My Life Unplanned

“Beautiful and graceful, varied and enchanting, small but approachable, butterflies lead you to the sunny side of life. And everyone deserves a little sunshine” Jeffrey Glassberg

CLANK! The jaws of the beast angrily snapped shut while its flared nostrils snorted black exhaust smoke into my face. My throat collapsed from the heat. I staggered backwards alarmed, as I instinctively threw up my arm to protect my mouth.

My eyes flew upward to the largest window of the bus and the man at the wheel turned a wary eye toward me. He grunted and curled his lip, laughing at my dazed sight as he yanked on the lever in front of him.

With one last grunt, the fat bus keeled away, like a fat metallic caterpillar, slowly crawling down the long expanse of black grass. I looked after it remorsefully.

Cecile was an old woman who would die without a child and without a man to love. I had never asked her where she was going. I hadn’t asked her about her life beyond her tragedy. I hadn’t even asked her if she was happy. Yet she treated me with all the kindness a girl like me could ask for.

Cecile was an admirable woman who could hold a girl that was shaking and tell her everything would be alright. She willingly held a child; her own mother had recoiled from.
My eyes watered and I lifted a limp hand to wave though I was sure she was already looking forward. Cecile would move on through life, knowing she had done a good deed and I promised to always try to remember her for that.

Finally I began to walk forward into my future, crossing the desolate black road like a bridge to a better life. In front of me stood giant menacing black gates with a thousand sharp teeth to bite me. Framing the frightening mouth of this estate were two pillars and on the left I found a giant golden plaque that read the name of the institution Madeline’s Maternity Home owned and sponsored by Mr. & Mrs. James Haven

I wondered who those people were, Mr. & Mrs. James Haven, and why they would bother supporting a cause such as this? Were they rich benevolent souls who spent all their time tossing their money at the unfortunate to appear more humble or did they actually care? I could have spent hours pondering who these people were, if nothing else but to put off my destined arrival at the actual place, but my thoughts were interupted by a loud cackle of a speaker, brought to life like some demon sent to torment me from Hell.

After a few minutes a voice emerged from the black square, sending shivers riding up my spine. “Who are you?” A harsh woman’s voice growled, reminding me of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, puffing absentmindedly on his smoke pipe.

“Rosalind Turkonowi.” I whispered softly. The woman began to rustle around stacks of papers.“Are you looking for a home?” The voice was slathered with fake kindness now, installed by years of hatred for a job she probably didn’t want. It must be a terrible pain to be a doorbell watchdog.

“Yes.” I managed to choke, pressing in on the button like I would at an apartment building. The woman snorted and above me a camera blinked to life. I jolted, staring up at the tiny black eye as it narrowed in on my face. Its view slowly crawled down my body to my stomach, seeing nothing there. I blanched.

“We only help young women who are expecting a child.” The voice cackled fiercely and I nodded, clearing my throat so I could speak with more courage. “Are you expecting?” The woman asked again, a bit softer and I opened my lips but only a whisper came out. I closed them and nodded my head earnestly.

The speaker snapped to silence and soon an obnoxious beeping noise threw open those gnarly doors. I walked between those impressive gates with only an ill-fitting briefcase and a “god is with you” T-Shirt that made me feel foolish. How I longed to be back home with my mother and father. How I longed to find someone to accept me for all that I was worth.

My journey began with a large expanse of grass on each side of the cobblestone pathway that I guessed led to the home I could not see. Surely the land was imported from somewhere, it was absolutely pristine. Every blade was cut to a precise measurement and every section radiated an emerald life, pampered by the perfect amount of water and sunshine.

Grass was the most commonplace of plants; it was the treading ground to all the beautiful flowers. Yet this coddled plant was far more beautiful when groomed and treated by queens.
I felt like the grass of the earth, plain and boring, only made to be a slight appeal from the ugliness beneath me. Hopefully these people would be able to change me into something beautiful, like this.

It took me at least twenty minutes to reach the front door and when I did I was once again astonished by the unfathomable wealth of the land and architecture. It was a home fit for king, not for me.

Madeline’s Maternity Homewas a place that did not fit its name, with grand walls made of crumbling gray stone and lofty black arches that made the house seem even more treacherous: House, what a ridiculous name for this manor of mammoth proportions.

