Ask Me To Dance, Maria Buhrkuhl

Ask Me to Dance

Dinard Press

Ask Me to Dance Maria Buhrkuhl

First published in 2008 by Dinard Press In association with: A Place In Time documentary project, School of Fine Arts, University of Canterbury College of Arts Platform 2008 Arts Festival Dinard Press Š 2008 Text and photographs copyright Š Maria Buhrkuhl 2008 ISBN 978-0-473-13304-7 A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand This book is copyright. Except for the purpose of fair review, no part may be stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording or storage in any information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. No reproduction may be made, whether by photocopying or by any other means, unless a licence has been obtained from the publisher or its agent.

Design: Aaron Beehre and Maria Buhrkuhl Typeface: Caslon Printing: Wyatt & Wilson Print, Christchurch, New Zealand

For Mum. For your endless support, your inexhaustible love.

My best friend.

They met at a youth camp. He, an American, stayed on. Engaged after three months, they were married a year later. Their first home was a one-bedroom flat by the river in the centre of Christchurch; later, in a small town just north of the city, they built their own home.

My brother Daren came first. Two years later, on a sunny morning in late winter, I was born. My father liked the musical West Side Story.

They called me Maria.

Maria: Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

When I think of home, I think of our house in Martyn Street. Not the house Mum moved to in the city after my brother and I had moved away from home and Dad had gone. Not the cold damp flats of my university days. Home is where I grew up.

We lived at number thirteen. Some people would say that’s bad luck.

There are those who would say just growing up in Rangiora is bad luck.

For others the town is their home and all they’ll ever know.

When I was at school the cool kids left in Year 12. A few stayed on into Year 13 until they found a job. They became builders or farmers, or perhaps worked in an office. They excelled at sport but not much else.

The boys were mean and the girls were pretty. There were two types of kids who stayed for the whole of that last year: those who knew they wanted to go on to study, to be doctors, nurses and teachers, and those who didn’t have a clue what they wanted to do. Being at school was safe, familiar, noncommittal. Other kids had left school as soon as they could.

They were on the dole at fifteen, unless they worked for their dads.

They smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol from their parents’ liquor cabinet, then moved on to smoking pot in abundance and taking the odd tab of acid. For some heroin eventually became their high.

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Then there were the girls who became pregnant. Young mothers, still children themselves. You didn’t have to be one of the cool crowd for this to happen. It could happen to anyone. We listened to the whispers that explained the expanding stomachs. Why had they let that happen?

Some of us felt we knew better. It wouldn’t happen to us. We had plans for a future outside Rangiora. I wanted to go to university, have a career, travel to faraway countries. A family would happen after that. The girls who became pregnant were different from me. They had other dreams.

Being a young mum was their future, just as it had been for their own mothers. Having a baby was an excuse to go no further. I wanted to go all the way, as far as I could. My mother had me in her early thirties, then had a career, and I would have one too.

I was born at Rangiora Hospital. I lived in the same house on the south-western boundary of town until I was eighteen. When I was four Mum walked me to kindergarten. I soon got used to the way and walked alone. It wasn’t far from home. I loved painting with brushes and making things with plastic containers, material, bits of wood and nails. In the summers my brother and I caught cockabullies in the creek with homemade nets and jars. We kept them in containers at home and awaited their growth into frogs. I learned to swim at the local pool. When I was nine I started playing netball on cold Saturday mornings. All my friends played; we never missed a season. At ten I gave up learning the cello.

I loved the sound, hated the practice. Now I wish I had carried on.

I went to the Borough Primary School and then to Rangiora High.

I biked every day until they made helmets compulsory, then I walked.

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Along the back roads, my mother taught me to drive. I learned to parallel park in the driveway of the lawn cemetery. From the age of sixteen I drove to school in the little Suzuki that had been Dad’s before he died. It was a small car and for a while some of the guys thought it funny to turn it sideways, making it impossible for me to leave until the cars next to me had gone.

Hiding in the trees that lined the park, I smoked my first cigarette with friends. We were twelve. At fourteen I had my first taste of marijuana at the skate bowl. In the early years of high school I hung out with my friends down the main street on Friday nights and at Snelley’s fish shop, the best chips in town. I got kicked out of the pub by the cops when I was sixteen. At seventeen, they no longer bothered us and we were drinking in the pubs every weekend. At eighteen I was pregnant.

I guess growing up in Rangiora is like growing up anywhere. There are the good things and the bad. In a small town, you take for granted that tomorrow everything will be the same as it is today. Like a family, it can nurture you, guide your understanding of the world, but it shouldn’t prescribe your dreams or limit your directions. In a small town your choices can be the best you’ve ever made. Your mistakes can cost you dearly. A small town can be unforgiving; it can hold you tight, if you let it. It’s all about dreams. It’s all about knowing who you are away from that comfort you call home.

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During those years at high school there were parties every other weekend.

Boxes of beer sat on the back seat while bottles of rum or Mississippi Moonshine in brown paper bags were passed around the car. We threw our heads back and swigged like street drunks. Our throats and stomachs glowed warm. You could feel the inhibitions leave. I liked that feeling.

I loved to drink. When I drank I became animated, took on another persona. Transformed, I felt like a snake leaving its winter skin, sliding away from that shy and inhibited shell. Suddenly I would be laughing at the top of my voice, dancing with abandon. Boisterous and tactless, I would become what I was not. If I was loud, people listened to me and I felt equal. I became thin and attractive in the mirror. People, I thought, loved me when I was drunk – I loved myself.

We drove in convoy along the winding gravel roads, headlights crisscrossing the night, tyres marking the grassy paddocks that led to a local hayshed. Lights on dangling cords lit the lonely old building, mountains in the distance. Here we drank, smoked, laughed loudly, danced in a pack like wild wolves. The boys kept their distance, their drinking banter, their ritual bonding, too important to include the girls. They would save us till later. We watched them from afar, waited for them to move back into the light and warmth of the shed. We waited for their attention, their approval, their false drunken affection. Like pub whores we waited, willing to give up our dignity in exchange for their time. We wanted to talk, cuddle a while, slowly kiss, but it was never like that.

Lying on grass or the back seat of a car, windows dripping with steam, the empty passion lasted only a brief moment.

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I was hungry for that attention, their acceptance, but it was always a long time coming. I watched jealously while the girls who were prettier and more vivacious than me got all the attention. I hated myself for the way I looked. I hated the way I was shy around the boys. Too shy to use my quick wit and make them laugh as I could among girls, I waited for them to approach me. It only seemed to happen when they were drunk – beer goggles – or if the prettier girls had already left.

Mostly I just got drunk on Mississippi Moonshine and stayed close to my friends. In later years I drank beer, hating the taste. I smoked cigarettes till I had yellow fingertips and my throat ached. This was where I felt safe, a place I could exist, be part of the crowd. As for the boys, I would take what they offered me, not what I really wanted. In my heart I knew it was meaningless but if I was drunk enough I could believe for a moment that it might be real.

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By two o’clock the dancing had usually stopped. Our eyes darted around the room picking up the movement of others. Couples disappeared to fumble in the darkness. Others crumpled in the corners, burrowing into stacked hay bales to fall deeply into drunken sleep. My friends and I would curl up in my car like sardines, hoping for an hour or so of sleep in the last of the darkness. I hated waking with the dawn, cold and stiff, tempers ripe and lashing.

It was hard to get the key in the ignition, shaking with the lack of sleep, the lingering alcohol taste, head pounding hard. The car seemed to drive itself home – autopilot, we called it. My friends slumped in the back with gaping dry mouths, stinging eyes, the glow of drooping cigarettes. We’d stop at the nearest service station for a soggy pie, packet of chips and a soft drink before I dropped them off home. They’d ignore their parents’ questions about the party, crawl into bed. In their drunkenness they always trusted me to get them home. I trusted we wouldn’t see a cop. Somehow we always made it. I used to believe that someone up there didn’t want me to die. I hoped it wasn’t Dad. I’d be ashamed if he could see what I was doing.

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Our leavers’ ball was the worst in history. At least it felt that way. Like New Year’s Eve, all its hype was a trick to disappoint. Playing with candle wax on the white tablecloths, we held in our stomachs and crossed our legs elegantly as our mothers had shown us, until our backs ached. Congregations of girls gathered in the fluorescent-lit bathrooms to check their hair, adjust strapless bras cutting like knives into flesh, and to reapply lipstick. The boys sat back in their chairs, rented tuxedos twisted and creased, legs splayed out.

We weren’t used to partying without alcohol. Drink seemed essential to ease our self-conscious thoughts and to loosen our lips. Steve, a friend from primary school, was my partner. He danced with other girls all night. I watched them from the front table and hoped somebody would ask me to dance. The band was crap, a four-piece with a trumpet. By the last hour most people were dancing in an attempt to salvage the night.

Girls paired up, waltzing to slow songs, forming circles when the beat quickened. Mostly we looked forward to the party afterwards.

It was held in a marquee in Dave’s front paddock. Boxes of beer and bottles of spirits nestled among T-shirts, jeans, sleeping bags and blankets in the back seats of cars. We arrived in staggered convoys, marched towards the light where kegs and casks of wine sat on trestle tables.

We wanted a good farewell to our school years. We wanted to get drunk.

I remember worrying about the ball. What would I wear? What would be the most flattering style for me? How much weight could I lose by then? I hated that I wasn’t a size ten, or even a twelve, and I hated that I wouldn’t look as good as those girls who were. Who would

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be my partner? Would anybody ask me? Our final exams were near but we couldn’t stop worrying about the ball. While we studied we talked about dress ideas, colours and material. Who had their dresses organised and what were they doing with their hair?

I wanted a dress that was long, to hide my legs and ankles. It needed long sleeves to hide my arms and it couldn’t be tight around the bum and hips. I wanted it to have a low neckline. Along with my eyes and my thick hair, my breasts were the only things I liked about my appearance.

To get exactly what I wanted I decided I’d have to make my dress. They didn’t make dresses for my shape, and it would be cheaper. I still had school each day and study for exams. I was working late most evenings on my art folios, going to the gym with the other girls, and working at the bakery three days a week after school. Mum helped me with the fitting and pinning. I worked so hard to try and make it all perfect.

I wish I had known. If I had known I was pregnant I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have bothered with the make-up, the dress and the photographs. Nothing would have mattered.

I thought it was anxiety. I was worried about getting the work done for my final submissions. I needed to spend many hours working but the nausea made me want to go home. That grinding feeling deep in my stomach wouldn’t end – like being carsick on a winding coast road. Hot flushes, my skin pale and clammy with sweat. I wanted to vomit, to get rid of that feeling, but my body wouldn’t let me. Maybe I’d inhaled too much of the printmaking chemicals? I had never felt sick like this before.

I’d had sore throats, sometimes a cold or the flu, but this was different.

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Was it something I’d eaten? My mind skipped over the last day’s meals.

I wanted to go home and lie on the couch with a blanket over me, TV flickering. I wanted this feeling to go away. If I lay still long enough maybe it would.

Instead I stayed and worked and went out to the toilet block every half hour. My head over the bowl, inspecting its filth, imagining all that had been there before me, not wanting to breathe too deeply. My hands on my knees supported my rigid arms, the coldness of the floor numbed

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my feet, dented my knees. I could only bear to be there for a minute or so, always angry with myself that I couldn’t throw up.

I was eighteen and one month old and at the end of my final year of school. I still wasn’t aware that this nausea was my body’s way of telling me I was pregnant. I learned that if I ignored the nausea and kept working, the feeling passed. My work was too important to me to leave and go home. I just moaned to the others about how sick I felt and thought the feeling would end when the stress of exams was over. Then it would be the summer holidays; everything would be wonderful.

My friends and I would drive to the beach, watch the surfers, jump the waves, then sun bake in the summer heat, sand dunes and sweeping tussocks muffling our chatter. Our skin tanning brown, freckles multiplying, ideas for the future flourishing. I would also relish my time alone. Time to read, to think, to lose myself in dreams on a blanket in the backyard, heat stealing my concentration. The angry groans of neighbouring lawnmowers would drown the sharp twittering of birds, turning them to mime. Here I would dream of a new life at university, away from this place with its small town gossip and its suffocating stereotypes. I couldn’t wait to pack up my room and move into the city, to meet new friends, learn, begin my new life, find out who I would be.

