My Life Unplanned

Any form of art is a form of power; it has impact, it can affect change - it can not only move us, it makes us move. - Ossie Davis

“Ugh” My eyes snapped open as my lips curled into a nasty scowl. I winced painfully, clutching my abdomen as I gasped for breath. I felt Cecile’s warm hand wrap around mine but I ignored it, still clutching my own flesh. I cried out again and someone shushed me, their loud grunts rang in my ears as I blinked faster and faster.

“You have a fever.” Cecile whispered, her voice hoarse as she drew my lanky hair away from my sweating face. I grunted into my lap, squeezing my eyes closed as I fought to control the fierce pains surging through me.

“Ah” I burst, my mouth opening like an oven door, blasting out heat. I clutched painfully at my lurching stomach and my fingers trembled as I wiped my wet mouth with the napkin she handed me. I told myself it was only oatmeal as I rolled the dirty cloth into a ball, discarding it into the floor.

Cecile pushed the cheap paper bag into my fist, letting my fingers curl around it and I shoved it away, the rank smell rising to my nose. I felt sick. She tossed the bag away from me and rubbed circles onto my back. “I’m sorry” She cooed in my ear and I nodded, the only response I could give. I tried to relieve my rocking belly by looking up at the bus window, but the blurring images only made a fierce whirl of sickness rush through me like a flash flood. I nearly choked on my own sickness as I reached for the bag to empty my stomach.

The clock said it was 1am. The air was thick with humidity and my lungs felt as though they would burst. I had never felt this heat before. The bus driver had announced we were passing through New Mexico several hours ago. I wondered if we had already passed. We had been traveling for weeks it seemed…even though it had only been a few days.

How much further did we have to travel?

The bus lurched to a stop and I clutched my stomach tighter, wiping my brow with another fresh cloth that Cecile seemed to have an endless supply of. I moaned, my lips parted and dry as I stared glassy eyed around me. Desperately I clawed breaths into my lungs and I focused on listening to the mutterings of complaining passengers to give myself something to think about other than my overwhelming motion sickness.

Their words were like tiny pins being pressed into my ears as I listened. “She’s made a terrible mess of herself.” “Couldn’t she wait until we stopped?” “That foolish little girl.” All of them had a pair of dark eyes for me, and their words were intended for my sickness but I felt like they knew my other sins. I felt like they could all see me, under a harsh light. I felt like every mistake I had made was open to their judging views and it made me want to cry.

“They all hate me.” I commented to Cecile, watching a middle aged mother, clutching her baby boy’s hand. His hair was a soft yellow blonde, his eyes were green and he looked nothing like his worn out mother who was tired from the weary traveling. Every so often he would peer over the aisle to stare at me, and none of his gazes were met with satisfaction.

Every time he looked at me, he was displeased. He would wrinkle his nose, pull on his mother’s hand, and whine to her about how awful I was. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, but she would nod and agree with whatever mean words he had to say.

I wondered how old that baby was. I wondered what his name was.

“They’re just tired, that’s all. Don’t be so judgmental.” Cecile hissed in my ear, drawing me back into my seat and I nodded, feeling like a hypocrite for calling them judges when I was doing the same. Don’t we all?

Every one of us looks at the world through a different lens; our perceptions are always diverse with our unique backgrounds and personalities. Some may see me as an innocent, others as a trouble, and some as a dastardly sinner. But the only thing that mattered was how I perceived myself. What image did I see of myself? What did I think of myself?

I would rather not think about myself because only hatred forms in my mind as I do. Hatred for myself and everything I represent. My sadness, my grief, my torture. Everything about me now was ridiculously pitiful. I didn’t want anyone to look at me and feel bad for me. I wanted them to look at me as a whole human being, not just a pair of teary eyes and shaking limbs.

I clenched my fist tighter around my doggy bag, wanting to just rid myself of the thing and all my weaknesses. It stank badly and it was like a bit of food on my cheek that I couldn’t reach; obviously noticeable and completely embarrassing. I wanted to change everything about my current situation but I did not have the power to. I could only hope I had the strength to trust in God’s plan for me. I only had the hope that I could believe in a brighter future ahead of me.

I felt something smack into my head and I looked back to the little boy with the blonde hair. His bright green eyes were widened in horror as he stared at me, his hand outstretched lustfully. I followed his gaze to the crayon he had dropped and I bent over to pick it up.

He frowned, his eyes watering as he kicked his tiny legs against the bus seat, his only form of defiance. “Momma…” He cried out, reaching full power now for his crayon. “She has my…” He stopped as I handed him the tiny piece of red wax.

“I don’t want your crayon, I’m not going to take it from you,” I told him bitterly and he smirked, folding it in his fist happy I had complied to his wishes.

“Do you have a baby?” He asked me suddenly, his eyes wide and curious as he pointed at my slightly bloated belly. His mother chuckled awkwardly beside him, her eyes pleading for forgiveness as she tried to assure me he didn’t mean it and I laughed it off.

“Yes, I have a baby in here.” I told him, my eyes forlorn as I rubbed my tummy with grave expressions, not of a soon to be mother.

“You look too sad to have a baby.” He told me honestly and I crossed my eyebrows in confusion, wondering what I meant as I peered at him. He twisted his thumbs together nervous to express his thoughts. He was only a child.

“When mommy’s friends get babies, they all get really happy and throw parties. Are you gonna have a party for your baby?” He pressed on, eagerly, and I struggled to find words to appease him.

