What I Thought I Knew: A Memoir by Alice Eve Cohen Read Free Book Online Page B

support.
    “You’re too far into the pregnancy now,” said Madeline.
    “Michael will be such a great father,” said Jennifer.
    “I hope you have the baby. I have a feeling everything will work out,” said Madeline.
    I don’t want to lose Michael.
    I don’t want to have a baby.
    But my baby has already waved at me, so I guess she thinks it’s a deal.
    “You’re such a mommy,” said Jennifer. “You love children so much. Think about how much you love Julia. If you abort this baby, for the rest of your life you won’t know if you did the right thing.”
    And if I don’t abort this baby, for the rest of my life, I won’t know if I did the right thing.
     
     
    It’s Monday, the last day of summer. I’ve booked a flight to Wichita tomorrow. I would have to go out alone. I am terrified of the physical procedure. I’m afraid of the angry mob of Kansans. I’m scared of what will happen to me physically, psychologically. I’m terrified of being in Wichita by myself for this horrific ordeal. I’m terrified of what will happen physically, the dismembering and—the killing of the fetus. The killing. The killing of what might be a viable baby. Not knowing for the rest of my life if I did the right thing.
    I cancel my flight to Wichita and my appointment at the Women’s Health Center.
    I hang up.
    My mind is racing, projecting a rapid-fire slide show of everything that’s happened in the last six months. I start to hyperventilate, try to calm myself.
    I close my eyes and talk myself into breathing slowly.
    I lift my shirt and run my hands over my belly, the skin stretched tight over the newly globe-shaped center of my life, which rises and falls with each long inhale and exhale. Then something new. A small tremor, directly under my right hand and also deep inside. It’s subtle. . . . Another. . . . I feel the baby kicking.
     
     
    The phone rings. It’s Michael in Cleveland.
    “Please don’t go to Wichita.”
    “I’ve already decided not to go.”
    “Thank God!”
    He cries for a while. Then we’re both quiet. Then he says, “Last night, my friend Beverly said, ‘There’s a reason God makes human gestation take nine months. It takes that long to get used to the idea of having a baby. You guys missed out on the first six months.’ ”
    “Yeah, we did.”
    “We’ll catch up.”
    “I hope so.”
    “I love you. I have to go. I perform in ten minutes.”
     
     
    I’m having a baby.
    I don’t know what will happen after that.
    I buy three pairs of maternity pants, with elastic stomach panels.
     
     
    The next morning I walked Julia to school. It was the second week of school. None of the other parents, many of whom were friends, knew I was pregnant. Even at six and a half months I was barely showing, so nobody asked.
    Julia’s school was only two blocks from our apartment. As we crossed Broadway, holding hands, I had a contraction and was doubled over in pain in the middle of the street. I made it to the median and told Julia I would watch her walk to school from there. She nodded seriously, carefully looked both ways, and crossed the street. It was the first time Julia had ever crossed a street by herself. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned around and waved, looking for encouragement. I waved back and blew her a kiss. She ran down the long block and I held my breath as she waited for the crossing guard to help her cross Amsterdam Avenue, even more treacherous than Broadway, a thunderous river of trucks and cabs.

Scene 4
    My Left Side
    Dr. Rosenbloom prescribed bed rest for the duration of the pregnancy. “Drink at least two quarts of Gatorade a day. Keep hydrated to prevent contractions. No sex. Only get out of bed to go to the bathroom, have a meal, or go to an appointment that is essential for your health.”
    “What about editing my theater journal? I can’t afford to lose this job.”
    “Edit it in bed on your left side.”
    “What about teaching my college course on Monday