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The university year started in just three months. I was alive with excitement and apprehension.

It was the week after the leavers’ ball.

Two weeks after I’d finished sitting bursary exams.

Two weeks after finishing my final year in high school.

One month before Christmas.

Six weeks before getting a letter of acceptance from the School of Fine Arts.

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Periods are strange things. We loathe them coming each month but miss them when they don’t. They’re a sign, a message or, in my case, the writing on the wall. I waited two, maybe three days, each morning hoping, confused. I didn’t think I was exercising too much and I wasn’t starving myself, even though I wished I were. I’d heard you could miss your period from being overstressed and I hoped that was the answer.

I had been working hard and feeling anxious, hadn’t I? I reassured myself but I couldn’t avoid thinking about that other possibility. It niggled at me, tugged at my thoughts, finally it poisoned me with fear. Could I be pregnant? Surely not. The last time I had sex was on the night of my birthday, the end of August. I’d had a period since then; it couldn’t be right. I dismissed the thought with false optimism. I wanted to believe it couldn’t happen to me. I couldn’t imagine such a thing. I had friends who had sex far more than I did and they’d never become pregnant.

At night my mind was plagued with thoughts – growing foetuses, swollen stomachs, swimming sperm and eggs – and they wouldn’t leave.

I couldn’t sleep. Finally I found the courage to get a pregnancy test.

I needed to end these thoughts, the sleepless nights, the sneaking anxiety. I told myself it would be negative. I didn’t need to worry; I just needed to be sure.

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My room had been light for hours, the pink curtains too thin to keep it dark. By now Mum would be at work. There would be a note on the kitchen bench: ‘Hang the washing out. Have a good day. See you around six.’ I stirred when Daren crashed past my room with a tennis racket and bouncing balls. ‘See ya,’ he yelled. I fell back into sleep. An hour later, still drowsy, I focused my eyes on the stippled ceiling and remembered what I had to do. I felt heavy and reluctant but I was determined to get it done. I showered, dressed, skipped breakfast – it was almost lunchtime anyway – and left the house. I was glad everyone had gone.

The mid-morning sun warmed my arm and shoulder as I backed the car out of the garage. I reached for my sunglasses. It didn’t take long to get to the centre of town – too quick. I wished I could be somewhere else. Reading a book in the sun, at the beach with my friends, back home in bed, anywhere but here.

I parked as close as I could to the surgery for a quick getaway. Deep breaths, head down, I walked in. All eyes on me, burning. I tried to look confident, to fool them all, but I had no sniffles, no cough, no aches, no pains to show. I went to the desk and waited. Finally she looked up.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I want to get a pregnancy test.’ The whispered words nearly choked me. This voice wasn’t mine.

‘Just have a seat. The nurse will see you in a minute.’

I was relieved at the woman’s matter-of-fact reaction but I still expected her to judge me. I hoped she thought I was older than I was, that I had a loving partner, that I was happy to be here.

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I sat in the corner seat. Along from me an old man was hunched over.

His mouth hung like a deep gully, his teeth worn and neglected. Creases in his face, eyebrows wiry, rusting. His walking stick was about to slip from the seat onto the floor. If it fell it would surely knock over the castle made of brightly coloured blocks that a little boy had built at his feet.

I watched the walking stick intently, almost willing it to fall. Snot ran from the boy’s nose as he searched the toy box for soldiers. Taking a hanky from her pocket – white with delicate pink roses – his mother called him over and wiped his nose. He peered at me, screwed up his face.

A girl with a mane of black hair sat cross-legged on the opposite side.

She slouched forward and her hair hid her face. I recognised her from school but she was much younger than me. I couldn’t remember her name. She was sniffing and wheezing, and I imagined the film of bugs that were slowly drifting towards me, invading my space. I needed to get out, quickly – so suffocating. My eyes darted, searching for the nurse. She was walking towards me.

‘Maria,’ she whispered as if she knew I wanted no one to hear my name. I followed her into a side room.

She gave me a small plastic jar to pee in, then unwrapped a pregnancy test and laid it on the examination bed. In the toilet I peed in the jar and, in my nervousness, all over my hand. Annoyed at myself, I furiously washed my hands and wiped the outside of the jar with toilet paper.

I handed it to her. It was so warm and golden I almost didn’t want to let it go. I watched a drip fall onto the pregnancy test as I sat on my hands, my breathing uneven, the muscles in my face tight and tense. I waited,

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willing it to be negative. We sat there together in silence watching for the magic lines, a pink plus or a blue minus.

‘It’s positive,’ the nurse said, apprehension on her face.

White like a ghost, suddenly heavy, I found it hard to breathe.

My eyes burned but no tears came. My chest caved in. I wondered if I would faint.

‘How do you feel about this?’ she asked.

Such a stupid question I thought. Look at me. Look how young I am.

My life as I knew it was over – nothing I could do – I wanted to run and run and run.

‘Okay,’ I replied, gulping air, not wanting her to see my reaction, but my voice failed me and she could tell, she knew. I turned for the door before she could question me further.

My head hung low as I rushed through the waiting room. I knew my face would be red and blotchy, my eyes giving away my utter distress.

I fumbled for the door handle, gasped as the fresh air reached my lungs.

Back in the car the tears welled, spilled over and down my cheeks, falling from my chin to my lap. I wiped them away, turned my head, not wanting passing people to see.

How could I be pregnant? Why did it happen to me? I didn’t even enjoy sex. I had never had an orgasm, never even been near to it.

The only thing I ever felt after sex was disappointment, regret.

What would I do? I felt so alone, so helpless, so angry at myself.

The word abortion flickered in my head. It sounded so scary. It sounded secret and dark. A shiver ran down my spine. I felt sick again; the nausea was back.

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In a daze I drove the usual route to Angela’s house. The sun was high; she would be out of bed by now. I desperately needed to tell someone.

Nobody else could know but right now I needed her help. It was a secret I couldn’t deal with alone. Wiping away tears with the back of my hand, I peered at my reflection in the rear vision mirror. I looked terrible.

I hoped that Angela was in her sleepout and not inside with her family.

I didn’t want to face them.

I parked the car on the road and, as quietly as I could, walked along the driveway to the back door. She was in the house. Keeping my head low, I breathed deeply and walked in. She sat with her brothers watching cartoons. They acknowledged me with familiar grunts. Angela smiled at me in her usual welcoming way. I managed a muffled ‘Hi’, then turned abruptly and left for her sleepout. She looked up, puzzled, but knew instinctively to follow me.

There was a thickness in the air. The curtains were still drawn and the room was in darkness. I could just make out the piles of clothes waiting to be washed or folded and put away. As I sat on the end of her bed, my mind flooded with memories. Here we watched videos, congregated on lazy Saturday afternoons, gathered and put on make-up before a night out, slept in a deep drunken haze till noon. It was here that we shared secrets, dreamed of the future, and laughed till our stomachs ached and our throats begged us to stop. Now, everything was different. I was only eighteen years old and not ready to be a mother.

The curtain was suddenly pulled back; light cutting through the darkness struck me like a blow.

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‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ Angela stood silhouetted in the doorway.

I felt tears rise once more, lowered my head.

‘Well, I’ve just been to the doctor…and…I’m pregnant.’

I looked for her reaction.

‘Oh, my God! Really! What are you going to do? How did that happen? Oh, I know how it happened, but when did it happen? Who with? You haven’t been with anybody for ages. How pregnant are you?

‘It must have been that night – my birthday,’ I replied. ‘I can’t even work out how long I’ve been pregnant. Is it from when you have sex or from when you miss your period, or what? I’ve had a period since then.

I’ve only missed this last one!’

‘I don’t know either,’ said Ange. ‘Your birthday was ages ago.’

We both stopped to think. I knew Angela would help me. I needed her to.

‘Are you going to keep it?’ Angela finally asked. ‘I can’t imagine you with a baby. I could imagine some of the others but not you. What about university?’

‘I guess I’ll have to have an abortion.’ A shiver ran down my spine again. ‘I can’t keep it. I don’t want it. I’d have to give up everything.’

My voice trailed away to a soft mumble.

‘What about adoption?’

‘No!’ I was adamant. ‘If I’m not going to keep it I don’t want to be pregnant for nine months. Can you imagine that? I’d rather get rid of it now!’ I knew I wouldn’t be able to face giving up a baby after giving

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birth, seeing it as my child. At the moment it wasn’t a child. I couldn’t imagine it, didn’t want to believe in it. A mistake – growing – a mistake I had to get rid of.

‘Are you going to tell him?’ she asked cautiously.

‘I can’t. That would be the worst thing I could do. He won’t care anyway. There’s no way he’d want to have anything to do with it.

He’d probably deny it. I’ll just deal with it myself.’

Angela nodded in agreement. ‘Yeah…and what if he told his mates.

Everybody would know.’

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DRAYTON’S RETRACTOR Used to visualise the cervix during the procedure.

We’d heard stories about other girls at school and decided that I probably didn’t have much time to find out about an abortion. We went to visit Teresa. She and I had been put in a top stream class together in Year 9 and had both rebelled against this exclusion from our friends. Teresa knew about pregnancies. She was five months pregnant herself. I knew she would do everything she could to help me and she would keep it to herself.

Teresa sat in her room staring out of the window, white paint peeling from its frame. Her protruding stomach emphasised her petite build.

Her fingers moved nimbly as she rolled a cigarette. The door was closed behind us and we had her full attention. She was shocked by my news.

She told us I had to visit a doctor and get a referral to the abortion clinic in the city. That was the only way they would see me. It meant telling more people but I knew I had to push my fears aside, be strong, take control. I had to be in charge of my life for once. Teresa flicked the lighter and watched the end of her cigarette ignite. Lips pursed, she sucked at the tobacco, paused, then blew smoke in the direction of the window. One long smooth breath. We left her sitting there alone with her cigarettes, her books and her pot plants that kept dying, and I wondered why she had chosen to have the baby. If it could work for her, could it also work for me?

Our drive back to Angela’s took ages. I stared at the passing paddocks and the old trees that had lined these roads forever. They flew past so fast, one blurring into the next. Angela was silent. I knew she must be relieved that it wasn’t her. How had it happened to me and not her?

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How had she escaped? How could it all have gone so terribly wrong?

I was the one going to university, the brainy one, the creative one, the one who was expected to go far. I still wanted that. I would shrivel without it. I looked again at Ange. I loved her; she was my best friend.

I let out a sigh. I hated the way I had been thinking and I was thankful that she was there and that I wasn’t driving this road alone. She glanced at me, didn’t speak. I looked straight ahead.

Back at the house, we sat together and went over everything again. Then I sat motionless and silent, biting my lip. Hoping it would all go away.

‘Are you going to tell your mum?’

‘No… God, how could I do that?’ I whispered. We sat in silence again.

But I knew I needed my mother as never before. I needed her to love me but I was afraid to tell. What if I told her and she refused to help?

I knew it would break her heart. I loved her so much, and I knew she would always love me, no matter who I became or what I did. But it was the pain in her eyes I wouldn’t be able to stand. In that same moment, I wanted to hide the truth forever. But she would see my distress, see my red, strained eyes, hear the whispered phone calls and she would know.

What would I be like afterwards if I had the operation? Would I need her then? I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I didn’t want this secret alone. I decided to tell.

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The sun was lowering behind the trees; it was time for me to go home.

Mum would be cooking dinner. My stomach was tight; I could hardly move with the fear – the thought of having to tell her. I swallowed hard to moisten the back of my throat. I had to go now or I never would.

Angela, as always, walked me to my car. As I turned to open the door she took my arm and embraced me. The second she held me the tears rushed back, the lump returned to my throat. I stood there like a statue, my arms by my side. I knew if I put my arms around her I would crumble.

Angela knows I don’t hug easily but she did it anyway and I loved her for that.

It took the usual three minutes to drive home, my knuckles white, hands clenched tight around the steering wheel. Through the kitchen window I could see the outline of my mother against the rising steam of boiling pots. My legs felt heavy, my arms weak. I tried to appear normal, happy. Show her no clues, leave no trace, don’t encourage questions.

