Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [131]
“Do you even know anyone with AIDS, Eliza?”
“No.” It hadn’t occurred to her that this was something to be ashamed of. Or that Johnny himself might know people with AIDS. “What, you want a medal for every friend with AIDS?”
Now Johnny stopped in the middle of the street. First Street and First Avenue. She’d never been on this corner before. It felt like the nerve center of the city. The muscle in Johnny’s jaw hardened, and his hands tightened around her shoes. For a moment, she expected him to hit her with one of them. She almost welcomed it.
“You’re a stupid girl,” he said quietly, looking her in the eye. “You don’t know one goddamn thing.” Then he turned and crossed to the sidewalk. Eliza trotted after him.
“I don’t need this shit!” she said, catching up. “I don’t need your help.”
“Fine, Eliza. I have other things to worry about. If you don’t need my help, go home and call your mom.”
“Maybe I will.” Why not? He was the one who said her mother couldn’t force her to give up the baby.
“Wonderful. Enjoy your trust fund. I hope you sleep tight in your eight-million thread count, Egyptian cotton—”
“I haven’t slept since I was fifteen.”
“What does—”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant! I can’t sleep.” She stopped walking, exhausted. “I just lie there.” Her voice was small. She grabbed two fistfuls of sweaty hair. She wanted to pull it out at the root. “I just lie there, thinking . . .”
“Put your shoes on.”
“I can’t,” she moaned. “My feet are the size of—”
“Put your shoes on, Eliza.” He dropped her loafers on the sidewalk. “We’re here.”
She looked up at the yellow brick building in front of them. The small sign that hung beside the entrance said PLANNED PARENTHOOD MARGARET SANGER CENTER.
“This is it?”
Still barefoot, she padded over to the door and peeked in. The glass was cool on her hands. Inside were the same front desk, the same metal detector.
Your handbag, miss.
It seemed like a long time ago. On the way to the clinic in New Jersey, she had been sick in the bathroom on the train. What was growing inside her had made her sick. Or what she was about to do had made her sick. If she had handed over her bag, if she had walked through the metal detector.
“Don’t tell me you’re too good for Planned Parenthood.”
“I’m not going in. Not here.” She spoke quietly, and Johnny matched his voice to hers.
“Eliza, I know you’ve been doing drugs, and I don’t want to know how much, or what kind. You’ll be lucky if that baby doesn’t have brain damage. You are going inside.”
They were standing very close. Eliza could see the beads of sweat above his lip. Then the door to the clinic opened, and they stepped out of the way. Johnny hurried to hold it while a girl stepped out. She was alone, not visibly pregnant. Johnny and Eliza watched as she walked to the curb, put on a set of headphones, and lit a cigarette. Perhaps she was waiting for a ride.
To Johnny, Eliza said, “I was going to get an abortion. I could have.”
This did not seem to surprise him. But saying it aloud brought the nausea rushing back. Her body was boiling hot, but her arms were trembling with goose bumps. Johnny was still holding open the door, and the air-conditioning rushed out at them.
“Do you know why I didn’t?”
He let the door fall closed. His face was drawn. He already knew, but he didn’t want to hear her say it.
“The same reason you married me. Because your brother’s dead.”
“Eliza—”
“If he was alive, I wouldn’t be stuck with this baby, and you wouldn’t be stuck with me.”
She turned and walked to the curb, where the other girl was waiting. A taxi passed by, and Eliza raised her arm, but it kept driving.
“Eliza, where are you going?”
Another taxi approached, and this one slowed for her.
“Take your shoes!” Johnny rushed over and held out the loafers, one forefinger hooked inside each heel. She didn’t want them. She didn’t want anything from him.
“Give them to one of your friends,” she said, and got into the car.
Johnny walked