still playing the aggrieved
one. I could hear him stomping around upstairs like a kid who has lost his video game privileges. Doors were slammed, drawers
were flung open and banged shut. I heard him punch the wall and scream, “Fuck! Fuck! She can’t do this to me!”
Mary looked frightened. “What’s he gonna do to us, Mrs. Ryan?”
I held her in my arms. Her hair smelled of Alberto VO5. “He’s never going to do anything to either of us, ever again.”
She started sobbing. “It’s just not fair, Mrs. Ryan.”
“What’s not fair, Mary?”
“I was supposed to be a married American wife. That’s what I was supposed to be!”
Mary seemed to be teetering between heartbreak and an aggressive sense of entitlement, the way Pete gets when he’s denied
something he’d expected to have. (“But you
told
me the ice cream truck would come through the neighborhood today! It’s just not fair!”) I didn’t know what to say except
the lame, allpurpose: “Nobody ever said life was going to be fair.”
She looked up at me and blinked. “True.” She hugged me more tightly now.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ryan. Thank you for being my friend.”
I had no idea what I was going to do with a sixteen-year-old Filipina, but I certainly didn’t planto send her back to that cell on Lake Merle. I told her I’d pay for her way back to the Philippines. “Oh no, Mrs. Ryan!” She
was terrified. “I can’t ever go back home. My father would kill me if he found out what happened. I can’t ever go back, ever.
Please don’t send me back there!”
“Mary, do you have any family in the States?”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Somewhere in Philadelphia.” She pronounced it “Pilladelphia.” “They are cousins of my father.”
“Mary, I’m going to try to arrange for you to live with them. Until then”—I swallowed hard—“you can stay with me for a while,
me and Pete.”
She was elated. “And Tippy? With the babies?”
“Well, Tippy yes, but we’ll have to bring the babies to the animal shelter. We can’t take them too.”
“Okay, Mrs. Ryan. That’s okay.” She looked disappointed, but quickly brightened. “Thank you, Mrs. Ryan.”
“Call me Valerie, please.” Suddenly I heard the door slam and I knew Roger was leaving. The garage door rumbled open. Mary
and I went to the bay window in the living room and we watched his van back out of the driveway. His eyes met mine as he pulled
away. Then he flashed his middle finger.
Mary is in the guest room now, watching
I Love Lucy.
It’s been a long day.
’Til next time,
V
March 4
Mary’s period is eleven days late. This morning she threw up after breakfast. I should be ripping my hair out, but I feel
oddly serene. Is it the Prozac, or the prospect of having a baby in the house again? I know the neighbors would relish the
gossip: First my husband had an underage lover, and now a baby? But the compelling reality is that this child would be linked
by blood to my own son. Why wouldn’t I want that child growing up in this house? On the other hand, the baby would be a constant
reminder of Roger’s sexual hubris. And what if Roger insists on helping to raise this child? On the other, other hand: A baby!
A sweet, soft package of cuddly love! I get all gooey inside just thinking about it. Or am I just losing my mind?
’Til next time,
V
March 4, continued
Oh, God. Mary says that she wants to “make the baby go away.” Apparently, Roger phoned her while I was out and insisted she
get an abortion or he would get her booted out of the country. She’s been on the phone all afternoon with her Auntie Esta
in the Philippines. From what I can piece together, Esta belongs to some kind of underground women’s groupthat, among other services, dispenses advice on doit-yourself abortion.
“Auntie Esta knows everything,” Mary told me. She waved a paper in front of my face. In the bubbly universal handwriting of
teen girls, Mary had
one. I could hear him stomping around upstairs like a kid who has lost his video game privileges. Doors were slammed, drawers
were flung open and banged shut. I heard him punch the wall and scream, “Fuck! Fuck! She can’t do this to me!”
Mary looked frightened. “What’s he gonna do to us, Mrs. Ryan?”
I held her in my arms. Her hair smelled of Alberto VO5. “He’s never going to do anything to either of us, ever again.”
She started sobbing. “It’s just not fair, Mrs. Ryan.”
“What’s not fair, Mary?”
“I was supposed to be a married American wife. That’s what I was supposed to be!”
Mary seemed to be teetering between heartbreak and an aggressive sense of entitlement, the way Pete gets when he’s denied
something he’d expected to have. (“But you
told
me the ice cream truck would come through the neighborhood today! It’s just not fair!”) I didn’t know what to say except
the lame, allpurpose: “Nobody ever said life was going to be fair.”
She looked up at me and blinked. “True.” She hugged me more tightly now.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ryan. Thank you for being my friend.”
I had no idea what I was going to do with a sixteen-year-old Filipina, but I certainly didn’t planto send her back to that cell on Lake Merle. I told her I’d pay for her way back to the Philippines. “Oh no, Mrs. Ryan!” She
was terrified. “I can’t ever go back home. My father would kill me if he found out what happened. I can’t ever go back, ever.
Please don’t send me back there!”
“Mary, do you have any family in the States?”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Somewhere in Philadelphia.” She pronounced it “Pilladelphia.” “They are cousins of my father.”
“Mary, I’m going to try to arrange for you to live with them. Until then”—I swallowed hard—“you can stay with me for a while,
me and Pete.”
She was elated. “And Tippy? With the babies?”
“Well, Tippy yes, but we’ll have to bring the babies to the animal shelter. We can’t take them too.”
“Okay, Mrs. Ryan. That’s okay.” She looked disappointed, but quickly brightened. “Thank you, Mrs. Ryan.”
“Call me Valerie, please.” Suddenly I heard the door slam and I knew Roger was leaving. The garage door rumbled open. Mary
and I went to the bay window in the living room and we watched his van back out of the driveway. His eyes met mine as he pulled
away. Then he flashed his middle finger.
Mary is in the guest room now, watching
I Love Lucy.
It’s been a long day.
’Til next time,
V
March 4
Mary’s period is eleven days late. This morning she threw up after breakfast. I should be ripping my hair out, but I feel
oddly serene. Is it the Prozac, or the prospect of having a baby in the house again? I know the neighbors would relish the
gossip: First my husband had an underage lover, and now a baby? But the compelling reality is that this child would be linked
by blood to my own son. Why wouldn’t I want that child growing up in this house? On the other hand, the baby would be a constant
reminder of Roger’s sexual hubris. And what if Roger insists on helping to raise this child? On the other, other hand: A baby!
A sweet, soft package of cuddly love! I get all gooey inside just thinking about it. Or am I just losing my mind?
’Til next time,
V
March 4, continued
Oh, God. Mary says that she wants to “make the baby go away.” Apparently, Roger phoned her while I was out and insisted she
get an abortion or he would get her booted out of the country. She’s been on the phone all afternoon with her Auntie Esta
in the Philippines. From what I can piece together, Esta belongs to some kind of underground women’s groupthat, among other services, dispenses advice on doit-yourself abortion.
“Auntie Esta knows everything,” Mary told me. She waved a paper in front of my face. In the bubbly universal handwriting of
teen girls, Mary had
Similar Books
