Abort Mission - Part II
In part one, after our narrator, a nonbinary lesbian who’s fallen victim to the heterosexual advances of a man in black cowboy hat, they take a pregnancy test on Halloween and realize that the unthinkable has happened. They spend the night partying and scheme about what to do next.
I woke to a pounding headache. The girl I was seeing had stolen all the duvet and was sleeping like a baby. I put the kettle on, brushed my teeth and jumped in the shower. I’d done it again, three hours of sleep and now faced with a full day of work. But that’s the fate of lesbians in a world that hates us–demonstrable by only giving us club nights on weekdays–and it wasn’t too dissimilar to bygone Thursdays. My claim to fame among my friends was that I managed to push the weekly All Hands Team meeting from Thursday mornings at 9am to Fridays, my rationale being that it would be queerphobic to expect me to be functional the following morning. The team didn’t need to know the reason, they just needed to know that I had a weekly “scheduling clash.” I stuck a Q-tip in my ear for my morning microgasm, and when I stepped on the pedal to open the bin, sitting there I saw the three plastic pregnancy tests and the accompanying box and accordioned instructions.
Fuck. The alcohol had done one of its jobs. Memory temporarily wiped.
I picked the sticks out of the bin and double-checked. I grabbed the instructions again. To my dismay, the information remained the same. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. No change. My toxic trait is sometimes thinking that I am some queer adult version of Matilda the witch who can circumvent the laws of physics and do magic. Sadly it hasn’t happened yet. There was one more stick, and I proceeded to pee on it. Surely the others were wrong. And even if they were not, surely I somehow had killed it with a combination of mixed alcohols plus an athletic level of throwing ass. I had dropped it down when “Low” came on. I had twerked–to the best of my ability–to “Back that Azz Up.” I had aggressively joined a four-person grinding train to “My Neck, My Back, My Pussy and My Crack.” Surely no cluster of cells would have survived that sheer chaotic vigor. Or maybe I had gyrated so much in the corner of that club that it decided I was no parent worth having. The ends justify the means – I just wanted it gone.
I grabbed my phone and googled if you can kill a fetus through alcohol poisoning. But apparently it was inconclusive. Damn. Since I had to wait in there anyway, I passed the time half-heartedly deep cleaning. I gave the base of the toilet a cursory wipe with toilet paper that I wet from the tap, and used my foot to swipe cat fur off on the sides of the bath. I washed my feet under the bath faucet, poured bleach down the toilet, and used my hand to wipe away the residue left from my electric toothbrush. Five minutes had passed, so I turned the stick upside down to take a peek. It turns out that the cluster of cells and I had something in common. Resilience. The two lines were clear as day. Fuck’s sake.
I’d bought a second batch of tests, certain the first batch was faulty, so was now $32 down, plus and $26 from the Plan B, and however much for the defective condom. All this plus the inconvenience of an upcoming abortion. I had never embodied the phrase “fuck the patriarchy” more. It’s like how I felt when I had to get a biopsy given my HPV and found out that those with penises carry it with no symptoms, instead passing it onto their partners. Had heteronormativity not taken enough from us already? Must it also aid in unwanted creatures growing inside of us and contracting the Human Papillomavirus? It all just seemed too much.
Back in my room, the girl I was seeing scrolled sleepily. She pushed her glasses up her nose, her freshly bleached fade illuminated in the autumn sunlight streaming through the window. I stood by the door.
I thought you’d left me, she said without looking up from her phone. I put one hand up on the door frame, the other balancing the pink plastic stick between my two fingers. I’d seen enough movies where people tell their partner they’re pregnant in such a pose. But I guess that is when they’re either “trying,” monogamous, or straight. We were none of those. I cleared my throat.
She looked up. I held the stick out. She squinted. I moved forward.
I’m pregnant.
–Crickets–
What? She said, looking like the confused math lady meme.
I’m preganté.
She adjusted her glasses, pushing them back up her nose.
Nothing quite beats the mental gymnastics required by a lesbian in discovering the person they’re dating is pregnant. She had now transitioned to the crazed red string man meme. When two and two connected, her head pulled sharply into her collarbone. I immediately felt the urge to comfort her.
I placed the stick on the bedside table, and slid into bed, and drew her close. She recoiled, body stiff against mine.