I needed time to get it right. How to tell her. How to break her heart.

‘Hi.’ I didn’t stop.

‘G’day.’ She looked up from her chopping. ‘What have you been doing?’ she asked, a mother wanting to hear her daughter’s voice.

‘At Ange’s,’ I said, my words drifting back to her from the next room.

I made my way past the cluttered dining table. The usual blue vase – filled with flowers from the garden – was surrounded by my study notes from the weeks before and piles of Christmas cards to be posted.

Making it to my bedroom, I closed the door behind me, breathed out.

My bedroom was on the shaded side of the house and normally a chill

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quickly drove me out to the tall north-facing window in the lounge. I lay where the sun warmed the carpet. Today my room was a safe haven.

Eventually I would have to leave – just a few minutes more.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The wings multiplied my image, made me infinite, made me question my own existence as it went on forever.

The mirror had been my grandmother’s. It lived in her spare room where Daren and I slept when we stayed with her. As a child I would angle the wing sections perfectly and stand like a soldier, counting in my head the army before me. Then I would twirl like a ballerina, imagining a vast glowing stage, my legs and arms swinging as gracefully as I could manage.

The crowd applauded. It was a world of my own where I could be anybody I wished. The adults were too busy drinking tea from rose-coloured cups to bother watching me. I’d rush out when I knew the fresh plate of biscuits was being laid on the table, snatch a couple and return to my world of soldiers and dancers. Now, as I looked at my body, the ballerina had disappeared. I saw only curves, bumps and dimples.

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My friends think I don’t like kids. The truth is I never had children around me when I was young. I don’t know what to say. I feel selfconscious while being watched so I act cold and ignore them. I pretend I don’t want to know. When my cousin came to visit from Australia with her new baby they wanted me to hold it. They thought that was what I ought to want to do, but I didn’t. I was afraid I would drop it.

What would I do once I had it in my arms? What if I made it cry? They would look at me, expecting me to respond to its whimpers and gurgles.

I felt nothing. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. It peed on me.

I gave it back and left the room so I couldn’t hear their laughter.

I never was much of girl. I didn’t play with baby dolls. I didn’t dress them up and push them in a pram around the backyard. I thought tea sets with cups and saucers were boring. Teddy bears just sat and did nothing. The old crate at the bottom of the garden that Dad made into a playhouse was used more as a garden shed. But I did love playing with my Barbies. They were grown-up dolls. They were hairdressers, teachers, magazine writers and travellers. One day I would dress like them and have long flowing hair.

I’d shut myself in my room, pulling the curtains so nobody could see.

Sometimes I even pushed a small piece of furniture against the door.

I whispered their conversations. Every now and then they fought over the Ken doll just like I’d seen people do on TV. Sometimes Ken and one of the Barbies would have sex. I didn’t exactly know what they should do during sex but I knew they were excited about each other. I knew that Ken sometimes liked one Barbie better than the others. But my Barbies

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never became pregnant and they never had children.

I never felt I matched up to the other girls. They weren’t perfect but I could see how I wasn’t like them. I have chunky feet and a body to match.

My hair is mousy brown. I have freckles and blue eyes. At primary school a teacher said my eyes would capture someone someday. I’m still waiting.

I have always felt unfit. Back then we played netball for fun and to hang out with our mates. I was never in the serious teams – just average.

Even now it remains the same. After a game my face stays bright red for the rest of the day, even in the winter cold. They used to say my blood vessels must be close to my skin.

My face flushes red easily. It happens whenever attention is directed my way. My body burns from the inside out and breaks into a sweat. They laugh and I go redder still. I was the shy one, the one who never had a boyfriend, the third wheel. I wasn’t confident talking to boys, always anxious about what they thought of me. My lack of conversation bored them. I seemed uninteresting. Maybe I was? With girlfriends I was the good mate, the reliable one. The one who always went along with the plan no matter what.

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I had my first date when I was seventeen. I had waited for this moment to arrive. I spent hours at school dreaming about the night to come and how it would blossom. Finally I would have a boyfriend. For two days I was nervous, jittery with apprehension. I worried about what I should wear. I knew it was important to look good. I wanted him to like the way I looked, but I didn’t want to be overdressed, or look unnatural.

I doubted I would look pretty enough. When he had asked I hadn’t known how to respond. I hardly knew him and he’d never shown any interest in me before. But I didn’t question it too much. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered in abundance.

We were going to his sister’s twenty-first. It was a family barbecue held in the garage with kegs of beer and thick billowing smoke. I drank wine to try and ease my nerves but I still didn’t know what to say to the other guests. Luckily they ignored me most of the time. I tried not to drink too much. I didn’t want to say something clumsy, too loud or too rude. All the time we were there I felt on edge. Finally we caught a ride back to a pub in Rangiora and met up with friends who were out on their usual Saturday night pub crawl. They seemed to watch our every move.

I felt uncomfortable and didn’t know how to act. He held my hand under the table. It felt warm and while I glowed inside I was confused by his affection, overwhelmed by his attention. We hardly knew each other.

Part of me wanted to pull my hand away but I left it there, scared of what he might think of me if I withdrew it. Later that night we had sex.

I wanted him to like me. People had noticed us. I felt good – important – and I wanted it to stay that way, at least for a little while.

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We spoke on the phone a few times that week. He talked rugby; I tried to find it interesting. I still didn’t know why he’d invited me out.

I still didn’t know whether he liked me at all. I was never one of the pretty girls, not much of a prize.

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For the first few years at primary school we changed into our swimming togs in the classroom. All the boys had to go into one room, all the girls into another. Quickly we stripped off our clothes, pulled on our togs, trying not to tangle and trip in our excitement. The teacher encouraged us to hurry but some kids were always slow. Maybe they didn’t like taking their clothes off. Maybe they didn’t like swimming. I loved it. I was always among the first in line at the door, towel in hand, bag on my back.

They separated us because we were different from the boys, but most of us had brothers and had seen it all before. We didn’t know then that one day there would be differences between us girls – the shape of our waists, the size of our thighs, the fullness of our breasts. We couldn’t see it then and we didn’t know to look. We were all the same. We just wanted to swim.

By the time we were ten years old things were different. Changing in front of others was an ordeal for most of us. If we weren’t quick enough to occupy one of the three curtained cubicles, we hid behind our towels or changed under our clothes. Only the bold or the naive dropped their clothes easily. You imagined everybody looking at you, your protruding tummy, your first pubic hair and your softening breasts. We emerged with our towels wrapped closely to our bodies; the boys were already in the pool. Dropping the towel close to the water’s edge, we’d jump into the water. Hoping nobody saw.

Afterwards the cold concrete floor stiffened our movements, dry clothes gripping our shivering wet skin, laughter, screams of delight, echoing along the high prison-like walls, pools of water at our feet.

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Once our breasts developed, hips swelled, hair grew, swimming togs became the enemy. The swimming that I’d loved – in fact was quite good at – was hindered by my paranoia. My view of my body wasn’t just in my imagination, as my mother wanted me to believe. I had watched her diet on and off for years. I knew what foods were fattening. I knew how I wanted to look, and I remember the day I found out what it meant not to be slim, athletic, attractive.

Dudley Park pool was a favourite hangout during those long hot summers. We ate ice blocks and K-bars and hid in the concrete alcove on the other side of the grandstand to smoke. When we got hot we swam. Boys had become a very important part of our group and like the other girls I had small crushes on two in particular. They were cute, rode BMX bikes and were rebels in our eyes – so cool. We all wished they would show us some attention, sit by us, talk to us. Maybe even try to kiss us in a moment alone. I’m not sure I really wanted to be kissed.

I watched as the other girls flirted with the boys, got dunked in the pool and shared cigarettes. One day in a playful chasing game, a boy grabbed my arms behind my back. I loved him holding me captive. I played along with the screaming, trying to wriggle my arms loose. It meant everything if you were chased, better if you were caught.

‘Hey, have a look at this,’ he yelled to a couple of the other boys.

What was he talking about? Oh God, it’s me. What can they see?

I struggled to get away, but he gripped my wrists tight. The others came over to look. I turned my neck to see. I at least wanted to know what had caught his eye. I was tanned, freckles spilled onto my shoulders,

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sprinkled down my back and arms. Craning my neck, I saw the rolls out of the corner of my eye. They bumped and waved their way across my back between my wrenched arms. The skin loose, too much of it.

I struggled, used all my strength to avoid being made a fat spectacle in front of the others. It was no use. I hung my head in defeat while they laughed at me, at my body.

I just wanted to go home. I knew now I was fat. I was thirteen and I was overweight, big for my age. I knew that I was different. It was something I couldn’t just ignore, because others wouldn’t.

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Standing in front of the mirror I twisted from side to side. I was looking for a sign, a clue, something to tell me it was true, but I could find no difference. The plump stomach that I had so often wished to be flat was still the same. I had been doing sit-ups at the gym and at home in my room with the music up loud. I remember inspecting myself in the mirror in the days before the ball, hoping to notice an improvement. I twisted and turned, frowned and hoped each time I looked that it would be better, that I would like what I saw. Side, front, the other side, back, I hadn’t lost any weight from the gym classes, nor from eating less because of the nausea. Would I ever be thin? Would I ever be the way I wanted to be, the way they are in those magazines? I had looked so critically at my body, I could only see its imperfection.

What size was this thing inside me? How long had it been there?

What did it look like? Did it have eyes, fingers? Could it breathe? Could it hear me, read my thoughts? I felt guilty that I hated it so much, that it might know this, sense it, feel it. After all, it was part of me, wasn’t it?

Did I have to love it? Should I love it, want to nurture it, keep it forever?

Would it be wrong not to give it a chance? Or would it be wrong not to give myself one?

But this thing inside me was a baby. A baby that would be mine to hold, clothe, feed, love and that would look like me, love me. I wanted to be a good mother, like mine was to me. I wanted to feel that nothing else in the world mattered more than this child. I didn’t want to neglect it, resent it, hate it, but deep inside I knew something else too, I knew that I didn’t want it.

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My gaze moved away from the mirror and rested on the carpet. It felt strange under my feet – prickly. Everything felt different, looked different, as if I had never really noticed it before. I felt like a visitor in my own room; everything was foreign. At least my pyjamas were still under the pillow where I’d stuffed them that morning. It was only six-thirty but I put them on. They made me feel comfortable; I could move freely in them, I felt secure, relaxed, me. I knew I was at home when I had them on.

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AUVARDS RETRACTOR Used to visualise the cervix during the procedure.

Mum sits alone in the lounge, watching the first of the night’s news items. She waits for the vegetables to cook. I slump in the chair next to her and stare at the TV. She turns, looks at my flickering eyes, my tight lips, notes my silence and knows there’s something wrong. Not wanting to scare me away, she turns back to the screen and waits for me to speak.

I steal a glance. I look at the way her skin wrinkles below her ears, the deep crevasses that cut from her nose past the corners of her mouth.

I look at the way her glasses sit solidly at the bridge of her nose, the softness of her skin. She turns the sound down with the remote. It’s now or never, but my tongue is stuck. My hands are tight; I can feel my nails digging into my palms, sliding with sweat. My knees are tucked up to the side, twisted, wedged against the arm of the chair. My toes cramp as I tense. I wriggle them free. I am a child about to be found out, waiting to be punished. I don’t want to tell, but I have to. I watch her eyes once more. She is waiting for me.

‘What’s the matter?’ she prompts.

I swallow, pushing the saliva past the lump in my throat. Parched, a summer riverbed. I lower my eyes and find it difficult to raise them again. She waits. The words repeat in my head. I want to speak, let it out, but my jaw has frozen.

Slowly she sips her cup of tea, encouraging me, giving me time.

‘I went to the doctor today.’ My eyes are still low, unwilling to meet hers. ‘You know how I was feeling really nauseous all the time… well…

I found out I’m pregnant.’

Silence. I can’t hear my beating heart any more. I hold my breath, wait.

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I see her jaw clench. Her eyes moisten. The bloodshot lines spread like a spider web among the white. She speaks, her voice a whisper.

‘Oh, Maria,’ she says, too stunned to say anything else.

