Page 20 of Counting Backwards

“For heaven’s sake.” She sighed, swiping her hands against each other the way she often did before a task. “Carrie,” she said, “your condition is becoming obvious.”

I was surprised she’d caught on. She paid me so little heed most of the time, only fussing about whether I’d done my chores to her liking. There was no use denying it though. So I just kept quiet.

“It’s unfortunate,” she said, looking from me over to her husband. “You’ve been a good worker over the years, especially recently. But we can’t have a pregnant girl under our roof, not unwed. You really are no different from your mother. I suppose we should have expected something like this would happen eventually.”

Seeing the disappointment in her eyes, I knew what I had to do.

“Mrs. Alice,” I said, my voice cracking. “It wasn’t my fault. Your nephew, Clarence, he done this to me. Forced himself on me down by the crick while you folks were down there in Durham. I couldn’t make him stop. I begged, but he was so strong.” I swallowed hard. “You know how strong he is. Billy says he should be arrested for what he done.”

I thought maybe Mrs. Alice would take pity on me now that she knew, but instead she kept quiet as Mr. John nearly lunged at me.

“How dare you!” he shouted. “You listen here, missy.” He came closer to where I sat and leaned in toward my face. His cheeks were suddenly fiery with rage, and I felt myself afraid of him for the first time since I’d known him. “You’ll not be saying such things about my sister’s son. Not after we took you in, after all we’ve done foryou, year after year. Clarence is an upstanding boy, a fine young man. You won’t be spreading this around town, that he’d hurt a girl, that he’d fornicate in the woods. No, I won’t have it.”

He studied me a moment, a look of disgust turning his lips down. He was still bent low, his eyes level with mine as they bored into me. I had to lean back in my chair just to put some air between us. But then he straightened to his full height and took in a deep breath. “No one would believe you anyhow, not a girl like you.” He ran a hand down his necktie, smoothing the brown fabric back into its place.

I looked over at Mrs. Alice, who was still regarding me as if I was a stray cat in the house. Foolish girl that I was, I’d expected them to be horrified by their nephew’s actions, his violent, foul behavior. But Mr. John acted more upset at the idea of me spreading bad news about Clarence than what-all he’d actually done.

Then I thought Mr. John just didn’t believe me, which was why he’d got so mad. It wasn’t until later that I realized the truth of things didn’t matter. Mr. John didn’t care what had happened to me. He just didn’t want me accusing Clarence of any of it.

“Alice,” Mr. John said, looking away from me, “I’ve got those people to speak to. You keep the girl inside the house until I get back.”

When Mr. John returned later that evening, he found me pressing linens in the kitchen.

“Pack your things, girl,” he said as he handed me a small travel case. His voice was gruff, like he wouldn’t tolerate questions. Much as I wanted to ask where I was going, I stayed silent and did as I was told.

I trudged through the kitchen back toward the cramped, dank alcove where my mattress lay, a place that I had for so long yearnedto escape. Yet as I stepped inside and let my eyes rove over the worn bedding on the floor, the lone cubby in the corner with my nightclothes folded inside, I was suddenly reluctant to go. I opened the case Mr. John had given me and began filling it with everything I had to my name. There wasn’t much, just a couple of work dresses, my underthings, my old schoolbooks, and some trinkets Billy had given me over the years.

As I loaded the case, it was as if I was seeing each item again for the first time. I realized only then how much of my life at the Dobbses’ had been tied up with Billy. Atop my cubby sat the yo-yo he’d loaned me during the third grade and then never wanted back. There was a wooden bell he won for me at a holiday fair the year before, and five genuine Venus pencils that had become a Christmas tradition between us. Billy gave me one every year since the time I’d stopped going to school, on the promise that I’d take pains to remember what I’d learned before my school days came to an end. He was the only decent person I’d known since Ma, and saddling him with Clarence’s child to raise... I knew for sure that wouldn’t have been doing right by him.

I put those pencils he gave me to only one purpose over the years, and that was writing letters to my ma at the Colony. I had to ask permission from Mrs. Alice each time I wanted to send a note because I needed her to give me a postage stamp. I didn’t ask more than once or twice a year because I knew what she’d say. Mama never wrote me back anyhow. Sometimes I wondered if the folks in that place she was being kept even let her see the letters at all.

The items in my small case rattled around as I followed Mr. John out of the house. There was a car in the drive waiting for us. I did what he said and got into that back seat, still not knowing what in the world was to become of me.

9

Jessa

March 2022

As I waited on the small love seat in Dr. LaRusso’s Upper East Side office, I checked my phone for a third time. Vance had warned me that he might be late, but I felt uncomfortable sitting there all alone on the floral upholstery, wondering about my fertility, and maybe my entire future, without anyone beside me. I couldn’t help imagining myself sitting in the same spot again and again, month after month and year after year. If we kept trying and failing to conceive, eventually Vance would tire of waiting. He’d want to pursue other options, and if I didn’t capitulate or surrender to a time frame he deemed reasonable, he would leave. I felt certain of that. And I’d be on my own, abandoned once more.

I was catastrophizing again. I knew that. After all, I was the one intent on carrying a biological child, not Vance. Sure, I might consider adoption down the road, but not yet, not by a long shot. So instead, I was seeing this horrible montage in my mind, picturing myself growing older, my curls graying, my forehead filling with wrinkles, and in every mental image, I was alone. I tried to shut down my spiraling thoughts, to shoo them away like gnats buzzing around my head, but it didn’t work. I had to rememberthat Vance wasn’t only with me to have children. Calling on an old tactic, I imagined myself writing a list, scribbling out the things he loved about me, the reasons he would stay: my ambition, my dependability, my devotion to his family. Even my organizational skills. It dawned on me that the list I was creating didn’t exactly scream deep, burning love, but I liked that Vance appreciated traits of mine that I appreciated in myself. And of course there was more between us.

I released a long breath, trying to reset. At the opposite end of the room, two women sat together. One of them had a large pregnant belly and was resting a magazine on her baby bump as if it were a tabletop. How nice it must be, I thought, to experience the bodily changes that come with pregnancy.

On the end table beside me, some plastic dispensers held pamphlets for the taking. I pulled out the closest one and opened the front flap. Inside was a list of facts about fertility and medical obstacles that people might face when trying to conceive.

Common factors in infertility include: a woman’s age, ovulation disturbances, cervical anomalies, tubal disease, fibroids, and uterine abnormalities.

The list went on and on. My heart sped up as I read further and thought about all the different ways I might be defective. Even without him sitting next to me, I could hear Vance admonishing me for thinking of that word. “Notdefective, Jess,” he would say, dismissing the idea. “Just tense and impatient.” Then he would laugh, always so sure that everything would just magically work itself out.

It was no wonder he felt that way. Golden boy Vance, who could somehow sweet-talk his way into a pair of sold-out concert tickets or flash a single dimple and end up with upgraded seats on a fully booked flight. He’d gotten us this coveted appointment with Dr. LaRusso in the same way. If he actually showed up in time forthis appointment, I knew he’d waltz right in, totally sure that any fertility issues I had could be easily remedied.

What he hadn’t suggested—wouldn’tsuggest—was that maybe he was the problem. Low sperm count could also cause male infertility. Maybe an STI he never knew about or even a genetic condition. As I skipped down to the bottom of the page I was reading, the pamphlet seemed to hear my thoughts and couldn’t wait to contradict them.

Infertility is considered a “couples’ problem,” but the cause can be traced to the female in more than half of all cases.

I snorted a little too loudly at those words, and the women across the room looked up at the noise.