I know, it’s crazy. I’m as shocked as you are.
We were non-monogamous, but I guess she didn’t expect my sluttery would reach an actual living, working penis.
I pulled her head into my neck and wrapped my leg around her in my attempt to keep her here with me, so she would not withdraw. I rubbed my hand up and down her back.
She was one of those dykes to which this possibility had never even crossed her mind. To her, such an incident lived outside the realm of possibility, belonging instead in a textbook, or the 2007 cult classic film, Juno.
I’m sorry, I said into her hair.
You don’t have to be sorry, she said, into my neck. I’m the one that should be sorry.
Why would you need to be sorry? I said.
More like, I’m sorry that this happened to you.
I’m sorry like that too. Not sorry that it happened, just sorry that this is the circumstance.
We squeezed each other even tighter, holding each other in silence for what felt like minutes. Although no words were shared, I felt seen by her. Even if she couldn’t comprehend something like this happening to her, she understood the gravitas of the moment and held me in the exact way I needed. Tears started to well in the corner of my eyes.
To avoid the myriad of emotions rising up in my chest, I decided it would be better to move into action. I turned to grab my phone and called up Planned Parenthood. When a human eventually answered, the earliest appointment was the following Thursday, a whole week away. I booked it. Relieved, I chucked my phone to the end of the bed and let out a satisfied exhale.
I turned back towards her, shimmying myself down, so that we were both lying on our sides, but now at eye level. I put my hand on her cheek, looked deep into her eyes, bit my lip, then sunk my teeth into her earlobe. It was my usual smoke signal.
Now? Really?
Yes, I’m horny.
But you’re pregnant.
Exactly. Your first time fucking a pregnant person – how exciting for you.
I straddled her, pushing her hands above her head the way she usually likes.
She raised her bleached brow, the one with the gold piercing in it. She looked down, shaking her head, pushing me off.
It doesn’t feel right, she said. I feel like this is a big moment, and you’re sort of just brushing it off.
Are you pro-life or something? I joked.
She rolled her eyes. She swung her legs off the bed, searching for clothing.
Are you looking for this? I screwed her underwear into a ball and chucked it at her.
She didn’t even turn around, just picked them up and dressed herself.
Are you mad at me? We’re ENM right?
No. I mean yes. She hesitated. I mean no, I’m not mad at you. Yes we’re ethically non-monogamous. I’m not trying to make this about me, but I do think you need time to process.
Nah, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Honestly, I’m just annoyed that I have to deal with this and the dude is just running around scot-free.
I really think you need some time. Actually, some space might help.
Space? I was confused.
Just for you to come to terms with the situation.
I really don’t see how space would help.
Well then, maybe I need some space. Her words pierced through my hard exterior.
Are you for real?
She nodded. I tried to hide my disbelief, my upset.
This doesn’t mean I don’t support you. You did nothing wrong. I just think that given the circumstances, it might be better to process this separately for the time being.
Ooookay…I said, fixing my eyes on a distant point.
She got up, and moved towards the front door. I watched as she slipped on her shoes, and held the door open for her. She gave me a quick peck, and then a brief and awkward hug. I wanted to linger in this closeness, but she turned to leave almost as soon as our bodies touched.
As she walked away, I wondered if my sluttery had once again ruined a good thing. As I closed the door, I had a pit in the depth of my stomach that this might be the last time we ever saw each other.
*****
Monday meant back to the office. I guess it was no different to any other Monday rush hour these past eight weeks, except this time I was now cognizant of what was growing inside me. Believe it or not, there is no universal stipend for pregnant folks to take an Uber to avoid rush hour (misogyny), so despite having a bun in the oven, I squished up against a host of suits on the seven train also on their way into midtown. I wasn’t aware what a potential subway crush could do to a fetus, but if it somehow caused a miscarriage, that would be one less piece of admin. I let my body loose, allowing the natural jerks of the subway to slam me a little harder than usual into the bodies of others.
The day in the office came and went, with a couple rushed trips to the toilet in which I vomited up both my coffee and my lunch, then decided it was better to just fast the rest of the day until I could be back home and in my bed. Before I knew it, I was back on the subway, headed home, this time with a seat to rest my weary bloated body.
As the universe would have it, a woman with a baby strapped to her chest sat right next to me, and as babies do, non-consensually started a staring contest with me. I looked into its huge brown eyes and refused to look away. At least not until the baby did. I needed a win, even if it was with an infant.
