“We’ll go tonight.”
Mom called once a week. She’d ask Carolyn how she was feeling. “Fine.” She’d ask how things were going with Boots. “Great.” She’d ask if Carolyn needed anything. “No.” Then she’d ask to speak with Boots.
Sometimes Dad got on the phone, but not often and never for long. Oma never called. She wrote letters, filling them with newsy tidbits, what she had seen, what grew in her garden. She didn’t ask Carolyn if she’d made any decisions about the baby.
Dr. O’Connor, the husband of one of Boots’s many friends, told Carolyn the baby had a strong heartbeat. She’d gained ten pounds in two months, largely due to Boots’s great cooking. They went on morning walks together before the heat trapped them inside the house. Sometimes they went out again in the evening. Boots insisted on “playing tourist” with her. They went to the Los Angeles Zoo, Santa Monica Pier, La Brea Tar Pits, Malibu. When Boots asked her if she’d like to go to Disneyland, Carolyn told her about the trip with Oma. She no longer had to worry about hurting Charlie’s feelings.
They attended AA meetings twice a week. Carolyn listened, but never talked. No one pressed her.
Boots tapped on her door early one morning. “We’re going to the beach before the crowds get there.” She drove Topanga Canyon Road like a NASCAR driver. They arrived at dawn. Joggers ran along the water’s edge.
“Come on.” Boots got out and headed across the sand with a basket and blanket. Dumping them, she kicked off her shoes and continued on toward the waves lapping the beach. Carolyn followed. Boots stopped at the edge of the wet sand. Hands on her hips, she lifted her face and closed her eyes. “Listen to that. There’s something about the sound of the sea, isn’t there? Soothing.”
They walked along the beach together, not saying anything. Boots didn’t seem worried about the blanket. When they turned back, she bent and scooped up a stick, twirling it in her hand like a baton. “You’re eating yourself up with guilt and worry, Carolyn, and it’s got to stop.” She stopped and jabbed the stick into the moist sand. “Write down every sin you’ve committed right here in the sand. Let it all out.” She walked up the beach onto dry sand, spread the blanket, and sat. “Take your time!” she called out. She lay back, arms beneath her head, and crossed her ankles.
Carolyn barely managed to write a few words before a wave came and washed them away. She wrote more, and the waves came in again, erasing her words. She wrote and wrote, and each time the sea came and swept away her confession. She didn’t know how long she bent to the task before she finished. Her feet were numb from the cold water. She tossed the stick into the surf and watched it carried out. For the first time in weeks, her chest didn’t feel like someone was sitting on it.
“Finished?” Boots called.
“For now.”
Boots came down and stood next to her. “You can always come back.” She smiled at her and then looked out at the sea. Surfers rode the small waves. “I listen to the sea and hear the Lord, Carolyn. Jesus said He came to save us, not condemn us. He took our sins upon Himself. He paid the price to set you free. God is like those waves, honey. He washes away your sins. He offers you the free gift of grace, the added bonus of the Holy Spirit dwelling in you, and eternal life as well. You have decisions to make, but the biggest one is what you’re going to believe about Him. Ask Him in, and He’ll take care of the rest.”
They stood side by side looking out at the ocean. Carolyn felt a fluttering sensation-angel wings. She put her hands over her abdomen. Boots saw the movement and turned to her. “The quickening?” Carolyn laughed for the first time in months. It sounded odd to her ears. Boots laughed with her.
Carolyn’s heart pounded during AA meetings. She could feel the tension grow inside her. Sitting on her hands, she kept her head down, listening, soaking in the words.
One evening the silence lasted so long, she broke out in a sweat. She knew it was her turn to open up, but didn’t know if she could speak a coherent sentence.
She took a breath and confessed she started drinking to deal with the stress of attending UCB. She drank more when her brother was sent to Vietnam, then started smoking pot with friends while protesting the war.
Everyone listened. No one judged her. Several came over to talk with her after the meeting, sharing similar stories.
“First time is usually hardest,” Boots told her on the way home.
It took another month before she could talk about Charlie. She’d stayed drunk or stoned the year after he died. “I can only remember bits and pieces; most I’d rather forget…” She cried when she told them about Chel.
Mom called again. Carolyn might not be able to talk with her mother, but Boots never had a problem. “She’s filling out, has a nice basketball growing.” Boots took pictures of Carolyn. When December rolled around, Mom and Dad sent money. So did Oma. Carolyn wrote and thanked them. Boots took her to the mall. As they wandered through the stores, Boots picked up a sweater. “Good godfrey! What a price!” She folded the sweater back onto the table. When she wasn’t looking, Carolyn bought it for her.
Boots cried when she opened the box Christmas morning and found the red cashmere sweater. “You must have spent all your Christmas money on this.”
“You like it, don’t you?”
Boots put the sweater back in the box. “I love it, of course. But now you listen. Your mom and dad have been sending me money every month. I never asked for a penny, but they insisted. And then you go and buy this. I should take it back to the store.”
“Please don’t.”
“Okay. I won’t.” She grinned, eyes brimming. “I’ll throw you a shower instead.”
Oma and Mom sent their regrets, inclement weather keeping them from making the long drive south. Oma had a bad cold, and Mom was keeping an eye on her.
A half-dozen friends of Boots showed up bearing gifts, most of which turned out to be for Carolyn and not the baby. A peach suit, white shell blouse, a pair of taupe heels and purse. “For job interviews.” A jogging suit “to get back in shape after the baby.” A classic camel-hair coat.
They couldn’t have been kinder, though their expectation was clear: adoption was the best option. Only Boots gave her money to spend as she wanted.
Braxton Hicks contractions came often. Carolyn knew she didn’t have much time left. She cried more now than she had during the earlier months, and she dreamed of sleeping in Golden Gate Park, lying on a sleeping bag beneath a black plastic lean-to. When she awakened, she reminded herself of Jesus speaking in that loving voice, His hand upon her, the tiny starlike flowers blooming in the grass, and dawn coming.
Mom finally asked the dreaded question. “Have you decided what to do?”
Carolyn noted her mother didn’t ask what she
“You can stay with me as long as you want, Carolyn. You want to keep the baby, we’ll work things out so you can.”
Carolyn felt ashamed. Chel had paid for everything after they’d left Berkeley. She didn’t want someone else paying her way now. It was just another way to run and hide from the real world. She had to grow up sometime, had to bear the consequences of her actions, no matter how painful. And wouldn’t her baby be better off with someone else, someone less screwed up? someone who could offer a home and love? In three weeks, more or less, she’d give birth. She had to stop dreaming.
She called the adoption agency. They said they’d draw up papers. She cried all the way back to Boots’s house.
Carolyn went out for a long walk alone the next morning. She had memorized the Serenity Prayer and said it over and over.
“A package came for you last night,” Boots told her over breakfast. “I forgot all about it when you came home
