talked ME into it--I was a threat to her daughter that had to be put aside!
I felt a sudden, unaccountable gush of love for Clarice's Mom in spite of the way she was glaring at me. Here was a woman who would never support an abortion, no matter what personal embarrassment or trouble might follow! Hallelujah! If only there were more women and mothers like her.
"Good night, Clarice," I said, giving her hand a squeeze. She just looked at me guiltily, trying to excuse her Mom with her eyes. "It's all right, Clarice. Maybe after Michael is born, you can send me a picture."
Clarice's Mom looked at me in surprise. "Good night," I said as I passed where she was standing by the door. "And thanks for letting me stay at your house." She gazed at me in a confused way, but I offered no further explanation.
I knew as I walked away that would be the last time I would ever see Clarice or her mother. If she ever sent me a picture of Michael, I would throw away her letter without opening it. There was NO way I would ever be able to look at a picture of her baby. And there was simply no way I could maintain any contact with her in light of all that had happened.
So I had caused another death. The death of a friendship that at one time Clarice and I thought would never end.
I was happy for her of course. Happy for her for making the choice I should have made. Happy that she had had enough sense to tell her Mom before going to the abortion clinic. Happy that she would have Michael and be able to enjoy him for the rest of her life. Happy that she didn't have to live with the daily agony of regret I lived with, wishing every day with all my heart that I'd done things differently, and that I hadn't killed Jonathon.
A sudden question leapt into my mind. If I'd told my Mom about my pregnancy before going to the abortion clinic, what would she have done? Would her mind have gone bad? Would she be in the condition she was now?
I shook my head as if to clear it from a fog. I wasn't exactly sure. But I had a very strong suspicion she would have handled it ok. After all, pregnancy is not the same thing as abortion. She would have been shocked to find out I was pregnant of course. But because of her own experience, there is NO WAY she would have urged me to have an abortion. Quite the opposite! If only I'd had the sense to tell her privately like Clarice told her mom, I never would have killed Jonathon and mom would not be a mental case today.
Indeed, from what I could tell, it was the past-tense reality of my having terminated my pregnancy with an abortion that had caused her mental problem. It had somehow triggered the horror she thought had been removed. Abortion was death. Pregnancy was life. If I'd told her, she would have done the same as Clarice's mom. I was sure of it.
I sat up on my bed a long time that night, thinking and rubbing Oscar as he purred contentedly. As always, Mom was just the same when I got home. Her condition had not changed, and she hadn't improved at all in the passing months. In fact, if I was honest with myself, she looked like she was getting worse. She seemed to be losing weight, and was talking less and less. She was obviously slipping away, and growing more and more distant.
A sudden wave of depression and hopelessness washed over me. What was I doing here, anyway? High school was over, Bob was out of my life, I had no friends, no job, and no hope for the future. I was too depressed to even consider going back to school or going to work anyway.
But that's not all. I had killed my baby and I had as good as killed my Mom, and now my best friend was going to have a baby because she wasn't an idiot like me who decided to kill it instead. I was a murderer! Just a common murderer! In my depressed condition the words started to repeat themselves over and over in my mind: "You're a murderer! You're a murderer! You're a murderer!"
And you know what they do to murderers.
May 14
It's funny how I'd begun to think I was coming to cope with my abortion, and that my life was starting to sort of be normal again--then suddenly I not only was back to square one but seemed even worse off. Things were bad in the beginning, but at least then I had Clarice, and Mom and even Bob to turn to. Now I had none of them. Dad was wonderful of course, but it was obvious Mom's condition was starting to wear him down. He was losing weight like she was, and was starting to get snappish and irritable at the slightest little things.
And the dreams of Jonathon had not decreased. It had been months now since I'd killed him, but the pain and guilt had not gone away like they were supposed to. If anything, they were getting worse. And the day I saw Clarice--and knew as I walked away that I would never see her again--was the day that it all just snapped. Somehow, the vague hope that Clarice would come back into my life again and in some indefinable way help me make sense of everything and find a purpose for living was now gone. I had no hope left. And there was nothing left for me to keep fighting for.