My fingers lightly pick at the weave of the chair; I don’t know where to look. The tears gather in her eyes. They begin to creep slowly down her face. They aren’t tears of hurt or anger; these are tears of sadness.

I watch them slide past her nose to her chin and I remember the last time I saw her cry, the day my dad died. I had run away from those tears that day, run away from the sound of agony and hurt. I couldn’t stand to face the truth. This time I couldn’t run. I was the cause of her tears. This time they were different. Quiet tears.

My eyes flicked here and there, a bird freed from its cage but still trapped in the room. I waited for Mum, not knowing what to expect.

I watched her struggle to find the right words. They were delicate. ‘How long have you been pregnant?’

‘Don’t know. Maybe a couple of months… I’ve only missed one period.’

I looked at my hands clasped tight in my lap, pursed my lips. I didn’t want to talk about it any more. Daren was prowling around in the other room in search of his dinner; I didn’t want him to know.

‘Who’s the father?’

She knew I didn’t have a boyfriend and I hadn’t told her I was having sex. If she knew, she had never asked. Embarrassed, I became defensive.

‘It doesn’t matter! He wouldn’t care anyway. He’s not pregnant. I am!’

She never asked again.

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I had hoped she wouldn’t ask about him, hoped she would know not to. What I did with my friends was private. More than anything I knew she wouldn’t approve. I felt disgusting and shameful, a slut. Less than my family expected. Telling Mum meant I had no secrets any more.

I lost that feeling of being rebellious, of having a life separate from my family. I didn’t want to be like them. I was different. They wouldn’t understand. Something lost and something gained: it was a huge relief to have Mum know. I didn’t have to hide anything now. There are times when you need a friend and there are other times when what you really need is a mother.

Dinner was silent that night. I pushed my food around my plate and Mum chewed every mouthful with soft intensity. Daren gulped his down in the usual way; you could tell he sensed something was going on. I felt like a stranger at that table, didn’t know where to look, didn’t speak unless I was spoken to. My sense of being grown up had gone.

I felt like a child again, vulnerable, on the edge of tears. I needed her so much.

That night I hopped into bed beside her. It was so warm, I melted against her. Mum put her arm around me. I turned my body towards her, resting the tension in my neck on her warm shoulder. Our bodies moulded together as they had in the womb. I could hear her heartbeat.

She could feel my breath. Here I was safe. She smoothed my hair with gentle strokes. I soaked a patch on her nightie with unstoppable tears.

We whispered our thoughts in the darkness. She cried with me.

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Daren could hear the crying. He listened from his room down the hall but he never came in, knew not to ask. He sat alone, waiting, wondering what had gone wrong. He wanted to show that he cared.

He wanted me to tell him, he wanted to understand. He didn’t know how bad it was and I wouldn’t let him in.

Daren was good at maths and the sciences. He was the geek, the nerd, the one who never bunked class. He was the one who would make the family proud. He was going to be a doctor, the jewel in the crown.

I was good at English and history and I loved to make art. Nobody really understood. I could imagine it. ‘What is it that you do? How will you make money?’ they’d ask, and when I couldn’t find a satisfactory answer they’d go back to asking Daren about their arthritic knees and that cough that kept hanging around. I would be left to nibble on the biscuits and wonder about the choices I had made.

More than anything, I didn’t want Daren to know. I thought he would think less of me, see how careless I was, just like those other girls at school – forever in trouble. I had always been the naughty one. I was aware of his scornful looks whenever I was caught smelling of smoke or bunking class. It was always my fault that Mum was upset. I was supposed to be good, cause her no extra worry now Dad was gone. Daren was her rock. I had only caused more problems. We had fought a lot after Dad died. I believed my brother didn’t like who I was. I felt we saw the world in different ways and we would never get along. But he was still my big brother and deep down what he thought mattered a lot.

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UTERiNE SOUND Used to measure the size of the uterus prior to dilating of the cervix.

The next day I went to the doctor expecting a referral to the abortion clinic to be a formality. I would take a deep breath, blurt out that I was pregnant, look at the ground, wait for her response. Then I’d quickly tell her of my intention. I didn’t expect to find myself lying on her examination bed, pants down, her hand pressing inside me. I tried to relax but the pain was so tight, ripping, I just couldn’t. I didn’t understand why she was doing this. I wanted it to stop. She said she was checking everything was all right, how long it had been there. Why did she need to know if I didn’t want it? They touch you, they hurt you, they don’t tell you why. Was this what it was like to be pregnant?

I was referred to the clinic in town with an appointment for the next day. It was so quick. Mum came with me. I asked her to come; she wanted to be there. The drive was silent. I didn’t want to talk about where we were going, didn’t want to think. The truth was I was scared.

I was scared of this place I knew nothing about. Scared of what they might do, of what they might tell me. Scared of my own story, scared they might say no, scared they would say yes. I trembled in the passenger seat of Mum’s car. My legs felt so weak I wondered if I would be able to stand on them, get them to move. My fingers rubbed and flicked together in a nervous twitch, my mind imagining every scenario. As we approached the car park I bowed my head in shame.

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The building was old with cream painted weatherboards, concrete paths and a simple garden. Mum went first. Two spare seats. Others waiting hid their glances as we sat down. Magazines in piles on a low table, soft toys alone under chairs. The room, already warmed by morning sun streaming through the windows, was silent. Looking down, I imagined the others in the room staring straight at me, judging me, assuming the worst. I shut my eyes and tried to pretend I was lying on the carpet in front of the tall window at home, falling asleep as the sun crept over my skin.

I hadn’t thought there would be older women waiting there with me.

A wife with a bearded husband, another with her boyfriend. I thought they would all be like me, young, alone and regretful. I was wrong.

I knew nothing about their world. I only knew mine and at that moment I hated it. I thought of all the things I wanted to do, what I wanted to be. Were they suddenly just dreams – now out of reach? Lost in a foggy night, hit by a passing ship. No warning, no lights. Gone under, lungs rushing for air, filling with water. Sinking, drowning, exploding. I was struggling not to lose sight of my life. The study, the career, travel.

I wanted it to be more than a dream; I wanted it to be real. I had worked hard to make it possible, and now I had done this. As I sat, anger rushed inside me. I was angry with my body for letting me down. Angry at being female (he did not have to face up to this). Angry at myself for letting this happen. Angry for thinking it couldn’t. My head told me that anger was useless but whenever I told it to stop my fear took over.

‘Maria? Come this way,’ she said.

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I stood, legs still weak. I felt them watching, I knew what they were thinking. I was so aware that my mother was there, that I had been too young, too scared to come alone, and I was so ashamed.

The room was small; large chairs waited for us. There were posters which attempted to give a sense of welcome but the charts and diagrams on the pinboard only infected me with anxiety. My body slouched low in the chair. Fingers clenched the wooden arms, shoulders ached, toes were curled inside my shoes. I glance at Mum for reassurance. My tongue between my teeth, I tried not to bite too hard.

Softly, with a kind face, the woman asked me questions. I just wanted to cry.

‘Eighteen.’

‘Just finished high school?’

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‘Yes. I want to go to university. To art school.’

Telling this stranger felt like I was asking her permission. To say it all again in front of my mother was agony.

Part of me was trying to understand what she was telling me. My chest was incredibly tight; I couldn’t seem to get the air into my lungs.

Part of me didn’t want to hear these details at all.

‘The procedure… the operation… if you choose… this is what will happen… you must see another… if you choose… and then there’s a slight suction. You may feel some discomfort… If you choose… you will know… if you choose… if you choose.’

But I couldn’t choose and I didn’t know. The words just kept ringing in my head. I wanted to run away from it all. I’d heard all her words and I didn’t want to do it. I couldn’t. It was too much, too big for me to comprehend. My stomach was clenched like an angry fist. I felt sick.

I’d decided. I would leave now, no point in staying. I wanted to leave.

I looked at Mum’s face, solid, engrossed in the words, the diagrams, the facts. I wouldn’t do it. I had made up my mind. Mum turned and looked at me. She saw my fear.

Nobody could make me. This baby was mine. I couldn’t have that operation. I would have this baby and I would care for it. It would love me and I loved it – really I did. My hormones twisting my thoughts, wrapping me in guilt, turning me in desperation and in despair so I didn’t know which way to run. Swinging, swinging, a pocket watch on a chain. I would just have to accept I couldn’t have the life I’d imagined.

My life would be different; maybe it would be better with a baby. I’d be

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a full-time mum. I told myself I could be satisfied, I could be happy.

We sat outside on the old wooden bench. Mum held me close while tears stung my eyes. My fears and my dreams whirled and raged inside my head. I listened to them tear each other apart, unable to interrupt.

I didn’t want my first time in hospital to happen this way. I didn’t want it to happen at all. I imagined a baby, pretty in pink, so sweet, smiling, never crying. I didn’t want to imagine the doctors, the instruments, the blood, people looking at me, seeing me. Abortion was something I had never imagined. Like Dad’s death, I didn’t want to face it. I would have left if I had been there alone, if Mum hadn’t been there with me.

I would have listened to my fear, let it win – given in.

Mum listened, held me close, convinced me with gentle words that I needed to stay. I knew she was right. I needed to find the courage to stay, the courage to give myself the chance to have an abortion if that’s what I decided. I needed her to lend me the courage, to support me, to hold my hand if I needed it and I needed her to say it was okay if I chose not to, if I chose to become a mother instead.

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TENACULUM Used to grasp the cervix during the procedure.

We’re taken to see the doctor at the clinic. I feel a tiredness come over me as I realise I will have to tell it all again. She asks me when my last period was; she looks at her chart and waits.

‘I don’t know. Maybe two months. I’ve only missed one,’ I say, unsure of my answer. I feel so irresponsible that I haven’t taken note.

She’s going to do an internal examination. Do I want Mum to leave?

No, I want her to stay. I don’t want to be here alone. The curtain is pulled; Mum sits on the other side. Slowly I take off my shoes, reluctantly pull off my jeans, my underwear. I fold them neatly on the chair. She stretches the soft cream rubber gloves over her hands. The bed is cold; the paper cover crinkles beneath me, tearing when I move. My legs are stretched wide like a frog on a French plate, unable to escape, awaiting its fate. Eyes to the roof, I lie in silence once more. I suck in a deep breath, hold, then puff my cheeks out letting the air escape. My face turns red.

She tells me to relax. I unclench my bum and my legs drop lower.

She pushes her hand in, deeper, further inside. I jolt with the pain that stretches me like a balloon, about to pop. She wiggles her fingers, touches me inside. I cringe, try not to think what she might feel; in my head I am begging her to stop. I try not to think of Mum, her head down, hoping I’m not in pain. Like me, she will be waiting for it to end.

I wonder what my friends are doing now. Angela will still be asleep, Lucy will be riding her horse, Keri smoking on her veranda in the late morning sun.

What is this doctor looking for, what can she feel? Still she pushes her hand deeper and deeper into me. She is so far inside; hurting more

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and more the further she goes. Tearing, I will tear if she doesn’t stop – please don’t go any further. It feels like she has her hand inside my stomach, punishing me for what I have done. I want to cry, I want her to stop. I grit my teeth, press my lips, squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath once more.

Finally she retracts her hand, letting me breathe again. It still aches, lingering on like a stinging Chinese burn from my childhood. I slowly creep from the bed, put on my clothes. The curtain is pulled; Mum’s face is pale. She watches me sit; I keep my eyes to the ground. The pain has nearly stopped now, but I wonder how many more times this will happen. How many more times must I lie like this, my legs splayed, so naked, exposed, my spirit crushed, my dignity lost? What will be next?

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‘You’re about eight or nine weeks. You’ll need to get a scan so we can know for sure.’ Eight or nine weeks? So much time has passed.

Dates and places flickered like a black and white film. What had I done in those weeks? Angela’s birthday, Show Weekend, end of school, the ball and more… so much drinking, smoking. What had I done to it?

I knew there were risks in drinking when you’re pregnant. We binged almost every weekend, until we couldn’t stand. We only stopped drinking when we ran out of alcohol or the pub had shut. I smoked when I had a beer in my hand, and that was every weekend. I tried to remember if I had shared a joint with someone in that time. I knew it didn’t matter because I had already harmed this baby. In eight or nine weeks the damage had already begun. I thought of myself at these parties, smoking, drinking, laughing, being a fool. If only I had known, I would have stopped it all. I didn’t want to be a bad mother, reckless and uncaring.

