“We’ll send her to Dr. Applebee,” he said, the voice of reason. “Then we’ll get the facts.”
“I am pregnant. Three months pregnant. I had a blood test and there’s no mistake.”
The calm authority in her voice, the very fact that she had found her way to Planned Parenthood, had the test done and could report to them this finding, all without their help, took them both by surprise. She could see them look at her differently, more as an adult.
“Who is the father?” her own father asked.
“I don’t want to say,” she replied, looking away.
“Don’t press her just yet,” her mother intervened. “I’m sure she hasn’t gotten used to the idea. I certainly couldn’t believe it when I found out I was having you. I was married, of course,” she said, letting Jilly know that this shift of attitude by no means forgave her. “But was I surprised. Stunned, in fact. I had to give up my dancing career.”
Jilly knew the worst was over once Mother’s dancing career was mentioned. Her mother cherished her years in the Chicago Ballet Company as the highlight of her life and she never let an opportunity go by when she couldn’t remind them of all she’d given up for her family.
Once the idea of her pregnancy sunk in, the horror and shock subsided and the concept that they would be grandparents began to take root. Their voices grew solicitous. They painted rosier scenarios. Her parents assumed that she had a special beau, someone she was in love with and wanted to protect. She felt like dirt under their feet as she stood there listening while they calmed down and began talking about how they’d help her—and him—through this ordeal. Abortion was briefly mentioned in an academic sense, but they were Catholic. It wasn’t really an option.
The kindness was killing her. It was easier when they were mad and yelling at her. At least then she could shut down emotionally. As it was, the guilt was paralyzing.
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