“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. It just makes me so mad.”
“You don’t have to be mad,” Debbie told her. “I don’t even have to be mad. I’m just so ashamed.” The tears started to fall. “It wasn’t right for me to do that. Nope. It wasn’t right.”
“Ah, Debbie,” Ellen reached to touch her. “It’s okay. What does your doctor say about this?”
“He thinks I should go into group therapy. I don’t know why but I said I would.”
“And you and Jason haven’t talked to each other about this?”
“No,” she said loudly. She stood up and began to pace, her arms crossed over her chest. She stopped to examine a painting on the wall, to look at the silver-framed photographs on the end table. She straightened and paced again.
“About the abortion,” Ellen said quickly. “A lot of women have them. It happens.”
“You?” Debbie demanded. “Did you ever have one?”
“No,” Ellen said. “There were times I had to think about it. Who hasn’t? I got lucky. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Whatever you did would be right,” Debbie pronounced. “Everything you do is right.”
“Me?” Ellen laughed. “You must be kidding. I hardly do anything right. I hardly do anything period.”
“You are the most together person I have ever known,” Debbie stated. “You know what you want. You know where you are going. You’re not afraid of anything. I wish I were like you.”
“Debbie, that is crazy. I don’t know what I am going to eat for breakfast, much less what I am going to do for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” Debbie smacked her right fist into the palm of her left hand. “And, everybody knows it. Everybody looks up to you.”
“You are wrong.” Ellen laughed again. “Most people can’t stand me. They’re forming a club.”
“Oh yeah? And what about me?” Debbie’s face was bright red with emotion, her eyes large and demanding. “I come here, get pregnant and have an abortion. That’s really somebody to look up to. That’s why nobody can ever know, ever.” She collapsed into a chair. “I don’t know what I am going to do.”
“About what?” Ellen asked, truly confused.
“About anything. I don’t know what I am doing here. I keep dragging other people into these things. Poor Clifford. Even Jason and now you.”
Ellen wondered when Debbie would reach up and wipe at the tears that were running down her face.
“And my father. What am I supposed to say to him? Hey, Dad, how’s everything? Oh, yes, I had an abortion. Something else you can be proud of.”
“You’re not dragging anybody in,” Ellen interrupted. “That’s what friends are for. Forget Jason, and Clifford needs a little excitement in his life.” She smiled.
Debbie gave up her own small smile and reached for the tears.
“Here, drink,” Ellen ordered and lifted the newly filled glass. “What the hell.”
It worked. It always worked when Ellen was on a story.
29
The three group members sat in the waiting room and greeted her with short nods.
“Hi,” she said and smiled.
The older woman smiled back, the younger woman nodded. The boy in the sunglasses breathed out a quick, “Hey.”
Dr. Waddell moved through the room carrying his coffee mug.
“Let’s go in,” he said. “Bob is going to be late and I don’t know where Alan is.” He opened the door to the meeting room. “Have you all met Debbie?”
Debbie waited until the others took their seats before choosing one of her own.
“I’m Maynell,” said the older woman
“Carol,” said the younger one.
“I’m Terry,” said the boy with the sunglasses.
A tall black man came into the room.
“Sorry, I’m late. Hi, I’m Bob.” He offered his hand.
“Debbie,” she said with a shy smile.
“Well,” the doctor said to them all.
No one spoke. Debbie could feel her fear growing. They would ask her first. She knew that much.
“Does anyone have anything they want to talk about?” the doctor asked.
“Well,” the black man said, “I guess we should find out about Debbie.”
The younger woman lit a cigarette, turning away from Debbie as she did so.
“We might as well ask it now,” the older woman said. “Why are you here, Debbie?”
“Doctor Waddell felt I should go into a group.”
“That’s simple,” the younger woman said.
“You came because he told you to?” the older woman pressed. “That’s all?”
“I guess because I was afraid not to.”
“Afraid not to come to group? How’s that?” the black man asked.
“Afraid if I didn’t, I would get scared again.”
The younger woman looked up, a sharp interest in her eyes.
“Scared of what?” she asked.
“I mean sad.” Debbie corrected herself. “I cry at silly things.”
The boy with the sunglasses nodded sympathetically. Debbie smiled at him.
“You said scared. That’s what you said. Scared of what?” the younger woman demanded.
“I don’t know. I guess that’s why I’m here, to find out.” She looked at the doctor who busied himself lighting a cigarette.
“You know, Stan,” the older woman said to him, “I really think you should give us more warning when a new patient is coming into the group. I think you should let us know a few weeks ahead of time.”
“Why is that, Maynell?”
“I think we should know, that’s all.” Her arms were folded across her chest.
“What difference does it make?” the younger woman snapped.
“Well, maybe Alan would have come. I mean, he should be here.”
“Who cares?” the younger woman snapped again. “He’s hardly here anyway.”
“I think it would make a lot of difference.” The older woman seemed to be holding onto herself, her arms hugging her ribs.
“I don’t think it makes any difference at all,” said the younger woman, stabbing at the ashtray with her cigarette. “I think this room is too crowded, anyway.”
Debbie inhaled deeply as the attention turned away from her. From her chair, she could see the room’s one small window high on the wall across from her.
“I’m an addict,” the boy on the couch said suddenly.
She felt her stomach clinch. “Yes?”
“I get frightened too.”
He took off the glasses. The