Sorry, she loves to stare, the mum said. She looked like she hadn’t slept since conception, dark bags lining her undereyes.
Don’t worry. I, too, am with child, I responded.
Huh?
Preggers. Preggo. Pregnanté, as they say.
I placed my hand to my stomach like what I’d seen through photos of childhood “friends” I’d long forgotten about until they popped up on my timeline caressing their bump as if to say this unprotected sex was intentional even if it wasn’t. Perhaps I’m just projecting.
She smiled a haggard half-smile. Congratulations. Your first?
First abortion, yeah.
Shocked, she pulled her child into her chest as if I was a monster, on some kind of rampage, bloodthirsty, not satisfied enough with the termination of my own. But again, maybe I’m just projecting.
No need to fear. I love babies. Now is just not my time.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. She looked into her daughter's eyes, and wiped some drool off her chin with a shirt corner.
I’m glad you’re making the right decision for you. One day it will feel right.
She reached across the aisle and squeezed my arm, as if she had just taken me in as her own. It was so maternal. I wanted to be like that one day, to just ooze that kind of energy from my very being. But in that moment it just reminded me how far from that I was. And that was okay.
I thanked her. She bounced her baby on her knee and smiled back at me. She grabbed my hand, and squeezed it tight. I wiped away a tear.
*****
When Friday rolled around, I took my usual trip on the PATH train to Jersey for Shabbat. One courtesy of my stepfather being Jewish meant weekly meals, a tradition my mum rapidly adopted as an excuse to get family together. I truly think the most biracial thing about me is having fried rice and tofu for Shabbat.
As always, she was there waiting for me in the parking lot, the engine still on. She asked me the usual questions – how was my week, how’s work, and so on. I couldn’t handle the small talk of it all, so against my better judgement, I blurted out:
Mum, I’m pregnant.
I truly wasn’t planning on telling her. She had cried uncontrollably when I told her I was on birth control aged-fifteen (although personally I think she should have been celebrating this), and had cried again when she found my then boyfriend sleeping in my room when he’d climbed in through the window one summer's night. It seemed that to her, any thought of her child having sex out of a committed partnership was one symbolic of some kind of failed parenting.
Unfortunately, I’ve always been the kind of person who sees omission of truth as lying. I wish I wasn’t like that, but I am. And if you’re going to deliver information like this, the optimal time is when neither of you can look each other in the eye, a.k.a. when driving.
I was wrong. Just as we were passing a giant church looking structure, she took a giant turn to the steering wheel and pulled us over abruptly. The tires screeched, and the seatbelt strap cut into my chest. I looked over at her. Tears had already risen in her eyes.
To my surprise, she threw up her arms in the air and pulled me in for a hug. While in her excited embrace, I realized I hadn’t even contemplated that this might be a piece of news worth celebrating, that these might be tears of happiness. Fuck.
Oh that’s so wonderful! I’m going to be a Poa Poa!
Shit, I said beneath my breath.
You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend!
I don’t.
What? She furrowed her brow.
I have a girlfriend. Well, not quite. But I was thinking of asking her to be my girlfriend soon. But maybe not anymore, not after this.
She recoiled, cocking her head to the side, perplexed.
I pointed to my belly. She looked at it, then back up to meet my eyes, then back down again.
It was a one night stand. I’m not keeping it.
She blinked several times. Her face dropped.
Two months in New York and you are having sex with strangers?
Hearing the word “sex” come out of her mouth was a first. I was stunned. We sat there in silence, looking straight ahead, deer in the headlights. Processing.
I booked an appointment on Thursday in the city. For the abortion, I added for clarity.
Further silence. Then she turned to me.
Mum wants to be there.
Huh? I said.
Mum wants to be there, she repeated. She took out her phone, and opened the calendar app. What time on Thursday?
3pm.
That won’t work. I’m hosting a Mahjong afternoon for some of the other Chinese mothers from your brother's school that afternoon. How about Wednesday, same time?
That was their earliest appointment.
She studied her phone, swiping left and right.
Well, how about the following Thursday? That’s fully open right now.
I think Planned Parenthood might have a busier schedule than you do. Can’t you just move the Mahjong party? This is sort of a ticking clock to this whole situation, I said, hand to stomach.
