Daniel looked worse than three days cooped up writing. Daniel looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept since Saturday. He was sitting outside, wrapped in far too many clothes for newly May warmth and sunshine, slunk down into a faded, once black, hooded sweatshirt, staring at an open—blank—notebook. He looked miserable. Even through the window, even in the glaring sunshine, he looked spent and very sad.
“Hey,” I said gently, handing him a fresh cup of coffee and sitting down.
He looked up and smiled a “hey” that seemed full of relief, I suppose, that I was still talking to him but also maybe surprise that the world was still going round out there.
“What’s up?” I asked.
He snorted. “I think you know.”
“Yeah. How are you holding up?”
“Not well, actually. That talk did not go well.”
“Have you talked to her since?”
“Why don’t you know that?”
“We’ve been writing for a few days.”
“I haven’t,” he said. “I don’t know who should call.”
“Uh, you?” I said. As in duh. As in obviously obviously you. How is that not clear?
“What? To apologize?”
“To talk more?”
“I said I’d think about it some more and call her when I figured something out. She said she’d do the same. I haven’t figured anything out, so it seems stupid for me to call.”
“Are you mad at her?” I was getting mad at him.
“No,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure. And then exasperated, plaintive, almost whining, “I don’t want to have a baby, Janey.”
“I gathered,” I said. “But it seems like you might be having one anyway, so that’s evidently not the decision anymore.”
“Abortion is legal. It’s safe. There’s a Planned Parenthood within walking distance for godsake. It’s not killing a baby. You don’t think so. Jill doesn’t think so. She’s pro-choice—”
“Yeah, and I think she’s choosing to have the baby,” I interrupted.
“But why is that only her choice?” he demanded. He had clearly been thinking this over and over for the last three days, having this conversation in his head, concluded for sure that he was right. And I just looked at him and couldn’t say anything because I was sure he knew the answer. “I mean yes, right, it’s her body,” he continued, taking in my face. “That’s why I can’t force her to have the baby. That’s why it’s not fair for the government to decide for her just because she gets pregnant. But that’s not why she gets to choose to have it. That’s a different question. If I wanted to be a father and she wanted to get an abortion, there’d be no question. Her body, her choice. Now I’m saying I don’t want to be a father right now. I’m graduating from college in a week, Janey. I don’t have a job. I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I do know I want to take the summer off and go to San Francisco with my band. I do know that having a baby wouldn’t feel magical or wondrous. It would feel like I was being punished. It would feel like I was giving up everything. It would destroy the future I have in my mind where ten years from now I have a career I’m good at and a wife I love and children I planned and chose. It would erase that future. I would be resentful and angry and scared. I would feel forced into it. This isn’t what I want right now. I should be able to choose something else. It’s not my fault.” He got shriller and more animated, more sure, more upset as he talked. He didn’t want a baby. He was twenty. He’d been dating Jill only since January. I understood. How could I not?
“Okay,” I said softly. “You don’t want a baby. They’ll be okay . . .” Even as I was saying this, I wasn’t sure it was the right thing—I was feeling it out—but he was shaking his head.
“No, you don’t get it,” he said, impatient. “I don’t want to desert my baby. I don’t want to desert Jill. I don’t even want to break up with her. And I don’t want to go around my whole life knowing I abandoned my family and they’re out there—this kid is out there—without me. I want it to not be this way. I want to undo it. I want it to go away.”
“I don’t think you can have that,” I said.
“Yeah,” he grunted sarcastically. “If only there were some safe and legal procedure to put a stop to this situation before it became an unwanted child.”
“It’s not an unwanted child,” I pointed out carefully. “Jill wants it.”
“But I don’t,” he said. “It’s not like we would have tried to get pregnant. We wouldn’t have. If we’d discussed it, we’d have said now is not a good time so let’s wait. And what’s killing me is we could go back there. We could wait. We could give this relationship a chance and have children when we decide to, when it’s our decision, both of us. It wouldn’t even be hard. But she won’t. And I’m the bad guy for wanting to make her. It’s a mistake. That’s all.”
“Mistakes happen though,” I said. “Then you have to step up and take responsibility.”
“I am.” He was almost yelling. “I am taking responsibility. I will pay for the abortion. I will go with her and hold her hand. I will be with her while she recovers. I will be with her while she’s sad. I’ll be sad too. We’ll be sad together. It’s not like this is so easy for me. We’ll get through this. We’ll move on. That is taking responsibility, not doing what she wants just because she wants it.”
“I think she wants this baby,” I tried to explain gently.
“It’s not a baby!” He looked at me, incredulous, a little wild-eyed. “You know how I know? Because I had you for Intro to Comp and her for a girlfriend. Plus several courses in biology.”
“You choose no. She chooses yes. And it’s her yes vote, so I guess that trumps your no.” I shrugged helplessly and said nothing for a while, just sat with him quietly hoping that would help. “I’m really sorry,” I added lamely. I was too. Sorry and torn. And not certain. Dan’s arguments were compelling, the more so because he was being responsible. He was being honest. He sounded like he might be right. But I still didn’t think he was.
“I’ll talk to her,” I offered. “I don’t think she understands your position. Meantime though, you should think about what you want to do when she decides not to have an abortion. Because I think that’s what she’s going to decide. And I think it’s going to be her decision.” I laid my hand on the back of his hung head for a moment before I left. He didn’t say anything or even look at me or move. Everything suspended for a moment, two. Finally he looked up at me and smiled. “Thanks Janey. I needed to talk. It was good. It’ll be okay.” But in his eyes, I saw that he didn’t know how. And neither did I.
Eight
Jason was sitting on the steps reading a clearly for-pleasure novel when I came outside having just handed in my final papers.
“Done?” He grinned, handing me one of the two iced coffees beside him. He was waiting for me evidently.