I was so tired; I wanted to sleep, to let my mind and my body rest.

They said I needed to get a scan. They kept asking for more. What would I have to do? Would they put their hands inside me again, ask me to relax?

It was nearly Christmas and the clinic would close. They needed to know exactly how far on my pregnancy was. There were no spare appointments before Christmas and our family holiday was three weeks away. Could I wait till we were back? With this sudden urgency my mind changed. Like a hot, summer nor’wester I felt strong, determined.

I wanted the abortion. I needed to have it. My breath grew short, my eyes big, begging Mum. What if there was no time? I didn’t want to

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ruin our family holiday, my abortion the secret reason why we never made that trip. There had to be time. It couldn’t end this way. I was certain I would hate this thing forever, that it would ruin my life.

Somehow there had to be time.

There is a cold wet gel on my bare stomach – gliding like paint. I’m lying on a bed once more. The screen is nearby but I don’t watch. The room is in semi-darkness, only the glowing lights of the machines illuminate its starkness, its empty surfaces, the contours of our faces. As the radiologist leans over me I study the creases embedded in her face before I close my eyes. I feel as if I have been abducted by aliens for an experiment: something grows inside me.

Mum sits beside me, pulls her chair in close. I think she’s watching it appear. It’s there now, silent. Shapes mix in darkness and light, like afternoon sun on a deep pool of rippling water. I stare at the roof, saying nothing; not wanting to believe it’s there, not wanting to believe they can see what is growing inside me. I don’t want to see any fingers, toes or little legs. But I know they’re there. I know they can see it now and they can hear a heartbeat – soft, strong, steady. I don’t want to hear – I pretend I can’t – but I can. I decide to hold my breath so it can’t hear me.

What will I do to stop it growing? Expel it from my body – would that be wrong? This thing inside me, will I kill it? Will I stop it from getting bigger; stop it from becoming a child? My mother’s grandchild – so like her, so like me – a seed sown and passed on. My gift to her is

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my child. How can I let that go? How can we never see it run, play, climb, never know its cuddle? It will be so much work, so much time.

Time I don’t have, or is it time I’m not willing to give?

I can’t wait to get out. It’s too real, my thoughts too big, more and more confused. These people know that I’m unsure, that I’m unwilling, unwanting. They can see how young I am. I don’t want their pity, their thoughts, their sadness, the stories they’ve made up about me. I just want to escape this room, the screen with the shapes, the darkness.

Escape their knowing eyes.

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The scan showed I was nine weeks pregnant. They couldn’t wait till after Christmas. An appointment had become available – two days away – this Friday. It was too close, not long enough to decide. I hadn’t made up my mind yet. My feelings swung one way, then the other. I was unsure I could go through with the operation. But could I handle having a child, being a mother? Either way was more than I could deal with.

Either way it was not what I wanted.

In desperation I told myself I could do it, I could be a mother. It was the far more romantic choice; it even seemed like the easy choice. I knew Mum would help me; she wouldn’t leave me to bring up this baby alone.

But I didn’t want that life for her. She didn’t want it either. She wanted to travel, save for the future, not take on another child when she should have been free. I knew she would make the sacrifice if I needed her to, but I couldn’t ask her to do that. Everybody would hate me. I would hate myself. If I had this baby I knew I would need her – so much. It would be better for me to have the abortion, better to get rid of it. I was still running backwards in my mind. Only two days to make a decision, too soon. I knew I couldn’t lose this chance. I had to decide.

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VULSELLUM Used to grasp the cervix during the procedure.

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A cold winter evening, the frost falling before the light. It was her eighteenth birthday, so they all went out to the pub. It was so warm inside with the music, beer, the bourbons and Coke. She leaned on the bar, tapped her foot to the drumming beat. Familiar faces came in from the cold – it became difficult to move. The room was dark and murky now, just how she liked it. Hiding among the crowd, she stood with her friends watching the rest. They danced as they drank, cigarettes burning in the dark. He was there; they watched each other. What did he want with her? Why did he look? Moving towards her, grabbing her waist; they danced in a drunken haze. The beer moved her feet, caused her to sway. There was a party afterwards. He asked her to come, and she was having such a good time and she thought he liked her, so she went.

This was the best birthday ever. They drank more, his kisses hard. Finding a bed in the darkness, he took her there. He guided the hurried, unromantic fumbling between twisting sheets. Hot and sweaty, all over so quickly. She wondered what to do next. Already she regretted it. He didn’t talk, left her alone. She wanted to go home to sleep in her own bed, to sleep and forget.

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It was a silent ride home, long and hot, the trees flickering by. I thought about being pregnant. Nine weeks this baby had lived here, wanting my love. But it wasn’t made out of love. It was made out of need and drunken regrets. I didn’t want to think about that, be reminded of it every time I looked at my baby. I was a good girl, from a good family and this should never have happened. The birthday present I didn’t want.

I thought about that night, about the father. I wanted to believe it was definitely his, but I couldn’t forget about another night two weeks earlier.

At a friend’s house – his parents away – listening to music, the boys smoking pot, beer cans scattered around. It grew late. We scavenged like wild dogs for places to sleep in the many rooms.

As silence fell the door opened and Alex came into the room. There were two beds but he lay down next to me. I told him no – to go away.

I thought he was my friend. Then I felt his hands, his breath like hot wax reeking of beer. I struggled beneath him, held my legs tight so he couldn’t get in. He was heavy, determined, like a beast. His belt jangling to the floor – chained prisoners moving in the night.

‘C’mon, c’mon.’ His voice low, smooth. I knew now I didn’t know him at all. Why? Why was he doing this? I wasn’t one of those other girls.

I was his friend. I should have got out of the bed straight away. Why did I wait? Why did I think I could make him stop? He was too strong.

Frustrated, pinned down, I wanted to cry. Did he think it wouldn’t matter? Did he think I wouldn’t care, that I wanted him to? I had thought of him as my friend, but now I could see I meant nothing at all.

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Again and again I tried to push him off but he fought against my arms. I was too weak for his thrusts, his determination. Then suddenly he seemed to move with ease, rolling off me like a sleeping dog. Like a snake sliding silently into the night he moved to the other bed. I lay stiff, eyes open, staring at the wall.

I never told anyone about that night. I didn’t want them to know.

I didn’t want my friendships – my place in the group – jeopardised, didn’t want to be teased. I was sure they would believe him if he denied it. He had scared me. I had felt so powerless. I didn’t want them to think I was weak, to think I could be hurt, vulnerable. Does he know how much he hurt me? Does he even remember? I should have driven home that night.

Maybe the baby was his. I couldn’t forget that possibility, I wished I could. Did he stop before he’d finished? I tried to remember. Could I be pregnant from something so quick? No… no, he wouldn’t have done that to me. It couldn’t be his. God, I hoped not. No, it would be from the night of my birthday with Anton – it had to be. That is the story I would stick to, the story I would believe. It was easier that way. I would deal with it. Anton would never know of it and I didn’t want to know.

With a double judder, the car wound back over the railway line that led into Rangiora. I focused on the road again; saw the familiar petrol station, the building supplies, tractors for hire, the red pub on the right.

My mind was still too busy, too cramped with worry, to let me rest, even

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for a moment. I thought about my stomach and my thighs, imagined them growing until I couldn’t walk. I hated how my body was now and it could only get worse. I would never stop eating. I would crave sugary, fat-soaked treats, hating myself with every bite. I wouldn’t lose the weight I would put on having this baby. It was too hard and I was always bad at diets. I would lose control of who I was, who I wanted to be. I had worked so hard to have control of my future, my body, my life.

I had to have control.

Before long we arrived home. I was in a daze, thoughts jumbled, body hot and tired. I went straight to my room. That mirror was calling me, teasing me again. My robust figure with mounds of flesh, a stomach like jelly. I hated what I saw. I looked long into my reflection, imagining that child. Was it really in there, curled in my warmth, growing off me, reading my every thought?

I turned and twisted in front of myself, longing to see something different in the reflection. I wanted this body to go. I wanted more: a prettier face. I wanted less: hips, bum and arms. How my body looked now was the least of my problems. I couldn’t control those whirling thoughts; loving it, hating it, wanting to hold it in my arms. I would choose its name – a new project. But it wasn’t just a project, a school assignment. It was real. It was for life. I couldn’t get that into my head.

I knew it wasn’t fair to think this way, but this baby as a two-year-old, an eight-year-old, at fifteen, wasn’t real.

How big was it now? Was it anything at all? Did I really want to know? ‘It doesn’t matter because you don’t care for it!’ my mind screamed.

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But what if it cares for me? I questioned myself, timid, almost too scared to ask. Was that all I needed? Would I be fulfilled, suddenly grown up, not wanting to go to those parties, not needing my friends’ acceptance, or their love? Could this child solve it all, solve who I was? Is this who I would be?

I knew my reasoning was irrational – naive – but I let every thought have its turn. I needed to wade through every trace of reason to help make up my mind, to justify what I knew deep down I had to do.

I didn’t understand my thoughts. They overtook me, I couldn’t make them stop. Everything sounded wrong and then everything sounded so right. I crept into bed, my body heavy, eyes shutting, stinging as the lids touched. I cried myself to sleep; my dreams turning into nightmares.

Alone forever with her child, no man will look at her. She never could get a man, even when she didn’t have a child. Now they don’t even look, they pass her by. Too fat, too worn and tired. Damaged goods, stretch marks and the sound of that baby crying too much for them.

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DiLATER Used to dilate the cervix during the procedure.

I was fourteen when I lost my virginity. A strange term because I didn’t lose it, I gave it away. I begged Mum to let me go to that party. I’d been to parties before but they’d always been at a friend’s house, where everybody was my age and at that stage there was hardly any alcohol.

This party was different. Everybody was going to be older and drinking.

I was nervous about what to wear. I wanted to look older, to look pretty.

My worst nightmare would be for them to realise I was younger than them, inexperienced, innocent. I spent hours rifling through my wardrobe, pulling out items that hadn’t seen the light for months. I tried everything on, in every combination. On, off, then on again ten minutes later. I just couldn’t decide. I rang Keri to ask what she was wearing. She was tall, slim and looked older than she was; she didn’t have to worry like me.

Finally I decided on jeans and a cropped white jacket. I remember studying myself in the mirror, my rounded hips, my fourteen-year-old breasts that could have belonged to an eighteen-year-old. I was proud of them and I hoped they would help me look older than I was. I played with a bit of make-up – eyeliner, mascara and a touch of shadow – and left my hair down.

Mum dropped us off. I could see she wasn’t happy about it – wary and unsure like the new cat in the neighbourhood – but she had given in. Keri’s mum would pick us up at twelve. We considered that far too early and nobody else would be getting picked up by their parents, but we had to settle for what we could get.

The house was brightly lit, making the night outside seem extra dark.

People moved past us as we stood in the corridor pretending to look

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for someone we knew, chattering nervously about nothing at all.

We watched as they laughed and whispered, moving among their friends. Cans of beer were handed to us, cold, sea foam froth tasting bitter. Keri met others from her netball team and we moved apart.

I found myself alone, feeling funny from the beer, warm, wobbly, light like a dancer. I looked for her in the tide of lively bodies. When I caught a glimpse as two people moved apart, a guy had his arm around her.

She was laughing, drinking from her can of beer. I looked down at the beer still clenched in my hand, half gone. It still tasted bitter and dull, hard to swallow. With nothing else to do I sipped at it again and again.

I wasn’t used to drinking alcohol; its effect was new. I liked the way it made me feel. Finally a guy came over to me and I melted against the wall like the lead female role in a romantic film. We talked a while. He was cute, seemed nice – I couldn’t believe he had bothered to talk to me.

He pulled at my hand and asked me to come outside. I glanced around for Keri, couldn’t see her anywhere. The cold hit me, my fingers stung, my nipples hard beneath my light shirt, my open jacket. I shivered all over. In the sudden blackness I couldn’t see where we were going but he had his arm around me and he promised I’d be all right. Finally that warm glow creeping through my body shut out the early August chill.