Too late, this was arranged last month, and I only just found out about your…situation. She looked at me, then back at her phone.
I knew I should be grateful she wanted to support me on the day, but it infuriated me that she felt it was appropriate to get me to accommodate her social calendar while a fetus continued to grow to various increased fruit sizes each week.
She put her hand on my shoulder, then looking me square in the eyes.
If you’re going to go through with this, I want to be there.
My bottom lip trembled. Likely hormones, but I was crying all the same.
Okay, I’ll change the appointment, I said, between hiccuped tears.
She reached over the middle armrest and hugged me, the distance between us enforced by the seatbelts digging into our sides.
*****
The next week felt like ten. The girl I thought I was seeing, but clearly no longer was, still hadn’t texted. I’d had to turn off my zoom camera to hug to the toilet bowl more times than I’d like to count. And I’d even vomited on Em’s slipper one time after she’d cooked a particularly elaborate–and fragrant–breakfast. Each passing day I became more and more acutely aware of my circumstance.
Mum arrived the morning of the appointment when we were all sitting around the dining table, working from home. As she entered the apartment, she cursed the New York traffic, and surprised me with her small wheely suitcase.
Are you staying? I asked.
Yes, just a few nights, until you’re back to your full health, she said.
Out of her handbag, she produced two small paper bags, and presented them to Em and H.
Mrs D, you didn’t need to do that! Em said.
Just something small, she said, already turning her back to hang up her coat.
Em and H looked at me, pulling out two identical rainbow sponges. Em put their hand to their heart and H jutted out her bottom lip as if to say “aww.”
The checkout aisle at T.J.Maxx, I said to them under my breath. But they both shrugged, still thrilled with their gifts. Later we discussed if she chose the rainbow because gay or because happy. But either way, they were grateful for the generosity and gave her hugs of thanks.
I then watched as she tried her very best to resist the Asian mother urge to complain about something in the apartment right away. Too dark, or too dirty, or too small. I was equal parts proud and shocked that on this occasion, she managed to resist.
Rather than saying anything, she got down to business right away, turning on the rice cooker before even putting her suitcase down in my room, so I picked it up. She immediately turned around and shooed me, taking the bag from my hand and bringing it to my room herself. It took me by surprise, but then I saw Em moving her hand to make an arch over her belly.
Oh shit, yeah, I said. We started to giggle, then cackle uncontrollably.
I-I-I almost–forgot [hiccup]–why she came here in-in the first place. I struggled to get out my words, wheezing between words of the hilarity of it all.
Mum got back into the kitchen and asked me for an apron. When I told her we didn’t have one, she looked annoyed, but she instead unbuttoned her navy cardigan and then began to put it on the wrong around, to cover her front, leaving the buttons undone in the back.
This way it doesn’t splash back up at me when I’m cooking, she said, matter of fact.
None of us couldn’t argue with that.
Soon me and mum were sitting on the couch for lunch in front of the coffee table, which rose up just to the right height to eat on. As she was picking through her bok choy, tofu and rice, she told me that I looked good, then accidentally said that I was glowing. She immediately looked down. Though subtle, it was the most direct reference to the pregnancy at hand, the sole reason why she was here. She reached out for my hand and squeezed it.
Love you mum.
Ngo oi nei, she said. A Cantonese profession of love, one she reserved for special occasions, like a birthday, or apparently, the meal before an abortion.
To be continued…
Ly Rosengard (they/them) is a queer, non-binary, Chinese-English Londoner living in Brooklyn (another one!). Ly is a writer of prose, poetry and recently scripts. By day, Ly is a LGBTQIA+ human rights advocate, by night, they are a writer obsessed with the intersection of mental health & mental illness, queerness, friendship, love, and people power. Ly is currently working on a novel, short stories & a documentary on eroticism, comradeship & the BIPOC queer and trans kink scene here in New York. They’re also working on The Mental, a substack of candid conversations about lived experiences of mental health & mental illness. Ly has been published by The Independent, The Times, Third Place Zine (forthcoming), and published poetry in Chronicles of Pride. Ly has had support from Kenyon Review Writers Workshop (2024) and Tin House (2024). Lily holds a BA in Philosophy & Religion from the University of Cambridge, and an MA in Human Rights from University College London.
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