Seek - God and Jetfire: confessions of a birth mother

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For my familyall of it

My son and I were lying on my bed, looking up at the ceiling and speculating about eternity. It was just like when I was his age, ten or eleven; Id stare up and think: Eternity means for ever . And ever. And ever and ever and ever and ever. Eternity means Id still be saying and ever from the last time I lost myself in the scaleless white, trying to make sense of eternity.

At some point I turned toward him. He looked at me without lifting his head from the pillow. I reached over and brushed his hair behind his ear.

I wanted you. You know that? I really wanted you. I paused, pressing his face with my palm. He held my gaze for a moment.

Yeah, he said, knowing that. Then he turned back, squinted, and addressed the ceiling. But why ?

I might have thought it was the question I was always waiting for. The one that would free me to share the whole story: how he came to be and why I gave him up, and how everything had been shaped by his absence. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted to know, but every month and then year that passed, I kept having to remind myself that he was just a child. He would need time. Time to build muscle and learn to walk and eat lots of breakfasts and get the training wheels taken off his bike, and earn an allowance and spend it a million times, and practice cursive and pass notes in class, and ponder lots of different careersmaybe even go to college and get marriedbefore we could talk about those things.

And the way he studied the ceiling, I could tell he meant something else. He was asking everyones question. It was the question, Why everything ? Why consciousness? Why time? Why desire; why love? He wasnt hurt, and he wasnt looking for an answer. The question wasnt for me. I turned back to the ceiling and asked it with him.

It was just like him to contemplate such things. And it was very much him: lying there, skeptical slits of eyes piercing the ceiling, weight so real he sank into my duvet. It was exciting to have him there with me, and it was fun to be cohorts confronting the universe together. But the most fantastic thing was touching him. No one was watching, and I wasnt thinking about whether it was okay or whether it made him or anyone else uncomfortable, or whether I was allowed to express my love like that, without restraint. I didnt think about anything at all! I just reached over and combed through the blond mop, bent the warm, rubbery flap of his ear, as it felt natural to doas I had, in fact, never once done. He had never been to my apartment, and we had never lain like that. Id never said those true words, making sure he understood. Id never let my affection flow straight from my heart, through my outstretched arm, and land so solidly and without hesitation. Id never enjoyed that reliefprofound, even as he turned and let it roll to the side, his mothers love, imponderable as eternity, shedding it as a son will do.

If I could have, Id have turned to my other side and put his question to my father. But when I woke, there was just the west, buildings gleaming pink, illuminated by sunrise. And another eternity to contemplate: I would never, ever, ever be my sons mother.

A sympathetic Jesus hovered just above the head of the woman who was telling me my baby would be born in July. I had to tilt my head to see him fully, down to his toes. His eyes were sad and his soft mouth was mute. In his outstretched palms, he held a tiny red baby curled up in the fetal position. The woman leaned toward us with an elbow on the desk. Dont you know what happens when you have premarital sex without a condom? After three tests at home and one in the pink-painted bathroom to her right, I still had an urge to look behind me at the pregnant girl she was leveling with. I couldnt believe she was speaking to me. Me! who was, myself, an accident, as my sister often reminded me. The woman held her fingers two inches apart. On the basis of the dates I gave her she informed us that I was eight weeks pregnant.

I sat silently and waited. The walls and bookshelves shimmered, deflated, like surfaces loosely attached to brittle frames. I wanted the woman to talk forever, pointing at diagrams and unfolding brochures. Then I would never have to leave this place, and time wouldnt proceed past this moment. If I was pregnant, it was just barely, and I simply wouldnt take a single step further.

Id left the third test on the side of the sink in my apartment. My hands were shaking as I stumbled out of the bathroom, at once blinded and liberated by the impossibility. I couldnt be pregnant. I couldnt be. My mind raced, lurching for certainties to anchor meI was too young, I was only in my second year of college, I didnt have any money, I had my whole life ahead of meas if reason could cure my body of its delusions.

I opened the phone book to the unthinkable first few pages, those that stick close to the cover, concealed, as you thumb for wonderfully innocuous middle things like Plumbers and Laundromats. Between Abortion and Advertising, I discovered a dark world of resources Id never had reason to know about, and, overwhelmed, I returned to the bathroom to reexamine the devicecompelled, then hesitant, to look. Jevn arrived as trembling and incredulous as I was, but he reminded me we already knew the options. There wasnt some brand-new way of dealing with pregnancy, and there was no one to call until we knew what we were going to do.

I called anyway, frantically, picking a number at random. I needed to say it: Im pregnant. To hear it, to see it land somewhere and stick. I wanted to speak with a professional in the field and be presented with the full range of options. But the woman on the line wasnt moved by my urgency and wouldnt indulge my disbelief. She wanted me to call back when I was prepared to schedule an abortion. I scanned the thin pages and dialed another number. The receptionist invited me to come to the center that afternoon; I could take another test, just to be sure, and someone would be there to help me process it all. It was a Christian ministry, but we could correct for their bias, I told Jevn. I just needed to talk to someone. And thats how we ended up here.

I looked at the woman unblinking, waiting for her to flip through her paperwork, admit the mistake, and agree with me: it couldnt be true. I wanted things to be returned solidly to their proper places, all the softened surfaces filled full again. She put her pamphlets resolutely aside. She said we were a beautiful couple; we should get married and have the baby. I felt Jevn shift as if to get up, but I couldnt leave yet. This could not be the end of our conversation! I hadnt even accepted the premise that I was pregnant; I couldnt admit this conclusion. Wed never even spoken about marriage! Until just days ago, Id been planning our breakup. Steeling myself for it, speaking it through in my mind, assuring myself it was best. But Jevn was putting on his coat. Reluctantly, I put on mine. We smiled as we shut the door.

Jevn walked ahead of me across the parking lot to the car. He could fit his entire apartment in that tiny car, his long row of books that lined its perimeter, his perfectly weighted silverware, his Aalto vases, even his bed, which hed built to come apart for that purpose. I didnt know there were cars with heated seats until I met Jevn. I grew up with empty dashboard panels for luxuries I could only imagine.