I glided on beer legs, excited and nervous at the same time about what would come next. Would we sit and talk in the dark? Surely he would kiss me. He was the first boy who had ever shown any interest in me.

He’d chosen me out of all those other girls. Maybe I was pretty after all.

I didn’t know him, but at that moment it didn’t matter. It felt good,

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special, to have his attention. Each step took us away from the house, the noise, the laughter fading. I knew I was going somewhere unknown, to a situation I wasn’t sure I could control. But I was curious and that warm glow inside gave me courage, told me it would be all right.

I wobbled again – a dip in the paddock, a rabbit hole – he stopped me from falling. The darkness surrounded us and I was beginning to get cold again.

Stumbling around the back of an old shed he sat me down in the long dew-soaked grass. I knew what was coming. We would pash, our tongues would mingle, he would feel my breast. Kissing me hard, he laid me back; I could feel the wet grass against my cheek, touching my hair. He unbuttoned my jeans, wanting more. I was terrified; should I let this happen, or should I say no and run back to the party? He’d tell everyone, call me a tease, so I knew I would stay. We would have sex. Though deep down I didn’t really want to, I had decided in that moment it would be worse to say no. I didn’t want to be the only virgin. All my friends had begun having sex. I was afraid of being the geek, the ugly girl who nobody would touch.

I had dreamt it would happen in a bed with a boy I liked. He would like me, hold me, kiss my cheek – be my boyfriend. I doubted it would happen soon, maybe not at all. This was my chance to do it, get it over and done with and none of my friends would know him. That would be good if anything embarrassing happened, if I did something wrong.

So I let it happen on that cold night, in the grass, in the dark. I could hardly see him, but I felt his rough touch, his belt buckle against my

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thigh, jerking movements, pushing me apart, his fumbling eagerness.

It hurt, felt like I was being cut, torn like fabric, ripping as he pushed.

It was so hard, foreign; I didn’t want it there. I lay like a corpse, unable to touch him – not wanting to – the pain bringing tears to my eyes.

I shut them tight and wished it would stop. I was so cold.

I heard voices to the left, then the right, their laughter echoing.

I opened my eyes, figures stood over me, looming like vampires craving my blood. Crouching like spies, judgement in their laughter. I tried to sit up, push him off, shut my legs to hide myself. I wanted to scuttle like a lizard but there was nowhere to go. He told them to go, but there was laughter in his voice. He ran off with them, leaving me alone in the dark.

I rolled over onto my knees, slowly pulled up my underwear, my jeans.

It was hard to make my hands and legs move together with the cold, my drunkenness, the pain down there, the blood.

I looked for the light coming from the house. I had to find Keri.

I didn’t know what time it was – couldn’t be that late. I hoped I would see her outside, hoped she would come looking for me. I just wanted to go home. I didn’t want to walk back into that party, into the light, laughing faces greeting me. I had to go in, I had to find her, to get home.

It was worse than I had imagined. Their sniggers behind cupped hands, stares, whispers from lowered mouths. I sneaked around like a field mouse, peering into each room. She was nowhere. Finally I plucked up enough courage to ask if they knew where she was. Tears welled in my eyes when they told me Keri had gone.

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I sat on the gravel outside, the dew settling on my shirt, slow tears rolling down my cheeks. Mum would know something had happened, that it had all gone wrong. She would blame herself; maybe never let me go to a party again. How was I going to get home? I needed to gather myself, be strong. I would start to walk. Before I could pull myself up off the cold ground – gravel sticking to my palms – headlights moved up the winding road towards me. I knew it was Mum, come to take me home. A sudden wave of relief, poisoned with shame, engulfed me.

It held me silent as I got in the car. The car idled as she looked at me, waited for an explanation, but I wouldn’t tell. I wanted her to drive away fast before I was seen, giving them more reason to laugh.

Keri had called Mum when she arrived home. ‘Maria has missed her ride… I don’t know where she is. She just disappeared.’

On the ride home I stared out the window, watched the bright rabbit eyes scatter as we passed.

Mum still doesn’t know what happened. She keeps her thoughts to herself. She’ll always know it was a bad decision to let me go. We both regret that night. I feel self-conscious, disgusted when I remember it.

I never talk about it. When others joke about their first time I become silent, change the subject or leave the room. I never laugh alongside them – I can’t. I wish I had a story I could share, giggle about with my girlfriends. I wish I hadn’t let it happen. I wish I had waited till I was ready, till I was relaxed with my body, myself. If only I’d known that I didn’t have to do such things to be accepted, that I had the right to say no without feeling embarrassed.

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My eyelids flicker when she opens the door. I focus. Fresh bouquets of miniature pink flowers cover my wallpaper. I see the child-sized cane chair hiding in the corner of the room; I remember how we used to sit in it – the special chair. Forgotten stuffed toys with drooping ears occupy it now. Yesterday’s clothes hang from the top drawer of the dresser; a layer of dust dulls its mahogany sheen. I see the array of white bottles and tubs that promise me beautiful skin, my youth forever. I know they don’t work, but just having them, using them, makes me feel good. This morning everything is so clear, so terribly clear.

I feel my mother’s presence; I roll over in the bed. She stands inside the door a metre away, her hand still resting on the doorknob. She says nothing – just looks at me with pity and apprehension. I tell her I have decided. I have to do it. There’s no other way. I feel my chest clench. I’m holding onto my fear so tightly that it’s hard to speak. I shower and dress, careful all the time to keep my mind empty. I don’t question my decision – too scared. Besides, I’m sure, I’m not going to back out now.

I don’t want my life to change. I don’t want to have a baby; I don’t want to bring it up alone. I want to be older, married and financially stable with a home of my own. I want to care for my child with all my love, not just the bit I’m willing to spare after my own needs are met. At eighteen I don’t know how to share myself with anybody else.

Mum asks if I am okay. Am I ready to do this?

‘Yeah, I have to do it.’ I’m still not able to look her in the eye. I retract into silence. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think about the operation. I try to postpone all thought, try to keep hold of my terror.

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We pass by the old familiar places as we drive towards the city. The judder of the railroad we have crossed a thousand times, the shimmering silver road disappearing into the distance, the paddocks stretching out to meet snow-peaked mountains on the horizon. The morning heat warms me, making my eyes heavy. Wire fences rise and dip between moss-covered posts; chocolate and white cows munch on windswept grass, never once raising their heads as we rush past. I’ve watched these trees grow tall and strong, their new summer leaves now waving me by.

Are they saying goodbye to me forever? Do they think I will come back?

Will it be the same when I return? On the motorway we race with others, jostle for position. Soon there are more houses, more people – in cars, on bicycles, jogging, pushing prams. They seem to move in slow motion, following daily routines. We, on the other hand, seem to speed up, moving faster all the time. I watch them fly past, my heart beating hard. I want to stay with them – to be them.

Two blocks away from the hospital I suddenly remember the antiabortionists I had once seen outside the clinic. Would they be there?

Would they yell at me, call me a murderer, tell me I was evil for what I had decided to do?

Years before, as a new teenager, I had stared at them from the car as we waited at the lights. I wondered who they were, the women were who went into that place. It seemed strange for people to stand there all day waiting for women to arrive. Why did they harass them? Didn’t they have anything else to do? The lights changed to green and we drove off. I never thought about them again.

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Now I was one of those women and at this moment I was as afraid of these protesters as I was of the operation. I was afraid of being judged, afraid they would make this harder than it already was. I was shaking.

They didn’t understand what I’d been through just to be here now. Did they think I hadn’t thought hard about this, agonised over it? They didn’t know me; they didn’t know my story, my pain.

I wasn’t sure whether I would yell at them, or cry. I shut my eyes and wished for them to disappear. We turned the corner and my wish had been granted: the footpath was empty except for a lone woman striding on her way to work. I glanced at Mum and breathed out. She was concentrating on the road. Her thoughts were far away.

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UTERiNE FORCEPS Used to remove the products of conception from the uterus.

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I thought I would be alone but there are three beds in the room.

I thought that nobody would see me, and I would not see them, but I do. Like mirrors we see the pain in each other’s faces, read each other’s thoughts, see the fear in each other’s eyes. The bed in the corner is mine.

The white gown folded neatly is for me. Everything feels so unreal – a dream maybe? I undress slowly, conscious of the other women. The split in the gown gapes and billows at the back as I move, adding to my unease. Mum stands behind me and adjusts the ties as best she can. Her hands are cold. Part of me doesn’t want her to help. I don’t want them to think I’m still a child. But I give in to avoid attracting attention.

When she has finished I turn away from her. Perhaps I am still a child.

I think back to those early carefree days. My mother gently holding the fabric together, pulling up the zip in my cotton dress. I feel her hands release me and run off to catch up with my brother.

I get into the bed. The stiff sheets and scratching blankets tucked too tight feel like a straitjacket; they hold me down. I struggle, kick my feet and wriggle in frustration until they loosen. Looking at Mum, I try to read her expression. I need it to tell me I’ll be all right, but her face looks tired and her eyes are worried. She looks at me as a mother does at a child she must protect. Her hands rest in her lap, weathered from the sun. I see the marks of time, the lines of her life deep in her skin like river beds winding their way to the sea.

It’s early morning; there’s still a chill in this place. An older woman in the bed next to me is flipping the pages of a magazine. Whispers trickle from the couple in the corner, but mostly there is silence.

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In this room there are no clocks and the moments stretch out forever. She feels herself floating, floating away. Watches herself waiting. The old one, the young one with a boyfriend to hold her hand – who are they? What are their stories? They sit in silence. Silence is all they have. Her mind races, thoughts running, rushing toward an end. Scared, she grips the sheet. In the chair beside her sits her mother, so worried about what they will do. She looks hard at her daughter’s young face, sees her terror, wants to take it all away. Behind a façade of calm, she tries to hide her thoughts from her child.

They don’t speak to each other. They wait. This thing inside her waits.

Watching the other girl go, she shivers and her stomach tightens – will she be next? How long will it take? Still she waits. When the nurse arrives and hands her a pill, she takes it. She doesn’t know what it’s for but she does what she’s told. She doesn’t speak; her voice is stuck, her throat dry. Through the gap in the curtain she watches as the other girl is returned to the room, limp, weak with relief. Now it is her turn. She wants to go. She can’t wait any longer even though she is terrified. Along this gangplank she must walk, no chance to turn back now. The nurse takes her arm, takes her away from her mother. She reaches behind herself, feels the gap in her gown: the ties are loose again, exposing her bum. With one hand she pulls it closed but feels it gape again as soon as she moves. She knows her mother is watching her leave. She doesn’t look back, she can’t. She doesn’t want to look ahead either. Her legs feel weak; shivers take control of her body like bolts of electricity. She wills herself to move, tells herself to be strong. Her eyes shut, she breathes deeply. They walk along the hall, doors looming, sun touching the back of her legs. It takes forever, her movements so very slow, slipping, sinking, drowning in her fear.

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ShARP CURETTE Used to check that the uterine wall is clear.

The door is opened; she takes a few steps in. Suddenly she freezes. The light in the room is dull like the hour after sunset in winter. Figures move in the low light – busy in their routine; they don’t seem to notice her. Heads covered, masks disguising their faces, she sees only their eyes. Things shine on metal trolleys. She wants to run, to hide like a child but her legs won’t move. She knows she must be strong and stay; she must face this moment, these people, her fears – she must do this for herself.

The bed stands alone in the middle of the room, a white sheet draped across it. Everything is blurred, hazy like a dream; her eyes can’t seem to focus.

Stirrups like guns rise from one end. Their shapes loom in the mist of her mind, they reach out to her, threaten her – make her stiff with panic. They will all see her, her most private parts, put things in her, feel around like ferrets. They will all know what she has done.

The nurse edges her forward with a gentle touch of her elbow. She shuffles closer, her arms by her side, in no hurry to reach that table. The end of the line.

Here is where they will work on her – have worked on others. They will take it away, this thing, this foetus, this growing baby – my baby. Poke, prod, suck and scrape. For a moment she had loved it. For a few hours, a day, maybe even two, she had wanted to keep it but that was fantasyland, a place she couldn’t go.

