck, I couldn’t do it. I dropped to the ground and grabbed her and held her tight. I cradled her small frame in my lap and bowed my head on her chest. We cried.
That night, over a dinner of plain spaghetti, because I’m not much of a cook, I decided that I would tell Ava how I felt. I figured now was the best time to do it, while I still had the courage, and while everything was still raw. “Ava, honey?” I started. She looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy, but dark circles still shone through. She had never looked so sad, her naturally downturned eyes only making me feel worse. She continued to twist her fork in her spaghetti, winding and unwinding, as we both waited for the other to speak. For a minute, the only sound was her fork scraping the plate. “I think you should get an abortion.” I looked back down at my dinner. Ava’s fork clattered against the table. I didn’t dare look at her. I knew she didn’t want to do it, but we needed to do it.
“I love the name Alara,” she whispered.
“What?”
“I’ve always wanted to name my child Alara.” She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them. Now she looked like a child.
“But, what if it’s a boy?” I was so taken aback by her response that I momentarily forgot about my proposition.
“I don’t care. You just don’t get it,” she shouted as she shoved herself back from the table and stood up, the chair crashing to the ground behind her. She started walking slowly towards me, the tears that had welled in her eyes blurring her vision causing her to stumble. She looked like a drunk, a finger pointed at my chest. “You, you, did this. How dare you!”
“Wh-what are you talking about, Ava?” I stuttered. I couldn’t believe what I was watching. Who is this? This isn’t my Ava. “Ava, how about we go outside? I think we need some fresh air.”
“Don’t you dare demean me,” she snarled.
“I’m not trying to demean you! I just want to talk,” I said firmly, but my hands were in the air as if I had a gun to my head. It felt like it.
“Fine. Let’s talk,” she took a few steps backwards.
“You know that we discussed that this might be an option for us. Obviously this is not ideal, but accidents happen. Luckily, we can fix it,” I reasoned.
“Children don’t need fixing,” she glowered.
“Right, of course. Sorry, that was a poor choice of words,” I said swiftly. “I just think we are too young. We still have almost two years left of undergrad, and you know that we want to get our doctorates. We wouldn’t have enough time or enough money.”
“I know,” she said, her depressed demeanor returning. “It’s just different.”
“What do you mean? What’s different?” She was acting crazy, saying crazy things. I didn’t understand. Is the choice not blatantly clear? I joined Ava beside the table so I could really see her face. I looked deep in her dark brown eyes, searching for her. If there was anything that I needed to know about Ava, the answer was always in her eyes. And I saw her there, hiding behind the knit eyebrows and the pursued lips and the dark sheet of hair. I pulled her into a hug. She tried to stifle her cries, but I felt my shoulder becoming damp, and her body shaking.
“I don’t even know. It’s just something I can feel,” came her muffled voice.
“Ava, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” She pulled away from my arms just enough to look up at me, and I noticed that her tears seemed to immediately evaporate.
“I’m trying to say that I can not, and will not give up this child.” Her face was stone. Stolid and unreadable.
“I don’t think I can do this.” And just as the tears had drained from Ava’s eyes, any sympathy I had drained from my soul. I dropped my arms and walked away.
“No!” Ava screamed. She grabbed my wrist but I shook her off, not bothering to turn around. “What?…no….” I heard her collapse behind me. It was cruel, but I had to make myself clear. I was not throwing my life away.
Around midnight I felt her crawl into bed. She made sure to keep as much space between us as possible. I heard her sniffle a few times, and then methodically tap her water glass. One finger at a time, each nail struck the glass, producing a ringing sound. It was something she always did the night before a big exam, in order to calm her nerves. When she was younger she wanted to be a musician, but her parents wouldn’t allow it. She still wanted to be one. She knew how to play the piano, and the guitar, and the saxophone. Her parents got rid of the instruments when they found out, to prevent her from acting on that dream. They told her she would have no future if she didn’t go into the medical field. But it also prevented them from talking. Tapping that glass, creating her music, soothed her. Finally, exhausted, her breathing became deep and slow.
However, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, thinking about what the sonographer and the geneticist and Ava had said. She was pregnant with a child, the child was disabled, and we had no means to care for it. And yet, Ava still wanted to have the baby. I remembered my mom telling me that love could make you do crazy things. I only just figured out the wisdom in those words. I realized that as crazy as Ava seemed, she must truly love the child to go through with the pregnancy. And I loved Ava, and therefore I was willing to do whatever it took to make her happy. If having that child was going to do that for her, then I was going to do it with her.
When I woke up the next morning I rolled over to face Ava. I was prepared to make amends. “Good morning,” I said, placing my hand on her back to figure out if she was awake. She was wrapped in blankets next to me the entire night, and yet she was cold. I sat up and shook her, hard. “Ava!” No response. I looked up to scan the room, and that was when I noticed a white lid tossed askew, and a small orange container on the nightstand. Empty.
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