Look at You Now Page 2

  “Hello, Lizzie Pryor.”

  “Hi, Father.”

  “This is a surprise.”

  “Yes… . My mom is late.”

  “The other children have long gone. Are you sure she’s coming?”

  “I think so, I mean, I hope so.” I studied his long black robe as he sat down on the step next to me. It was like a dress.

  “Do you like thumb wars, Liz?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you want to play?”

  I stuck my thumb out and beat him six times in a row. He looked carefully at his watch after the thumb wars and said, “Do you think we might give your mom a call?”

  “446-7737, that’s our number. Yes, thank you, Father. I think that’s a great idea. It will be busy, it’s always busy, but we’ll just have to try again and again till they answer, okay?”

  Just as we were about to go inside and call, I saw my mom’s car pull up. I was crazy with relief. I frantically gathered my things and almost bonked the priest on his head with my book bag.

  “Sorry, Father, but you see? There she is, you see her? That’s our car, see it? Do you see it? She’s here. Thank you for keeping me company. I’m going to be all right, Father, and have dinner with my family and live at my house, isn’t that great?” I flew down the steps and into the backseat of my mother’s messy car. Father Joseph made his way to the car window equally quickly.

  “You’re really late, Dorothy.”

  Her Katharine Hepburn voice surfaced. “I am well aware of how late I am, thank you, Father.”

  “I see. Well, I do have the authority to caution you: This should not happen again.”

  She looked right at him. “I am doing the best I can, Father. I have six other children at home and my husband is traveling for work.”

  “God has millions of children, Dorothy. Your best was not good enough today. I’ll pray for you. And you, Lizzie, come find me if she happens to be late again, okay?”

  “Okay, I will, Father. Practice at thumb wars so you can beat me.” He waved as my mother pulled off. I decided I would pray for my mother too, to not be late so much.

  • • • •

  Hours later, the day was ending, we were still driving, and there was nothing to see but darkness. My mom was messing with the wipers, trying to get the snow off the windshield. There were piles of papers, school flyers, books of stamps, and lipsticks strewn across her dashboard. It was a wonder she could see out the windshield at all. She never did fit the image people had of a woman with seven kids. She didn’t own an apron and never baked a pie or cookies in her life. She wasn’t a line-the-lunches-up kind of lady; she was more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants, hope-like-hell-she-makes-it lady.

  A lot of our life was left to chance, and by what seemed so often a miracle, things ended up working out most of the time. It might have been her unwavering belief in positive thinking. My mom was a fanatic about finding the good in people and in life, and she was a believer in hope. Whatever the situation, she could find the pinhole of greatness. It was a gift. She pounded phrases like see the glass half full, smile and the world smiles with you, turn the other cheek, rise above it, expand your horizons, reach for the moon into our young minds until she was sure we would look and find the good first.

  I suddenly thought about all the things in life my mom had so seamlessly taught me by simply being who she was. Her faith in life was lodged inside me in a way I could never really explain.

  What I imagine Dorothy was placed on the planet to do was to love people. Strange as that may sound, she was a master. Being loved by our mother was one of the most important things that would happen to any of us. No matter the other ways she fell short, she effectively taught seven people the single greatest thing life has to offer: She taught us how to love and how to be loved.

  • • • •

  I hadn’t seen a thing, not even a billboard, for miles. We were in the middle of nowhere. Then finally a lone building appeared ahead. As we drew closer I could see it was a small hospital. There was a big square cement building behind it on a little hill. I saw a faded green wooden sign out in front of the cement building that read, Gwendolyn House. The sign had a large crucifix on it, with a dented Jesus lying sad and suffering. We pulled into a spot in a small parking lot outside of the cement building. My mom dropped her head onto her hands, which were still holding the steering wheel. I felt my guilt all the way through to my bones. I was the reason for all of this. It was on me. I wondered in that moment if it was true that God only gives you what you can handle. I’d heard that saying a thousand times. When I was really little, I remember hoping that God knew I couldn’t handle losing the tetherball tournament, and that I couldn’t handle not getting a guitar. I hoped God wasn’t taking a break that day in the car. I hoped like hell he was watching and would make sure I could handle what was happening.

  Dorothy finally lifted her head off the steering wheel and faced me. “Lizzie, I need you to pay very close attention to what I am about to say. It is extremely important, do you understand me?”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “We’re here, and there are a few things you need to know.” She shuffled around in the seat as she spoke. “We’ve decided we are not going to tell your brothers and sisters, nor your grandparents, a single word about this. Neither your friends nor anyone you know can ever know you were here. They will all be told you are sick and at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota.”

  What? This was the first I’d heard of this.

  “I’m sick? What am I sick with, Mom?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What’s the Mayo Clinic?” She looked almost annoyed.

  “It’s a medical diagnoooosticcccc clinic in Minnesota, one of the best in the country.”

  I looked at the dark vastness outside the car. I was trapped. Trapped in that car, in my body, in my life—and about to be trapped in a cement building in the middle of nowhere, Indiana.