The gown splits more as she bends and twists her body onto the bed. The coldness rushes in, grips her skin, makes her feel naked; she shivers again. The nurse helps her lie back, flat on the table, staring at the roof. She is mesmerised by the lights, hears the muffle of their voices; tension sits on her like a dead weight. A white sheet, stiff and immaculate, is placed over her. The feel of it on her skin – clinical – causes her to shiver once more. The room is suddenly like ice.

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The nurse helps her to raise her legs. She guides her feet, her calves and her thighs into the stirrups. They are held high, stiff, stretched so wide, too wide for her. Exposed, she shuts her eyes and tries to take her mind somewhere else.

They move around down there, shifting trolleys, clinking instruments, talking quietly in secret code. A needle is in her hand, drugs flow, glide into her veins.

She stares at the roof, thinks about her mother, wishes she were there holding her hand. Instead there is the nurse, comforting her, an unknown ally. Her voice gradually dulls as she talks. She hears the nurse ask her about the school holidays and what she has planned. She is going to Wanaka for New Year’s Eve with friends. It is their first time away together, far from home, an adventure for them all. Her voice trails, the words slur, down and down until she can’t hear them any more. The nurse’s eyes still watch her; they seem kind.

She looks like an angel standing above. Her eyelids are heavy, sleepy, floating.

The nurse is gone. She is gone. It is gone.

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kARMAN CAThETER Used to aspirate products of conception from the uterus.

I hear her voice calling me. I want to go to it but it seems I can’t. My body won’t move – too weak, too floppy. It holds me back from going to her. I don’t know where I am, don’t know that voice. I forget why I’m here, then I remember and I try to forget again. I am floating above the table on the sound of her voice. A giant cloud encases me, thick, murky, an Irish fog. My eyelids flutter. I try to see beyond it, but everything is moving in slow motion. I see her; feel her touch on my forehead. She’s stroking me, smoothing my hair – gentle. I see colour, bright lights pierce the darkness of the room. I feel the hardness of the table beneath me, the edge so close to my side, and I remember again.

Slowly she sits me up, holds me by the arm. I use the stool to slide down. I need her help. I can’t walk on my own: my legs are useless, not working as they should. The floor is as cold as ever. I shuffle back in the direction I had come twenty minutes before, back through that door.

A nurse at both sides now, I shuffle, flopping with every step. It’s so bright outside that room. I see the sun creeping along walls, peeking out of doorways, stencilling the carpet.

I can’t comprehend what has happened. The drugs hinder my thoughts; my emotions are so worn out. I feel strangely light and a sense of relief weaves through my drowsiness, though I don’t fully understand why. I know that whatever has happened, it’s over. A welcome sense of calm is guiding my body, nurturing my thoughts; it feels so good. Is it just the drugs? I’m sinking, still sinking, so tired I could sleep forever.

They direct me to the toilets. I have to put underwear on and a pad to catch the blood. Should there be blood? Am I cut, torn? Will I be all

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right? I don’t feel much pain; it’s just starting to ache like a mild bee sting and that grinding when you’re about to get your period. I lower myself to the seat; my eyes close for a second. I sway against the wall.

I try to find the strength to push myself straight again. I let myself lean back, my shoulders and neck against the flush tank for support. I try to place the pad straight in the crotch of my pants, but it won’t fit, hangs over the sides. It is the biggest pad I’ve ever seen, thick and stiff, too big for me. Am I going to bleed that much? I don’t want to see it, thick and red like deep crimson paint, the darkest ruby lipstick. What if I see something, a piece of it, something they left behind?

The nurses are waiting for me to finish. My fingers fumble at the edge of my underwear – hard to pull up, hard to open the door. The pad doesn’t bend. It sticks out in the front and the back, wobbles like a flipper board as I take each step. Holding my arms again the nurses lead me back to the room with the three beds.

As we approach Mum looks up. She looks tired, still worried. I give a slight smile, more for her than for me. I want her to know she can relax now, to know I’m all right. The drugs stop me from worrying about the others in the room. I can only focus on Mum; she’s all that matters at this moment. Mum stands as we come near; she pulls back the covers and helps me crawl under them. Immediately I begin to sink into the mattress, which feels so soft to me now, so good. I lie on my side, flick my eyes open one last time to see her. She sits in the chair by the bed, looking down at me, softness in her face. She’s tired. Gentleness blends with worry in her green eyes. She looks at me with such love and

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I feel so warm inside, so peaceful, so happy she’s here. I feel like I’m seven again. I remember how she would tuck me in, read to me from my favourite book. Gently kiss my forehead – a brush of feathers – whisper me goodnight. Her gaze is the same. Just as I did then, I know I will sleep peacefully. This time she will watch over me as I sleep, she will listen to me breathe. This time I will wake and she will be there. When I do, we will be closer than we knew we could be and I will love her more than ever. I will know what she is worth to me and I will understand how much I mean to her.

After I wake the nurse talks to me about contraception. She hands me a packet of contraceptive pills and a booklet.

‘Rest,’ she says. ‘No tampons and no sex for a month.’

I don’t think I’ll ever want to have sex again. I know about contraception, but I’ve been careless. He didn’t care at all.

My groin aches and again the oversized pad wedged between my legs makes it hard to walk. I try to look natural as I pass the women in the waiting room. I keep my head straight, don’t glance around. This time I feel no shame; my relief is too strong.

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The sun and the drugs still in my system send me to sleep on the drive home. The conflicting voices in my head are gone. It feels nice to drift off and not have to think. I feel as if I’ve been away from home for weeks. I feel relief to be back, to see nothing has changed – only I have changed. With my mother’s arm around me I move slowly to my room and ease myself into bed. I want to sleep, to read, to rest, to be alone.

There’s a knock at the door, soft, almost polite. I’m not sure I’m ready to see my brother. I put on my brave face. He sits on the edge of my bed like a perched bird ready for flight, looks at me with gentle eyes. I can see he just wants to know that I’m going to be okay. The covers are pulled up to my chin. I want to joke, to break the silence, to stop the tears welling in my eyes, but I can’t think of anything to say. In the end he does it for me, with words I don’t expect to hear.

‘Can I give you a hug?’

‘No,’ I reply, knowing it will hurt him, but not able to hug him either.

I don’t want to start crying again. I’ve cried so much. It hurts to be so distraught; it hurts to have him see me that way. Crying will let him know how vulnerable I still am. I don’t want him to see me differently.

I want to be his little sister again, the one with the feisty attitude, the one who likes him to think he can’t hurt her. For this to happen I have to forget and so does he.

I know what it has taken him to ask for a hug, a moment of affection.

We don’t hug much in our family. Not even when Dad died. We kept it all inside. We sat together but alone. We got on with our lives. I thought about that, what it had done to us, to me. But I don’t want to think

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about this, my abortion. There are times now when I can go for months without thinking of either.

I was asleep when my friends arrived with a bunch of flowers. They sat on either side of my bed. I knew they wanted to ask about the abortion, what it was like, if I was in pain? Neither of them said a word. I guess they didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. Now, more than ever, I wanted to make them laugh. That was my role, the joker. That was who I was with my friends. I didn’t want to see the pity in their eyes.

I knew they didn’t want to tell me they were going out later that night but I asked anyway. I never missed a night out with the girls but tonight I would have to. Thinking of this I suddenly saw his face in my mind and it panicked me. Would I ever be able to stand in the same room as him again? Could I bear to see him, bear to hear him laughing with his mates, flirting with other girls, not knowing what I had been through? I was sure I never wanted to see him again.

I stared at the flowers. They were so out of place in my room. Their multiplied reflection in the mirror mesmerised me. I lay there wondering about my friends, what they might be doing. Would they be having fun?

Would they be thinking of me? Finally I drifted off to sleep.

Eventually, I did go out again and, inevitably, in a bar one night, looking at me from the other side of the room, he was there. I froze, my whole body tied with rope. In my head the room seemed to stop.

Standing there, a beer in his hand, his eyes walked up and down all over

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me, treading me into the ground. His desire made me feel sick, my chest collapsing, my own eyes avoiding his gaze. I wanted to yell, to spit, to tear him apart, but I did nothing.

He never knew what happened to me. I chose not to tell. I wish I could have gone to him. I wish I could have relied on him to care, to help, to share my responsibility. But I couldn’t. A small town is a place of judgement, of rampant gossip. Protecting your status by mocking others was commonplace, expected; we revelled in it. Those one could trust were few and far between.

That night I wanted to blame him for everything, not because I believed it was all his fault but because he didn’t know what had happened. Part of me wished he could have known. Maybe we could have been friends, drawn together by our common predicament. But seeing the way he looked at me in the pub – was it my imagination? – I felt angry. I hated what had happened. I hated that I couldn’t tell him.

I hated that he would never know my pain.

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We went on our holiday to Auckland. Christmas with the relatives felt strange. I wasn’t the person they thought I was. I had changed. I would never be the same. I stared at mothers and their babies on the beach and on the street with guarded interest. I’d hear them cry and try to block it out, move away. I had no interest in being near babies. They represented what might have become my life. I felt such relief – a strange freedom – as I swam in the sea with my brother, walked the beach with Mum. I knew she was still worrying about me. I saw it in the way she watched me, the way she analysed my mood, in the way her glances rested too long on my face in quiet moments.

‘How are you feeling?’ she would ask. I wished she could see that I didn’t want to talk about it, that I wanted to put it out of my mind.

I flew home early to get ready for a New Year’s Eve trip to Wanaka with my girlfriends. We were all so excited. I wanted to go, needed to be with them. I needed to laugh, to feel normal, to feel like a teenager again. I had to get on with being me. Mum worried about me going, wanted to keep me near, but in the end she just had to trust that I would be all right.

Part of me remembers that trip as the best New Year ever, the old me having a terrific time. Another part of me remembers feeling different, changed, quieter somehow. I didn’t join in the conversations about sex.

I didn’t talk about boys either. It didn’t seem to matter any more.

I worried more too. I worried about starting to bleed. I worried that those who didn’t know would find out. All the same, it was great to get away, to be with friends. Sometimes we still talk about that trip when

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we get together, share the memories. But I haven’t forgotten the things that went through my mind long after the others were asleep. Those things I will never forget.

After the abortion I felt I’d been given another chance. I still worried about how I looked. I still didn’t have confidence around boys – except when I was drunk. I believed losing weight would improve the way I felt around others, how I felt about myself. I’d always failed in the past but this time I had to succeed. I wanted to take control of my life. I had to prove to the world, to those who questioned me and made me question myself, that I could be somebody, that I had made the right decision.

That summer I worked in the bakery earning money for university.

I walked or biked to the gym twice a day, always standing in the back row of the aerobics class to avoid the mirrors. I ate four crackers with tomato for lunch, a bowl of cereal for dinner. I went to university two sizes smaller. I got a night job waitressing at a restaurant.

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I hated myself for letting it happen. The hurt, the confusion, the long nights of tears rushed back to me. We were both drunk. We were naked; he lay on top, his breath rushing over my face. I thought I could handle having him close to me, inside me. Suddenly he stopped moving, looked into my wet eyes, asked me what was wrong. I heard concern in his voice and for a moment it was comforting. But words were impossible.

A giant matted ball in my throat, my tongue unable to move. Fearing what he might think of me, I managed to stop crying. Somehow I wrinkled up a smile and told him I was all right.

‘Do you want me to stop?’

‘No…it’s okay,’ I said, turning my face to the side, but it wasn’t. My features, the wet snail lines down my cheeks, were now hidden in the shadow. I did want him to stop. It’s hard to conceive how disappointed in myself I felt at that moment. I had let myself down. I had gone against my word. I had minimised how much that operation, that event, had impacted on me. I felt I had failed everyone; those nurses and doctors at the clinic, my friends, my family, Mum. I had failed myself.

How could I have let this happen?

All night he had made me feel wanted, made me feel appealing. I had felt so warm inside, so comfortable with him – a purring cat in the sun.

I wanted so much for him to wrap his arms around me, hold me tight.

I wanted to feel his hot skin against mine, so tight I’d be unable to move.

I wanted him to tell me it was okay, that it didn’t matter. In the morning he left his phone number, but I never called.