I decided to do it with my car. There was a very steep cliff not far outside of town, with only a light guard rail. If I hit the rail in the right spot at high speed I would be guaranteed to go over the edge. I could then join Jonathon and Dad would get a nice insurance settlement to help pay for all of Mom's medical bills that were piling up. As for Mom, she thought I was dead already anyway. Dad would be upset of course, but he was strong, like Doc Jenkins said. And in truth, he was the only one that would miss me.
Not having any reason to wait, I put my plan into action the very next morning. And wouldn't you know it, just like I bungle up most things, I bungled up my own death too. I was speeding to get there, just to get it over with--and then I caused an accident! I sped through a red light and smacked into another car. The other driver wasn't hurt fortunately, but I was keenly disappointed that I also walked away without a scratch. Why was I cursed to live when I so much deserved and wanted to die? Unfortunately my car was totaled, so the cliff idea was out.
My accident shocked Dad out of his malaise somewhat, since he just about freaked out with worry when the police brought me home. "Kate! Are you sure you're all right?" he'd cried, bounding down the stairs and giving me a huge hug. At that point I almost felt a twinge of regret about my plan to kill myself, with his showing so much genuine concern about me.
But then suddenly, everything switched. He took a step back and started to frown, then proceeded to ball me out for speeding and being stupid and reckless. So I changed my mind. I knew what I had to do, and all I needed was a different way to do it. I had passed the sentence of death on myself for killing Jonathon, and I intended to carry out the execution.
Dad found me in the bathroom that night trying to slit my wrists. Unfortunately I'd chosen a rather dull kitchen knife and had not succeeded in drawing much blood--yet. Poor Dad went so white with fright I thought he might have a heart attack. Then he immediately called 911. Within 24 hours I found myself locked up in a safe house for attempted suicides like me, with my wrists wrapped up in bandages. My walls were padded, and I had nurses checking on me constantly to make sure I hadn't figured out a new way to kill myself.
"Why did you do it, Kate?" asked Dad in a tired voice when he visited me the next day. "You know your mother and I love you! Why would you want to hurt us like this?"
"Mom thinks I'm dead already," I responded mechanically. "And I wish I was too. Then I could be with Jonathon."
"Jonathon?" asked my Dad, raising an eyebrow. To my surprise, I suddenly realized I'd never told him the name of my baby that I'd killed. "He's my baby. Or rather, he was. I just want to go where he is."
"But Kate," said my Dad, running his hand through his hair in exasperation, "that's not the way these things work." He breathed out a long, low sigh. It was clear he was trying to find some way to reach me, and convince me that my worthless life was worth living. "Killing yourself isn't the answer, Kate. Killing is never the answer."
"I know. I found that out when I killed Jonathon."
"There, you see?" he responded, as if he'd suddenly said something profound. "You said it yourself--killing is not the answer,
and another killing won't help anyone. You have to learn to cope instead. You have to learn to forgive, even when what you did seems unforgivable. Believe me, I know. I felt just like you once, like I'd been an accomplice to murder regarding your mother's abortion. And I considered the same avenue of escape."
"Really?" I asked in surprise. Dad had considered suicide? That was news.
"I nearly tried it too. But a wise friend talked me out of it. She convinced me that the power of forgiveness was the power of giving, not taking. When you forgive, you 'give for.' And the person you 'give for' most is YOU."
"I'm not worth it," I said blandly. "The only thing I want to give myself is a way out of this world."
"Look," he said gently. "Forgiveness of self is the most important kind of forgiveness there is. That's because we know ourselves much better than anyone else, and we know the many things we've done wrong. When we forgive ourselves we're saying, 'I may have done horrible things, but I forgive myself. Whether I deserve it or not, I forgive, because God forgives me and wants me to forgive myself.' And when you say that to yourself, you then let it go, knowing that you would never do it again in a million years. And by doing that you're GIVING something--a gift to yourself of