  Dorothy continued, “They will take care of you here and that’s what you need.” She began to sound like the incoherent mumble of Charlie Brown’s parents. “I’ll try to visit, but I have to take care of your sisters, wa wa wa waaa.”

  I wanted to ask her if it would be better if I were sick, maybe even dying, if that would be easier, but I didn’t because somehow, in that very moment, my mom looked different to me. For the first time in my life I saw her as a person. I remember once seeing my third-grade teacher out at a restaurant and thinking, What the heck is Mrs. Beckwar doing eating? Teachers don’t go to restaurants. And moms aren’t people, they’re moms. But that moment in the car, Dorothy was just a person, racked with worry, defeated and overwhelmed. It scared me. I was the cause of this. I’d shamed my parents to the point of having to lie to my brothers and sisters, and to all their friends. And on top of that, they were asking me to lie to everyone who meant anything to me, for the rest of my life. I wasn’t taught to lie. I guess someone forgot to tell me that lying was indeed acceptable, if life got bad enough, and if your kid was truly terrible. I looked at Dorothy—the devout practicing Catholic, the firm believer in “all things will work out”—and I was suddenly terrified. I didn’t see hope or faith or any good in this; all I saw was despair. Watching terror besiege the person who had continually given me strength throughout my life was like someone reaching over and pulling out my own power cord.

  “Mom, I’m sorry, more sorry than I’ve ever been in my life.” I could barely get the words past the rising mountain in the back of my throat. “I know how disappointing I am. I even know that you may never be able to love me the same.”

  She stared straight ahead and said, “Love doesn’t work that way, Liz. I’ll love you as I’ve always loved you forever. Mark my words, that will never change.”

  My entire body began to tremble. “Mom, I really don’t want to go in there.”

  “I know you don’t, but it’s what we have to do.” My chest felt as though it was going to come up through
my throat. “I don’t know what else to do. There weren’t a lot of options. If you’re here I can at least drive up to visit you.”

  We both sat quietly, both terrified, in different ways. She sat up straight, as though she were gathering her own courage, and turned off the car.

  “We have to go in. Get yourself together.” It was still snowing. I got my bag and my guitar out of the trunk and followed the click, click, click of Dorothy’s heeled boots across the icy path toward the entrance. The building was set back on a small hill, surrounded by a lot of land and what looked like an endless amount of trees. It was mostly concrete, and I couldn’t see any windows. There were very few lights on, so I couldn’t see very well. The first thing I noticed as we made our way to the entrance was a small sign to the right of a big door that read Locked Facility. My mother pushed the red button marked Entry and a loud buzz sounded. We walked into a small hall lit by fluorescent lights above. We went through another door and into a stark entranceway. The floor was tiled and the walls painted brown. A large black woman with unfriendly eyes was sitting at a desk behind a wiry chain link–looking fence barrier, almost as if she were in a cage. I peered through the fence into the small room where she sat. I saw a little TV and some file cabinets. The woman ignored us. My mother leaned toward the desk and said in her slightly hushed Katharine Hepburn voice, “Pardon me, we are here to see Ms. Graham.”

  I whispered, “Why does it say Locked Facility, Mom?”

  There was a ball of terror churning inside me. Before she could answer, another woman approached, a petite white woman wearing a gray wool suit, with short black hair and wire-rimmed glasses resting on her head. She looked to be in her forties, around my mom’s age. She said hello and led us into her office. There was a framed plaque that read,

  Even though I walk in the dark valley

  I fear no evil for you are at my side

  With your rod and your staff that give me courage

  The woman took off her coat, folded it just so, and sat down on the wooden desk chair. She looked at me and said, “I am Ms. Graham, welcome to the Gwendolyn House.” She said it without a lot of welcome. She looked down at the papers in front of her as she continued. “I am the resident social worker and will be here for Liz in any way she might need me. Beginning with the mandated weekly sessions she will attend here in my office … Tuesdays are her day, one o’clock, and she may never miss.” She wasn’t a warm person, but she wasn’t mean either, she was just kind of cold and sterile. My tears were falling out of my eyes like rain off a roof, but there was no sound.

  My mother spoke. “I am Dooorrrooothy Pryor, and as you know this … is Liz. We are grateful for the accommodation on such short notice.” The woman looked at me curiously over her reading glasses for a long moment and then asked my mother, “Why is she crying?”

  Dorothy, in the way only she could, said in a matter-of-fact tone, “She’s pregnant.” She said it long and slow, making her point.

  The woman paused. “Well, yes, that is why she’s here. But why is she crying?”

  Dorothy paused, and then, “I would guess she’s crying because she’s terrified, Ms. Graham. She just turned seventeen years old, she has to leave her friends and family, she has to hide from everyone she knows, miss her last months of high school, and of course she will have to labor and biiiiiiirth a child.” The Charlie Brown–muffled-parent voice had disappeared. I could hear my mother again, loud and clear.

