It had been a long day for Marc Garman. He was irritated. Benton from corporate was pushing his weight around again. Marc closed the door to his office and walked the short distance to Carla’s desk to sign the letters she’d typed.
“I have one more ready to print, Mr. Garman. Could you wait just a moment?” Carla looked up at him with a pleasant smile on her face.
“I’m not in a hurry,” Marc said with a stifled yawn.
Carla put the last letter in front of him. “Nancy said Mr. Benton called George three times today.”
Marc looked up sharply. “He did? Was it this morning or this afternoon?”
“This morning: she told me at lunch.”
Marc shook his head in exasperation, at the same time grinning nonchalantly. “I think he has too much time on his hands. While I’m gone, do me a favor and log the calls he makes here and the approximate times. Tell the crew I asked you to.” He paused, as if realizing that he was putting her in an awkward position. “Do you mind?”
“No, sir.” Carla answered with friendly sincerity, and Marc felt the tightness in his jaw go away.
“You’ll hold down the fort while I’m gone?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Carla seemed to notice the relaxation so visible on Mr. Garman’s face. “I hope you have a wonderful time. I’m sure you will.”
“It’ll be an adventure. We’ve never been to Mexico, but I hear the ocean’s great.”
“Well, have a good time for all of us.”
“I will. I’ll be calling Wednesday at eleven. Remind Brad and Don to have their reports ready. Tell Benton hello when he calls.” Marc tapped her desk and walked out into the hall.
Grabbing his coat from the closet in the foyer, he let his mind wander to far-off imaginary places with sun and sand and water as far as the eye could see. He imagined a ship in the distance and Patrice on a bamboo mat on the beach, basking in the warm ocean air. As he slid down into the seat of his car, he made a conscious effort to keep his mind on the imaginary: he had had enough of unpleasant dealings today to justify calling it a grind. Usually he enjoyed his work immensely; today the only bright spot had been the anticipation of this trip with Patrice.
Marc smiled as he deftly maneuvered his car in and out of the mundane traffic, and his thoughts switched to the immediate future. “Ah, Patrice,” he thought fondly. “We’re in for a good time. Pack your bikini and that little cocktail dress you look so great in.” He pushed his foot down a little harder suddenly, as if to run over the grind of the day and press on to the vacation ahead.
……….
In the time they had been together, Marc and Patrice had enjoyed weekend outings to lake front resorts or trips to New York to see Broadway shows, but they had never spent an uninterrupted week together. Patrice had done all the planning for this trip and had even conceived the initial idea of vacationing together in Mazatlan. She had traveled there as a child with her parents when she was ten, and had always wanted to go back with her husband. The husband part of the dream had been abandoned since she no longer desired to be married. Still, she fondly referred to Marc as her “better half,” accepting their relationship as every bit viable as traditional marriage.
Marc was becoming more and more comfortable with the idea of having a partner rather than a wife, although he wasn’t sure how all the factors would weigh in and balance out if and when they had children. In the meantime, living with Patrice was certainly convenient, as well as entertaining in its unpredictability. Patrice liked her job and was involved with two separate women’s health organizations in town. She was very independent, which Marc respected and which he attributed in part to the difficult childhood she had pulled herself away from. Once, when Marc had asked Patrice what her mother was like, Patrice had told him very pointedly that she didn’t like talking about her mother—it brought back unpleasant memories. Besides, her mother was “dead and gone,” and life was to be lived in the present, not the past—not even the future.
Marc remembered well this conversation and thought about it from time to time. He didn’t agree with Patrice’s philosophy that life was only to be considered from a present point of view, but there had never been cause for discussion of it, nor had he felt a need to make ripples in an otherwise satisfying relationship.
One thing he knew about Patrice’s mother was that she had been an alcoholic. It was this unfortunate weakness in both their mothers that had triggered their interest in each other initially. Each of these two young, good-looking, fairly aggressive people had been curious to get to know someone else with a similar childhood circumstance.
They had first met on a walking path on the edge of Rock Pier, when Marc decided he’d introduce himself to the pretty young woman in purple sweats who had given him an inviting smile each time they met going different directions. No pursuit was needed on his part: Patrice seemed to take the initiative, much as she had with this trip to Mazatlan.
But Marc hadn’t minded. Managing an engineering firm and bringing surprising growth to it financially and otherwise had proved demanding. It was nice to be welcomed home by someone who loved you. Patrice was a meticulous housekeeper and, although she didn’t like to cook, she always had something planned for dinner—take out dinners, fast food, frozen meals or restaurant dates. She was a surrogate cook, Marc had decided, and her planning the meals had made his career-intense life much easier.
Marc and Patrice had worked out a financial agreement whereby she bought all the groceries and household amenities, while he provided the townhouse and paid the utility bills. When they went out together, he picked up the tab. Marc knew it was a good deal for Patrice financially, but it was also a good deal for him in every other way, and he reasoned that his mortgage would remain the same if Patrice weren’t in his life at all.
Marc turned the corner onto Red Wing Circle and pulled into garage number six. “OK,” he told himself. “I’m going to put Benton out of my mind and appreciate the fact that I’m a lucky guy.” He started whistling as he climbed out of his car and ran up the steps to the door separating the kitchen from the basement garage.
