介绍： 055 | A Lost Child, but Not Mine

ON the third anniversary of my abortion, I found out via MySpace that my ex-boyfriend was having a baby with another woman. It was none of my business, except I somehow convinced myself that his new baby was a replica of ours, and as such I felt a sense of ownership, of respo...

介绍： 055 | A Lost Child, but Not Mine

ON the third anniversary of my abortion, I found out via MySpace that my ex-boyfriend was having a baby with another woman. It was none of my business, except I somehow convinced myself that his new baby was a replica of ours, and as such I felt a sense of ownership, of responsibility for the child’s well-being.

My college roommate in Vermont had introduced us. He was road-weary that first night, having just driven up from a concert in Kentucky, my home state. He was 20, a ski-lift operator, a community college student. I was a blond Episcopal-bred 19-year-old studying literature and costume design.

Early on, he told me he was on probation for drug-related offenses, which was forcing him to remain clean and sober. It was easy for me to accept his blemished past because I had my own struggles with drugs and alcohol, making me feel like Nancy to his Sid.

He and I talked textbooks and compared rap sheets. In his ramshackle apartment, we belted out Bob Dylan songs as he twirled me across the sloping floorboards. He gave me piggyback rides up my dormitory steps and carted me around town on the handlebars of a bicycle.

Two months after we met, his probation ended. Without supervision, he began crushing up OxyContin and sucking the powder into his nose through a rolled-up dollar bill.

On St. Patrick’s Day I stayed after theater class, sewing a corset. Clad in a threadbare flannel shirt, he stopped in to help me clip the bones. I hoped nobody could see the dope in his pinned eyes or the pregnancy in mine. My period was two weeks late.

“If it hasn’t come by April, we’ll take a test,” he whispered.

Several weeks later, after a university doctor delivered the news, he and I lay side-by-side on his bare twin mattress. “I’m not ready to be a father,” he said.

I nodded, planting my head on his chest. I stared at the water-stained ceiling and prayed he would score a lucrative job instead of more OxyContin. I let myself imagine that I could clean up my own act and finish school and we could hire an au pair, and everything would be fine. But I knew it wouldn’t happen that way.

I had promised myself not to tell my parents, but when I called my mother in Kentucky, I burst into tears as soon as she answered the phone. In the background, my father said, “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” It had been our collective worst nightmare. “Come on home,” my mother sobbed. “We’ll rear the child here.”

I told her I just couldn’t.

The truth is, I had ambitions. While I adored children and romanticized the idea of one day raising a small brood dressed in elaborate get-ups of my own design, I wanted a family on my terms: happily married with enough money to live well. After college, after graduate school, after I had started a career. There was no fantasy in raising a child alone. In deciding against adoption, I blamed alcohol: the chance that I had already harmed the baby with my drinking.

But my ambivalence remained, and when I quit drinking, again thinking of the baby, my boyfriend was lucid enough to notice. We lay entwined on his secondhand couch one night when he muted the TV.

“You want to have this baby, don’t you?” he said.

“We could call her Jade,” I said. All 11 of my grandmother’s siblings had names starting with J. Mick Jagger had a daughter named Jade. Naming her Jade would be a no-brainer.

“Jade’s pretty,” he said.

“But we can’t go through with it,” I reassured him, reminding myself that we didn’t have the emotional equipment. “It’s better this way.”

In late April, heading to the clinic, he slept in the passenger seat as I fiddled with the radio. Most offices do not allow partners in the room during the procedure, but when I pressed my feet to the stirrups, he was there to knead my shoulders. I dug my fingernails into the nurse’s hand. He and I watched each other instead of the ultrasound machine.

“I’m hot,” I said. “I’m blacking out. Please take off my socks.”

“You’ve got to breathe, honey,” the nurse said.
“Take off her socks!” he hollered.

His support and innate if untraditional sense of duty almost made me think twice about ending the pregnancy. I thought he might have been a nurturing father after all.

I emerged from the appointment emotionally unscathed, or so I thought. The five-minute procedure had ended my insufferable mélange of nausea, exhaustion and shame. I briefly saw a therapist, troubled that I did not feel guilty.

Soon I started drinking again, was arrested for drunken driving and was fired from three jobs for coming in slurring my words or for showing up late or not at all, while my boyfriend eventually disappeared into heroin. I waited for the countless rehabs to work their institutional magic on him, but they didn’t. Our relationship ended on good but sorrowful terms.

Not long after we broke up, he met a girl at a music festival, and a couple of years later she gave birth to their child, whom they named Jade, of all things. They managed to stay together during his stints in jail. By now I was following them on Facebook, where they had migrated like just about everyone else.

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