  Ms. Graham appeared miffed. She looked at me over the edge of her glasses, sitting low on her nose now, and handed me a tissue. She went on to explain what I could expect for the next several months. Ms. Graham described the “facility” as a place where unwed mothers, some “in trouble,” some just “unfortunate,” come to receive the care and assistance they need during pregnancy. It was now a government-run facility.

  “Many of the girls in this facility are wards of the state,” Ms. Graham said. “They’ve come from juvenile detention homes and/or foster care. They all come from households surviving below the poverty line, which allows them to come in for the care they need for the duration of their pregnancies. This is a locked facility; the girls cannot leave the premises. They have specific times when they can go outside, but we have worked very hard to make it a place where they feel welcome.”

  The silence was deafening as we both absorbed Ms. Graham’s words. Was this a prison? Was that how badly I’d messed up my life? My mother finally asked, “Can you explain to Liz what we spoke about on the phone?”

  Ms. Graham began. “Yes. Here is how it will work: You will have access and free rein to go anywhere at all times. You will have a badge that gives you this access but you must show it to the guards. Your parents have been clear about not revealing your last name to anyone; therefore, no matter what happens, do not reveal your last name. You will be Liz P. while you are here. It is not often—actually, never have we had a resident such as yourself—someone who is in hiding from her community and family—so we are working it out as we go along. You obviously will be the only resident to have access, meaning you are not technically on lockdown. Your father has provided money you might need while here, although there are not too many places to spend it. There are beautiful grounds, which you cannot see at night, but in the morning you can look for the paths we have through the surrounding grounds outside. There is also a schoolhouse up the hill, which the girls walk to and from daily. They attend school for a few hours in the mornings. The cafeteria is in the basement; the food is not great, but you will find things to eat. There are vending machines at the end of the hall. You also have pay phone privileges. You will be in a single room for as long as we can offer that to you. At the moment we are clear, but we may have to allow a roommate in, as the girls filter in and out all the time. There is a doctor on the premises, with whom you will meet every week for your OB checkups. The hospital where you will deliver your baby is right next door, easily accessible, through a secure hallway under the building.”

  Ms. Graham kept talking. She sounded strict, like a boring high school history teacher, but there was something else about her. I could feel little drops of kindness, maybe even a softness as she spoke. “There are chores required for the residents who live here, and you will not be exempted from them; it felt wrong not to have you participate. They involve sweeping, emptying garbage, cleaning bathrooms, things like that. Your name will be on the white chore board in the lounge area—with a television, couches, et cetera—on the wing where you will stay. It is not much but the girls spend most of their day there. I am the social worker here; you will report to me once a week to let me know how you are doing. There is a woman in charge of your wing with whom you can consult if you have any issues. There is a chapel behind the facility that is open all hours. There is also a discipline system on your wing for girls who don’t fulfill their responsibilities or who partake in any sort of violence or harm to fellow residents. These girls have had challenging lives; they are also emotional and they’re pregnant. Some of them have had altercations, but for the most part they are well-adjusted and grateful to be here where there is a warm bed and food to eat. Smoking is allowed in the lounge and cigarettes can be bought in a machine in the basement. When is your baby due?”

  My mother answered, “Her baby has to be delivered before her high school graduation date, which is June first.”

  “I see. Well, let us hope that happens for her.”

  The Katharine Hepburn voice was gone. The hardcore, end-of-her-rope Dorothy had emerged. “That has to happen for her,” she said. “It took a lot of cooperation to get her high school to agree to the school credits transferring and to keep all information off the records. The only unbending requirement is that she be physically present for graduation. Liz will be going off to college in the fall, but not without showing up to receive her diploma. Her high school was incredibly accommodating. Liz, you should feel very grateful.”

  I was having trouble breathing. I whispered, “I’m grate
ful, Mom.”

  “When the time comes, Mrs. Pryor, we will see if inducing labor for Liz would be something the doctor can recommend.”

  The Katharine Hepburn voice returned. Dorothy was back in control. “I thank you, Ms. Graham, thank you again for everything. This will be an adjustment, but we have no choice. Please call if she needs anything, day or night. And, Ms. Graham, as I told you on the phone, Liz will be giving this baby up for adoption immediately after the birth. In fact, she has made a promise that she will not look at, touch, or ask about anything other than the sex of the child. We need to make sure she follows through on that; in the end, it will make it easier for her.”

  Ms. Graham looked over at me, as though she needed confirmation. I nodded, and then watched as my mother reached for her white cashmere scarf. As she wrapped it around her neck she said something else, but her voice sounded muffled and far away. I was sinking underwater and had nothing to grab on to to stop myself. She was leaving, I was staying, and I’d never ever been more terrified. It was the same feeling I’d had as a young kid, when she dropped me at school in kindergarten. And then again in the beginning of the year in first grade, second grade, and third grade. I had cried and whimpered my way through school in the early years away from my family, away from my mom. Something inside me couldn’t seem to catch hold of myself.