The roof seemed to glow with hundreds of silver slates and each window sparkled, framed by window panes. The doors must have been made of the biggest trees alive, solid oak. The knockers were large lion’s heads, terribly gruesome with mouths torn and bleeding by the metal shoved ruthlessly in their iron mouths.

I approached the stately door as fear trembled through me. This palace screamed filthy, dirty, rich with its giant golden painted banisters and luxuriously carved white paned windows, even the glass shone and looked freshly cleaned. Everything about it seemed much too good for me. I raised a tiny fist to the door, feeling much too small and insignificant in comparison when the door opened for me.

Behind it stood a jaw-droppingly gorgeous woman with as much stature as her ancient home. She looked formidably surprised to see such a sewer rat at her door, but she quickly masked her first expression with a lovely smile belonging to a queen of class.

I admired her excellent beauty with complete astonishment. When I removed myself from that dingy bus monster I expected to be greeted by stout old women who gazed at me knowingly, plump from childbirth. They would be social workers and volunteers, kind souls whose life passion was to help others. I expected a place of mediocrity and humbleness not royalty and luxury.

“Hello,” she greeted me, flashing a smile of absolute brilliance. Her eyes raked up and down my body from my stringy grey hair to my knobby sneakers. Her lip curled slightly with distaste, but once again she masked her first oppositions. “Who are you?” she queried, her lips pressed tightly together as she rubbed her lipstick thin with worry.

“My name is Rosalind Turkonowi.” I whispered lightly, keeping my chin tucked into my throat to hide my blushing face. I looked up and watched her pleasant face morph into one of fear, so predominant she did not have enough resolute to swipe it away.

“Oh.” She mumbled, clasping her mouth closed. Her hands fluttered to her throat, grasping at a necklace that wasn’t there and her eyes widened. She pulled her hand away slowly and looked past me nervously.

Finally she directed her wide golden eyes toward me benevolently. “Rosie.” She whispered to assure herself, her face sweetening with her smiles. I gazed at her peculiarly and she stepped forward from the doors, opening her arms. “Welcome to Maddie’s Home!” She hailed grandly, throwing her arms around my shoulders.

I winced as she grasped at me and her laughter echoed in my sore ears. She pulled away, her eyes wet with her wild emotions as she swiped at them anxiously. “Your father called in advance. He told me you were coming. Oh how you look so much like your mother!” She gloated and I stared in wonder.

There was only one time in my life someone had compared me to my mother. It was at my great-aunt’s funeral, an awfully sad occasion. My mother loved her aunt with all her heart and it greatly upset her to see her leave. But then again, my mother cried like this every time some poor unfortunate creature crossed its merry way to the pearly gates. It was if she didn’t believe in Heaven, like she secretly knew when they closed their eyes, they were gone forever.

Mom was sobbing uncontrollably from grief. Her nose was pink as the strawberry Danishes on the tables and her eyes were murky and unreadable. Even in sadness, her beautiful face shone with a youthful radiance. She always looked wonderful.

An old woman had come up to us. She was thick about the middle with eyes like tiny raisins, burrowed inside her heavily lined cheeks. She grimaced at my putrid little face as I clung to my mother’s black chiffon. I thought she was going to slap me away, but she didn’t. She only slapped on some fake composure.

“You have an adorable little girl.” She had told my mother, her voice thick with sarcasm. I whimpered and then I began to cry as I buried my nose in her dress. My mother gently pushed me away, making an excuse that I was only crying because of the sad occasion and not because of that woman’s awful sneer.

My mother picked me up to coddle me, combing her fingers through my dark hair as she sang to me. The woman continued to eye us suspiciously just as everyone else had all my life. “How can such a fair young woman as yourself, produce this raisin!” The woman had sneered as if I wasn’t good enough to be my mother’s daughter. It was the only time I ever questioned whether I was.

“I believe it is a lovely miracle that my angel hair was not carried down another generation!” My momma spit shrewdly. The woman cowered backwards from fear. “We all know that this golden hair has only gotten everyone in trouble.” There the woman stopped and scurried away like the little rat she was inside.

As the memory faded, I began to grow weak and my eyes blurred with tears. I smudged them from my face, sniffling as I thought about my mother and how hatefully she had treated me now that she knew how evil I was. That woman must have been right. I was a spoiled apple, a rotten grape.

