Gentlemen Don't Ask Questions

Isabelle was always so carefree, compared to me who would sit and contemplate even the smallest of tasks for hours on end. The longer I was with her, the more laid back I became, the more relaxed I was. Come summertime and I had adopted an 'act now, think later' attitude, and I guess that's what royally fucked me over that summer.
She was sitting on her bed with her back resting against the headboard and her knees pulled up to her chest, crying her heart out. It wasn't a quiet, low sniffle, it wasn't even sobbing, it was full on hysteria. I hated myself at that moment, hated that I had caused her that pain, and all I wanted to do was pull her into my arms and tell her that I would do everything in my power to help her. But I was in as much shock as she was, I was frozen to the spot, focusing all my will power on not vomiting. I couldn’t move my eyes off of her study desk, where that plastic stick with those two fucking pink lines lay, announcing that I had managed to fuck up and get a girl pregnant at the age of eighteen.
Whenever I saw a pregnant high school girl, one word always came to mind: slut. I always automatically presumed that she was easy and stupid and that she deserved what she got. Isabelle was not a whore, she wasn’t stupid, and the thoughts of someone thinking that about her made my blood boil. We always used protection, always, but it would be just our luck that the one time the condom splits she gets pregnant. We had thought nothing of it, Isabelle said that she had just finished her period and that the chances of her getting pregnant were slim. I didn’t know jack schitt about female physiology, so I just sat back like I had been doing all summer and forgot about it. I should have taken the little savings I had and got her the morning after pill, I should have acted on it. I let this happen.

“What are we going to do?” I asked quietly, that sentence feeling like it took every ounce of energy out of me.

“I can’t do this, Gerard. I can’t have a baby,” Isabelle continued to cry into her knees, and I didn’t even know where to begin with comforting her.

Could she even be comforted?

“I’ll support any decision you make.”

I felt like that was the only thing I could say at that moment, and I meant it. I sat down beside her on the bed and pulled her towards me. She let me hold her as she cried into my tee shirt, leaving big wet patches on the front of it as I stared off into space and prayed to wake up from whatever nightmare I was having.

“I don’t want to keep it,” she sniffed when she finally pulled her face away from my chest.

“You want an abortion?” I asked quietly, the word making my tongue feel heavy.

“I can’t do this, Gerard. We can’t do this. We’re still in high school, one of us would have to drop out to look after it…I’m too selfish for a baby right now, I’ve too many things that I want to do.”

I swallowed thickly, it finally hitting me that this was reality. I knew what she was saying made sense, but I wasn’t sure whether I wanted her to go through with an abortion or not. I mean, that baby inside of her was half mine. Although I didn’t want a child at that time in my life, the fact that half of my DNA was growing inside of her meant something to me.

“How much does it cost?”

That’s all I could say. ‘How much does it cost?’ Like I was buying concert tickets, or going out to a club.
I can’t remember much of the conversation. Well, it wasn’t so much of a conversation, more like Isabelle trying to be logical and me sitting there and nodding as if I had a clue what was going on. I held her hand as she phoned the family planning clinic, sat there like an idiot and said nothing, even though I felt like she was making this decision far too quickly. I told her I’d be there for her every step of the way when she told me that they could do it a week later. It. An abortion should never be referred to as it, it’s not as if she’d be going to the clinic to hang up fucking party decorations. I never said that to Isabelle though, I just told her that I loved her and that I supported her.
I drank so much that night, my thoughts swirling around my head along with the vodka, that I came close to phoning her and telling her not to do it. I’d look after it, she wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Yeah right. I understood fully that night why people did stupid things while drunk. I could barely look after myself let alone a baby. Thank Christ I had passed out before I could punch in her number.

++++++++++

Is it sick that I thought she looked absolutely stunning that afternoon? She wasn’t wearing any make up and her wavy hair was thrown up in a messy ponytail, and she made my heart beat so fast I felt like I was going to pass out. Even if I didn’t agree with her decision, I loved her too much to disagree with her. She was past the stage of looking pale, she was grey, and she didn't utter so much as a single syllable as she got into my car, instantly pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging her legs.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm disgusted with myself. I can't keep this baby though," she whispered, wincing when I braked at the traffic lights,
"My stomach is cramping like crazy with nerves."

I reached across the seat and grasped her clammy hand in mine, gently squeezing it. She turned her head slightly, giving me a weak smile, and I would have done absolutely anything to stop her from looking so sad.

"I love you, Isabelle. I'll do anything you need me to."

She didn't reply, she just tilted her face back towards the window and watched all of the streets whiz by. There were protesters outside of the clinic, and I could already feel my blood begin to boil as their beady little eyes settled on us. Isabelle wasn't great with confrontation when it concerned her. Sure, she'd tell the jocks where to stick it if she saw them giving someone grief, but when it came to her, she turned to mush. I didn't want them calling her a whore or selfish, or telling her that she was going to hell.

"Just walk quickly," I murmured to her as I grasped her hand and dragged her through the small crowd.

I didn't take in much of what they were yelling, and I hoped Isabelle didn't either. Once in the clinic, I stood awkwardly behind her as she checked in and filled in all the forms, all the while it feeling like the walls were closing in on us. I was starting to sweat, my heart beginning to pound, and I wasn't even the one getting the procedure. We were told to go wait, and her butt had just about hit the plastic chair before her name was called out.

"Can my boyfriend come in with me?" she asked timidly as she stood up, but the nurse had just looked at us over the rims of her glasses and shook her head no.

That just put me on edge even more. This was traumatic enough without some bitch of a nurse being the one to look after Isabelle.

"Good luck...I guess..." I trailed off as I stood up and hugged her tightly.

Was it even appropriate to wish her luck?

"I love you. I'm sorry," she whispered, not quite meeting my eyes.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," I gently kissed her forehead,
"I love you, too. I'll be here the whole time."

She nodded gently before she followed the nurse into the surgery, her shoulders slumped and her feet dragging along the ground. I sat back down and focused on my breathing as I looked around me, looking for a pamphlet to read to get my mind off of everything, any type of pamphlet that didn't include fucking babies.
I couldn't help myself, though. I just sat there and thought about whether it was a boy or a girl. Would it have looked like me or like Isabell?. Would it be artistic or musical, or both? The more I thought about it, the worse things got. What would Isabelle look like pregnant? Would we end up getting married because of it? I liked Kirsten for a girl, James for a boy.
I had to get Isabelle out of that surgery.