changed into a different person—not the man I met. I should leave and go back to San Francisco, but it's like I'm addicted to him.”
“He's doing more drugs,” Kitsaun said. “I can see that.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “And so am I—”
“Remember when you were little and Damon gave you a rope burn across your face?”
“Yes.” I laughed. “You beat him up during recess.”
“Well, I'm twenty-one now and I'm still your big sister. I can be down here in a couple of hours if you need me. If you want to come home, come. And please eat more than fried chicken.”
I drove her to Burbank Airport in the Thunderbird, coming back over Highland Boulevard in the summer sunshine. Marvin Gaye was on the radio, “Oh, mercy, mercy me. Things ain't what they used to be …” I sang along with his gentle, plaintivevoice. Mercy—yes, the world was full of suffering, and my life was far from what it had been. I was not cultivating a fertile life of promise or purpose. My body knew this. I realized that I had faded out due to the excruciating pain of physically knowing the truth but not making a change.
Sly began recording in the studio the first night we moved into Bel Air. Stevie helped me unpack. Lynn and Jerry moved into the pool house. I had made a vow to write poetry every afternoon, to try to get my mind motivated. Cal State L.A. was going to mail me their schedule of classes. I thought my life might be getting back on track—until I missed a menstrual period. I waited three weeks and then made an appointment at a women's clinic on La Cienega. The nurse confirmed what I feared: I was pregnant. She asked me to step onto a scale and measured my weight and height.
“You are underweight, young lady. At 5 feet 6 inches and 104 pounds, you're no more than skin and bones.”
I looked in the mirror. I was flat front and back. Even my butt was gone.
“What are you going to do?” she asked. I stepped off the scale and looked down at the floor. She repeated her question.
“I don't know.”
“Get dressed. I'll be back.”
She gave me pamphlets about birth control, pregnancy, and abortion. “If you need someone to talk to, call us. We have counselors.”
When I left the clinic, I drove down Fountain Avenue, where I had lived when I moved to L.A. Then I drove west, out Sunset Boulevard to the beach.
I cannot have a baby—I have taken
too many drugs. The baby will not be healthy or normal. I don't want a baby. I need to turn my own life around—start work or go back to school. I will have to get an abortion. It isn't legal, but I have heard of women finding doctors who perform them.
I drove back to Bel Air.
Sly was alone in the control room, his music turned up to ten. His hat was pushed back on his head; his shirt, unbuttoned to his waist, was hanging over black leather pants. “Where were you?”
“Driving.”
“Why didn't you tell me where you were going?” His dark eyes looked through me.
“I had an appointment.”
Sly pushed the knobs on the console down. The music softened.
“I'm pregnant.”
He dropped his forehead on the board. His hands were above him, still holding the knobs.
“I don't think I'm going to have it.”
He looked up at me and smiled, like the old Sly. “Phew. I mean, whatever you want, but phew. Look, my cousin's a nurse.” He stood up and put his arms around me. “I'll call her. Maybe she can help.”
It was a lonely walk to the bedroom. On the bed, I spread out the pamphlets and leafed through them, staring at the titles:
Pregnancy. Birth Control. Abortion.
I tried to remember when I had last refilled my birth control prescription. God—what irresponsibility. I really had only one choice. I was not healthy with all the drugs I had taken. I wanted to go back to school and not have a child.
Sly brought his cousin to the house a week later. “This isToni, he said. He pushed two Seconals in my hand and bolted up the stairs while Toni and I stood facing each other in the
“He's doing more drugs,” Kitsaun said. “I can see that.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “And so am I—”
“Remember when you were little and Damon gave you a rope burn across your face?”
“Yes.” I laughed. “You beat him up during recess.”
“Well, I'm twenty-one now and I'm still your big sister. I can be down here in a couple of hours if you need me. If you want to come home, come. And please eat more than fried chicken.”
I drove her to Burbank Airport in the Thunderbird, coming back over Highland Boulevard in the summer sunshine. Marvin Gaye was on the radio, “Oh, mercy, mercy me. Things ain't what they used to be …” I sang along with his gentle, plaintivevoice. Mercy—yes, the world was full of suffering, and my life was far from what it had been. I was not cultivating a fertile life of promise or purpose. My body knew this. I realized that I had faded out due to the excruciating pain of physically knowing the truth but not making a change.
Sly began recording in the studio the first night we moved into Bel Air. Stevie helped me unpack. Lynn and Jerry moved into the pool house. I had made a vow to write poetry every afternoon, to try to get my mind motivated. Cal State L.A. was going to mail me their schedule of classes. I thought my life might be getting back on track—until I missed a menstrual period. I waited three weeks and then made an appointment at a women's clinic on La Cienega. The nurse confirmed what I feared: I was pregnant. She asked me to step onto a scale and measured my weight and height.
“You are underweight, young lady. At 5 feet 6 inches and 104 pounds, you're no more than skin and bones.”
I looked in the mirror. I was flat front and back. Even my butt was gone.
“What are you going to do?” she asked. I stepped off the scale and looked down at the floor. She repeated her question.
“I don't know.”
“Get dressed. I'll be back.”
She gave me pamphlets about birth control, pregnancy, and abortion. “If you need someone to talk to, call us. We have counselors.”
When I left the clinic, I drove down Fountain Avenue, where I had lived when I moved to L.A. Then I drove west, out Sunset Boulevard to the beach.
I cannot have a baby—I have taken
too many drugs. The baby will not be healthy or normal. I don't want a baby. I need to turn my own life around—start work or go back to school. I will have to get an abortion. It isn't legal, but I have heard of women finding doctors who perform them.
I drove back to Bel Air.
Sly was alone in the control room, his music turned up to ten. His hat was pushed back on his head; his shirt, unbuttoned to his waist, was hanging over black leather pants. “Where were you?”
“Driving.”
“Why didn't you tell me where you were going?” His dark eyes looked through me.
“I had an appointment.”
Sly pushed the knobs on the console down. The music softened.
“I'm pregnant.”
He dropped his forehead on the board. His hands were above him, still holding the knobs.
“I don't think I'm going to have it.”
He looked up at me and smiled, like the old Sly. “Phew. I mean, whatever you want, but phew. Look, my cousin's a nurse.” He stood up and put his arms around me. “I'll call her. Maybe she can help.”
It was a lonely walk to the bedroom. On the bed, I spread out the pamphlets and leafed through them, staring at the titles:
Pregnancy. Birth Control. Abortion.
I tried to remember when I had last refilled my birth control prescription. God—what irresponsibility. I really had only one choice. I was not healthy with all the drugs I had taken. I wanted to go back to school and not have a child.
Sly brought his cousin to the house a week later. “This isToni, he said. He pushed two Seconals in my hand and bolted up the stairs while Toni and I stood facing each other in the
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