I closed my eyes, desperate to envision my mother when she loved me. But I couldn’t. All I could see was her disgusted snarl, with eyes so mean I doubted they were her own, pinpricked on me so cruelly. Her gaze was detached as if she were looking at anyone else’s screwed up child but her own. That look told me, more than her lips, that I did not belong to her anymore.

With that image in mind, she looked just like the woman at the funeral who only saw me as an ugly little raisin compared to my mother’s plentiful grapes.

I began to sob detestably and I was shoved once again into reality, waiting on a door stoop to a very lovely home with a woman who was half smiling at me, trying to hide her inner disgust.

I knew she hated me, just then I knew. From the very way she had first looked at me, she disapproved. She thought I was a filthy whore who had sex carelessly at fifteen. I did not make love, they made me hate.

I whimpered sorely, and turned to leave. “This isn’t the place for me. I’m sorry.” Suddenly the woman grasped my chin, pulling my eyes up to look at her. There was a passion behind those golden eyes, a fire that would not be extinguished by my pitiful remarks.

“Why did you come here?” she demanded and I whined, locking my fingers together apprehensively. She shook my chin, insisting an answer. My lips trembled.

“I had nowhere else to go.” The woman clicked her tongue, laughing obnoxiously as she made ugly buzzer noises.

“Incorrect answer, dig deeper my dear Rosalind, why did you come?” She bit harshly once more, shutting the door behind her so she stood on the stoop with me, several inches above my head.

“I don’t know…” I moaned, my eyes growing large with tears. I was afraid she was going to slap me when she raised her palm, but she only wiped my tears away.

Looking at that caring face as she smiled at me, I struggled to think of a better answer to please her.

“I was turned out of my home.” I told her honestly and she grinned triumphant.

“Good, now go on.” She urged of me, petting my hair. I bit my lip, closing my eyes to focus.
“My mother loved me. She always loved me from the day I was born and had a fierce pride and protection over me. She always saw me as her beautiful little doll. When this happened” I paused, my throat clenching together. The woman’s eyes drifted to my slightly bloated abdomen and she nodded saying she understood. I went on painfully “My mother never lost her love. Instead she became oblivious. She didn’t see what I was trying to show her, she wanted to ignore the pregnancy and still pretend I was her little doll. Finally when she stopped pretending, when I forced her to see, she told me I had to get an abortion.” I paused briefly and my whole body began to shake. The woman clutched me to her chest. For once she was silent, but she knew I wasn’t finished.

“I refused.” I whispered, my throat lodged with tears. I hiccupped, fighting to continue to speak. “I will not kill this baby!” I screamed nearly, tears flowing down my face.
We were silent for a moment. There was nothing to say and she didn’t have to, but she held me tightly as if I were her own daughter. She refused to let go and she did not distance herself from me as a normal stranger would. She kept me close, tighter than her own skin, as I guessed she had done many times before to other girls at the home. She kissed my hair, as dark as it may be, forever loving.

I cried in her arms, harder than I had ever cried before because my pain finally began to emerge. It had never seemed real to me until that moment, my current situation, and now I saw everything.

I had lost the people I loved the most with no hope to ever regain them. Evil had come to strike me down and God did not protect me though I had followed him all my life. He did not love me, nor shield me from the devil as he took advantage of me. Because of this my mother turned away from me. She believed she walked in the light while I was doomed to live in shadows. In her mind her daughter had died that night. All that was left was just a shell of her former glory. I was no longer her daughter, just as she would never again be my mother.

“Whoever causes the upright to go astray in an evil way, he himself will fall into his own pit; but the blameless will inherit good.” (Proverbs 28)”

The woman had whispered the proverb into my ear without knowing how it would affect me and I pulled from her arms. “No.” I whispered coarsely. “My mother did what she did because she had to. I am not her daughter, not anymore.” I whispered as my eyes teared up. The realization finally struck me.

“I’m not.” I assured myself. “Her daughter never would have had this child; her daughter would have gotten the abortion her mother asked. She would have bathed her stomach in holy water and cast out all sin, renewing herself as a virgin again. But I am not her daughter. I love this baby, more than anything else in my life. I know that he or she has to live and when she comes into this earth, he or she will be loved more than anything I’ve ever known!” I was shaking but I managed to smile and that was all I needed to do for the woman to throw open her door to me, her smile bright and wide as she whispered.

“Welcome home.”