“Maybe.” I croaked and somehow he knew that I was lying by the way he cocked his head the other way. His smile grew wide and he shook his head, choosing to ignore my lies. Why did I bother lying to him anyway? Should I protect strangers from the obvious truth? Should I pretend I wanted this child, that I loved it dearly? Should I close my eyes and ears and sing la la las to make all the pain go away?

“My name is Christopher by the way.” The little boy shook me out of my thoughts, seeming uncaring about my white lies. He held out his hand. “Chris-toe-fur,” he pronounced for me, rattling my hand in the way little kids often do. “I like my name. With a big name like that, nobody’s gonna think I’m as small as I am!”

I laughed lightly and Christopher prodded his chest with his big thumb, tilting up his chin. “I’m proud to be a Christopher.” He told me. “Will you name your baby Christopher?”

His question was rather sudden, but he probably was only about 8 years old so his restraint was limited. He had the courage most adults lacked to say what he felt. I pressed my lips together in response, shrugging.

“Honey, you can’t make her name her baby after you. She may want to name it after a different person she knows better than you.” His mom warned him, flashing me a pleasant smile, but Christopher refused to believe her silly logic.

“She can name her baby after me if she wants to, can’t she? Will you?” He turned his gleaming face to me and I laughed, tucking my chin down nervously. I pulled my hair in front of my face as if to hide my nervousness, debating without much concentration.

“I like the name Christopher.” I mumbled to pacify him and the little boy cheered, clasping my hand with both of his miniature ones.

“Your baby will like his name too, I promise.”

“And what if it’s a girl, Christopher, what will she name it then?” His mother asked her boy angrily and Christopher giggled.

“I don’t know. I’m not a girl so I can’t tell you what girls like to be named!” He harrumphed and I laughed, holding my hand over my lips to keep it quiet. The sound was unnatural coming from my crispy throat. Recently I had not laughed much and yet this little boy’s antics all seemed hilarious to me. I cleared my throat and smiled wider, to test out my facial muscles and Christopher watched me, laughing himself.

“You’re pretty. I think I like you, Christopher’s mommy.” He told me as he leapt from his seat causing the whole bus to go into a rage of panic at the tiny child that stood on the moving vehicle.

“Christopher!” His mother cried out, lunging for his tiny body but it was too late. He leapt from her arms with deranged laughter and ran across the aisle where I caught his waist instinctively to steady him. He gave me a kiss on the cheek.

I gasped and he jerked out of my grip as soon as he had come, running back to cuddle with his mother, mumbling his apologies without truly feeling sorry for what he had done. His smile was wide with victory while his mother crooned over him like he was her most precious possession, nearly taken from her. She smoothed back his soft locks and urgently mumbled reprimanding words into his ear. He only laughed pleasantly.

Unexpectedly the bus began to squeal like a wailing piglet and I grabbed the seat, feeling my stomach crinkled again. I grunted, trying to hold myself together and Cecile wrapped her arms around me to hold me still as my body swayed with the movement of the bus. We all rocked back and forth in a strange unison, trying to hold ourselves to the moving grounds.

The bus was frozen now and the slight whir of the engine unnerved me, like the beast was waiting for something. “Who’s getting off?” The bus driver yelled over the noise of mumbling passengers and Cecile handed me my briefcase, I stared at her bewildered and she smiled at me softly.

“It’s your stop, Rosalind.” Cecile whispered in my ear and I gasped, looking out the window at the pair of giant black iron gates. On one of the adjoining walls there was a violet colored plague that read Madeline’s Maternity Home.

I had finally arrived home.

My stomach squeezed with anxiety more than actual pain and I rubbed my belly, apprehensively biting my lip as I stared at the letters. “Who’s getting off?” The man up front barked once more, even louder as he rose from his seat to drag the person out if he had to. Like a ripple every passenger turned in their seats as if their stares would incite the person to present themselves. I casually lifted myself from the bus seat and I listened to it moan like it would miss me when I left.

Tiny fingers instantly wrapped around my leg and I felt a pain shoot through me at the soft wanting touch of a baby’s hands.

I stared down at tiny Christopher, grinning up at me with his aluminous olive eyes. “I’ll miss you Christopher’s mommy.” He told me and I smiled at him, patting his back lightly. I wanted to pick him up and hold him like the little doll he was but he was not my baby. The one in my stomach was. He had his own mother.

I looked back at Cecile, who was prying the boy off like some kind of animal, as she handed him to his mother. He pouted angrily and I clutched the handle to my briefcase, frozen with trepidation.

“Hurry up, missy!” The bus driver growled angrily; now back in his seat with his hand on the lever to shut the doors. I gazed at the doors to my future life, bent outward like weak lips holding a tremendous bite of food, quivering with strain and stretched to the limit. Trying with all its strength not to open.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” I whispered, turning back to meet Cecile’s eyes. “It really means a lot to me.”

“You deserve every bit of kindness anyone can afford to give you.” She told me wisely, clutching my hand and Christopher giggled behind me, already entertained by some new toy his mother had given him. I would just be a tiny whisper in the winds that would carry him forward while he would be a shining beacon in my dark cloud.

I finally got the strength to make my way down the aisle and the bus driver snatched me, half walk, shoving me down the steps. I struggled to keep my footing and nearly stumbled out onto the sidewalk as I gazed in anger back up at the man. He could not spare an eye for me as the bus slowly crawled down the street.

I watched it creep away like a sliding door revealing my future home.