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I was searching. I wanted what we all want, to feel affection, to feel wanted, to be loved. This wasn’t the way to find it. I needed respect for myself. This boy couldn’t give me what I wanted, no matter how much of myself I gave to him. We wanted different things. It is with time, with friendship, with care and understanding that love and true affection appear. I wish I had understood this long ago. Even now it is easy to forget.

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My sleeping bag is pulled up over my shoulders. I hold it tight to my chin, creating a cocoon of warmth. The guys share tales of last night’s escapades in town. Their eyes flick between the storyteller and the game on television. Fuelled with heartwood, the fire beats at the scorched glass, roars to get free. I watch it glow, listen to their stories. Angela sits on the floor smoking a cigarette. She says she has postponed her trip to London for another three months to save more money. I know she’s worried about going alone. I finish my degree in October and she says she’ll wait if I want to go. Later that night I visit Mum. ‘I’m going overseas with Ange next year. She wants someone to go with and I’ve always wanted to do this. If I wait too long everyone will be home again and I’ll have no one to go with. What do you think?’

I run out of breath and wait, apprehensive of her reply. I’m surprised at Mum’s immediate acceptance of my decision. I shouldn’t have been.

A practical woman, realistic about life, she has always encouraged our dreams.

The nights become restless. Anticipation makes it hard to sleep. More and more lists are written – my way to get everything done. The days fly by, money is saved, our excitement mounts until we feel we will burst.

At the airport Ange and I say goodbye to our family and friends. Her mum hugs me tight and whispers in my ear. ‘I’m glad you’re going with her. Look after her for me.’ I find it hard to answer, the lump growing in my throat. I nod into her shoulder. She thinks I’m the responsible one but it was Angela who looked after me when I needed it most. She would never have deserted me.

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We are the best of friends. I couldn’t say we wouldn’t get into mischief.

We were going to explore the world, to have fun. We had never shied from excitement or adventure but one thing I could guarantee, I’d always be there for her.

I am looking at Mum’s top button, her curled collar. My eyes flicker to the people hugging in the distance. It hurts too much to look into her eyes. Afraid of making a scene, I say nothing. Finally, my forehead buried in the curve of her neck, I whisper, ‘Goodbye. I’ll miss you.’ Her eyes are shimmering like glass. I know excitement and sadness will be tearing her apart, just as they are me. I think of everything she has meant to me, done for me. Abruptly I turn, my head down as I walk through the departure gates. I break down as soon as she can no longer see me. Ange catches up, her arm around me as we walk the corridor.

‘It’ll be all right. We’ll be in Sydney soon.’

I raise my head a little and smile. I wonder how she can hold back her own tears and I feel a little stupid. An hour later, the Tasman Sea below us, the tears have dried up and my stomach aches with excitement as we head for our first stop.

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In two and a half years I visited twenty-six countries. It was an amazing time. I learned a lot about myself, grew in confidence, became a stronger person. I saw things, met people and had experiences that helped me to understand the world in a totally different way.

In the last year of that trip I worked as a nanny in London. Oliver was seven. He had five older brothers and sisters. Moving into their teenage years, they mostly looked after themselves, but Oliver was different. I bathed him every night. I chatted to him on our long drives to school. We would sit at the kitchen table doing his homework. Every night was a tug of war between his reluctance and restlessness and the time I had to get the rest of my jobs done. Dinner cooked and eaten by all, dishes, Oliver bathed and in bed on time. In the school holidays we would go to the park, Oliver on his scooter, the girls on bikes and roller blades whirling past, faster and faster, round and round.

My memories of that family are strong. It only takes a moment for it all to come flooding back. The girls singing, the bickering, the laughter we had. My relationship and interaction with each was so different – special to me. They unravelled the ribbons woven tightly around my heart, unwrapped it like a present. I grew to care for them very much.

I learned their insecurities, sensed their weaknesses, knew when they were down. I fell in love with them. I had never expected it to happen, never wanted it to, never thought it could. I wanted to protect them, teach them to know right from wrong, help them to make good decisions, to understand their own worth, to respect others and themselves.

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I saw the girls growing fast with new interests in fashion, parties and boys. I remembered the way I was and had no illusions they would also find this time uncertain. I hoped they would have greater self-esteem, a better sense of their own importance and power.

I remember the day I left that family so well. I woke and Oliver was there, looking at me from the edge of the bed. Then the girls arrived in their pyjamas, with sleepy eyes and cavernous yawns. I glanced around the room for anything I might have left behind. I avoided looking at them for too long. I felt their hugs linger. I didn’t want them to see my tears. The hurt of leaving them burned in my chest like a hastily swallowed hot potato. They looked at me with sad eyes, eyes that followed me around the room, never letting go. My taxi arrived.

They waved me farewell with limp wrists, sad clown faces. I walked down the path with my bags, tried not to look back. Their expressions were sweet, forlorn, a little confused – foals watching their mothers being moved to another paddock. I could feel them there, watching me leave.

When I turned for one last look I realised I needed their affection more than they needed mine, wondered how I would survive without it.

Suddenly Oliver left his sisters and ran towards me. I stopped, waited for him. I heard him cry my name for the last time: ‘Mawweea’. I sucked in a deep breath. I knew he would miss me, miss our chats about his day at school, his latest Lego construction, my suggestions on how best to respond to overbearing siblings. How could I possibly care for this child so much?

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Reaching me, he grabbed me around the hips, latched his hands behind. His face was pushed to the side, buried in my jacket. I hugged him back, rubbed his silky hair for the last time.

‘Hey… don’t go on the grass with your socks on. They’ll get wet!’

It was all I could manage. He smiled and I melted. ‘Okay then,’ my voice choked over the words, ‘see ya. Write me some letters.’

I gently pushed him back from the embrace. My head down, I turned abruptly and walked away. I could take no more; my heart was aching, my breath short. He stayed in that spot for a minute or so longer, just watching… watching me go.

Tears flowed all the way to the airport, all the way to Australia.

My first night in Sydney, buried deep in my sleeping bag, I cried in the darkness of a strange room.

I never did get a letter from Oliver or any of his siblings; no emails ever arrived. I guess everybody moves on. They say goodbye to their nanny, and the next day, a new face, a new accent, a new set of standards appears. But I’ll never forget them. I’ll never forget their faces, or the look in their eyes on the morning I left. I’ll always remember how much it hurt to turn away, to know I would never see them again. I’ll always remember how much they taught me. I hope they remember me.

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There is a day I remember – a moment – when I realised that my child, had I made a different decision, would have been the same age as Oliver.

It was like a revelation sneaking up from behind as I folded another mountain of washing. I stopped, stared into the garden. I had never thought about it like this before, never known a child, nor loved one as I did Oliver. I wondered what my child would have been like. Then I realised I didn’t regret not knowing. I was staggered by this new understanding. I knew then I had made the right choice for me.

I grew with that family. I’ll always thank them for that. I learned about myself. I thought about what could have been and I came to understand, as I never had before, what it takes to be a good parent.

I discovered that I could be selfless and giving, and that I could be a mother – wanted to be a mother – some day.

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Mine is not the only story. Anna’s mother wanted nothing to do with her. She went to her friends; they held her when she cried. She left home a month after the abortion. When she bumped into her mother at the mall last week, she hadn’t seen her for a month.

Taryn went alone. Six months later she told her mother. After all, it had been done; she couldn’t be mad now. Through the wall that night Taryn heard her mum crying. Tears gather in Taryn’s eyes as she tells me her story over a drink in the pub. She keeps it short. She quickly suggests we move to another pub that has livelier music and more people.

Naomi told her sister. They called a telephone help line to find out what to do. It’s their secret. She rarely talks about it. She told me, as we were about to go to sleep after a night out in Leicester Square. We’d heard about a girl we went to school with who was pregnant. I told Naomi about me. Her head buried in the hood of her sleeping bag, she whispered her story. The silence as we fell asleep that night was heavy.

Tania told her boyfriend straight away. He told her to leave. He said it wasn’t his. She decided she couldn’t keep it. She went alone. She cries when she hears my story. She is married with three children now.

Like most young teenagers, I was embarrassed by my parents. For a start they were older than everybody else’s. Mum had grey hair, Dad had an American accent and liked to tell crazy jokes. Some years later, when I found myself pregnant, the best decision I ever made was to tell my mother. The decision I had to make was mine; no one else could do that for me. But without Mum, my brother, my friends, I would have walked alone. Without their support I might not have found the strength

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I needed. I might not have made the right decision. I might have drowned in regret.

I trusted Mum, listened to her words. I let her hold me. I let her share my pain and somehow it was halved. No one knew me better than her.

She listens like no other person. She is always there for me. We are different, and we are the same. Together we will always laugh like best friends. I am lucky. She is the wisest woman I have ever known. I hope someday to be the mother she has been to me.

When I was young I didn’t know how to find happiness. I thought my happiness lay in the hands of others. Today, I’ve learnt that the choices I’ve made will affect my life forever. They make me who I am.

They have given me the strength and determination that’s brought me this far. I’m proud of where I am, I’m happy with the paths I have chosen. I’ll always strive to do better, wish I could be more. But for the moment I’m satisfied, happy with who I am, the choices I have made, the things I have achieved.

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Pregnancy and Family Planning Help Services in New Zealand There are a number of services in New Zealand that can offer help, so check your phone book for the numbers in your area for: Healthline A 24-hour national freephone service that allows you to talk with a registered nurse.

Also has a website.

Youth Help Line Freephone crisis counselling, information and referrals. Also has a website.

Youthline Pregnancy Centre An Auckland service offering counselling, pregnancy testing and medical checks, pregnancy education and support after a miscarriage or abortion. Contact to make an appointment. Also has a website.

Family Planning Association A nationwide service offering a helpline and a website.

In Auckland there are family planning clinics at Middlemore Hospital (Awhitia), Henderson, Highland Park, Manukau, Newmarket, Orewa, Panmure, Papakura, Queen Street, Takapuna and Mount Roskill (Wesley). There are also family planning clinics in Whangarei, Kawakawa, Hamilton, Tauranga, Gisborne, New Plymouth, Hawera and Whanganui. In Wellington there are clinics in the central city (Margaret Sparrow), Porirua and Lower Hutt. In the South Island, there are clinics in Blenheim, Rangiora, Christchurch, Ashburton, Timaru, Greymouth, Dunedin and Invercargill.

Women’s Health Information Centre – WHIC A Christchurch centre offering free pregnancy tests, condoms, health information and education, support and referrals. Safe sex kits also available.

198 Youth Health Centre Also in Christchurch, offering free counselling, doctors, nurses, peer supporters and social workers available for those between the ages of 10 and 25.

Alcohol and Drug Help Services Alcohol & Drug Helpline Nationwide freephone confidential advice service, available from 10am to 10pm 7 days a week. This Helpline can give you advice and information on local services if you are not near a main centre. Also has a website.

CARE NZ – Drug and Alcohol Counselling Service Has clinics in Auckland, Hamilton, Wellington and Christchurch. Also has a website.

Rape and Sexual Abuse Help Services Please note that most sexual assault agencies are posted in the Personal Help Services section of the Telecom White Pages. In emergencies call 111. In Auckland both Auckland Sexual Abuse Help and Rape Prevention Education have crisis phone services. In Wellington there is Wellington Rape Crisis. Christchurch has the Sexual Abuse Survivors Trust and Safecare – Rape/Sexual Assault, which has a 24-hour crisis line. In Dunedin there is Rape Crisis Dunedin.

A Place In Time 21st Century Documentary Project

The A Place In Time project arises out of the School of Fine Arts, at the University of Canterbury, Christchurch, New Zealand. Its purpose is to make documentary work about a city and a cross-section of its people that might contribute towards an increased knowledge, perception and tolerance of one another. Work on the project began in the year 2000 and since that time, using photography, oral history and documentary writing, we have produced fourteen exhibitions and a number of other educational projects from our archive.

Other books by A Place In Time: My Own Shade Of Brown My Place Red Bus Diary The Man With No Arms and Other Stories Director: Glenn Busch Manager: Bridgit Anderson Archives and Communication: Barbara Garrie Designer: Aaron Beehre Senior Photographers: Tim Veling, Hanne Johnsen