……….
The air was crisp on Saturday morning when Bonnie Chadwell arrived at her daughter’s apartment. She rang the bell, smiling to herself as she thought how Carla had probably dusted every nook and cranny in preparation for her visit.
“Hi, Mom!” Carla threw open the door and hugged her mother. They both stepped back and held each other at arms’ length, then pulled into a second, closer hug.
“I’ve missed you, honey,” Bonnie exclaimed, “and you look absolutely beautiful. God blessed you with some of the prettiest eyes in the world.” As Carla smiled affectionately, Bonnie went on, looking with sincere appreciation all around the room. “Your place looks mighty nice. Do you always keep it this clean?” There was teasing suspicion in her voice and in her own sparkling eyes.
“No, just when special people come.” Carla grinned, enjoying her mother’s approval. “But really, it’s pretty easy if I just remember to put things back as soon as I’m finished with them. It’s my early training.” She paused, a happy expression on her face. “So if you like the way it looks, it’s your fault.”
Despite the cold, it was a beautiful January day. Many trees were without leaves, but there were plenty of evergreens and tenacious burr oaks. Carla had begun noticing trees with a newfound interest ever since she and Nancy had started walking together Saturday mornings. Nancy had a contagious enthusiasm for nature and ‘all the beauty in God’s world.’ “He’s awesome, Carla,” she would often exclaim, bending down to admire a holly bush, or pointing out a cardinal on a branch.
This weekend Nancy couldn’t come, which was convenient for Carla, who wanted to share the same beautiful walking path with her mother. The morning was still young, and within ten minutes, the two were on the path, bundled in coats and scarves.
“So what’s going on in Rock Pier these days? Is Mike still dating this friend of yours?”
“Nancy? Oh, yes! Nancy just beams at work. She thinks Mike’s the sunrise and sunset, but in a balanced way, of course. Nancy’s really nice, and very stable, but she’s crazy about your little boy, Mom—and he seems to feel the same way about her.” Carla glanced at her mother with a knowing look. “I bet Michael will end up marrying her.”
“You think so? And you’re OK with that?”
“Oh, yes. I’m so glad for both of them. I’m so glad for me. They’re two of my favorite people and seem to be just a perfect match, with their religion meshing and everything.” Coming to a fork in the path, Carla steered her mother to the left. “You’ll really like her, Mom.”
“I’m sure I will, honey. I’m glad they share a strong faith in God.”
The sun came out suddenly, peculiarly bright, and for a fleeting moment Carla thought of Marc and Patrice basking on the warm beaches of Mexico. But she wasn’t envious; the late January sky overhead now appeared robin-egg blue, and she was glad she was just where she was, to enjoy this beautiful day.
They walked in silence for a while, until Bonnie told Carla she wanted to ask her opinion about something.
“Sure, Mom. What is it?”
“You know the Fergusons from church, right?”
“Mmhmm. John and Lou?”
“Yes. Well, their daughter Midge is fifteen, and she’s pregnant.”
“You’re kidding. Wow.” Carla looked at her mother, then admitted, “I don’t really remember Midge. She must have been in grade school or junior high when I left. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Nick Brommer. Did you know him?”
“No, not really. I remember a Heather Brommer. Is Nick her brother?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s she going to do?”
“Well, that’s the problem. She told Susie she’d talked with the school nurse and she wants to get an abortion.”
“What do her folks say?”
“Her folks don’t know, and, as of now, Midge isn’t planning to tell them.”
Carla was silent for a moment. Finally she said, “Susie told you this?”
“Yes,” Bonnie replied. “I almost wish she hadn’t, Carla. I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard spot. If Susie were in the same place, I’d certainly want to know about it. I can’t imagine anyone counseling a young girl to keep such a thing from her parents.”
“Maybe she thinks it would hurt them too much.” She spoke quietly, in gentle defense of Midge. “And some parents would blow up.”
“Well, I might, too. It’d be a natural reaction. But I’d get over it and be there to help tackle the problem.” She looked at Carla. “What a weight to bear alone.”
“What did Susie say to her?”
“She told me that she asked Midge not to do anything right away—to just give her a chance to think about it and talk with me about it. Midge sometimes rides with us to the rec center, you know, when I take Susie over for her dance class. I like Midge a lot. She’s a nice little gal. Susie likes her, too, and Midge really seems to respect Susie.”
They walked in silence a moment, until Bonnie spoke again. “You know, I think she confided in Susie because she didn’t feel good about not telling her folks, like the counselor had advised.” Bonnie Chadwell’s voice slowed and softened to a pensive whisper, as though a realization was dawning. “I think she’s looking for someone to tell her not to have an abortion.” She sighed, bending down to pick up a plastic lid littering the path. “I think she’s afraid her folks might concur with the counselor.”
“You think she wants to keep the baby? She’s so young!” Carla exclaimed.
“She’s young, all right. Too young to have a baby. But too young…” Bonnie stopped, turning to Carla with concern in her eyes. “…way too young to abort the baby and take on a burden of guilt for the rest of her life.”
“A burden of guilt? What do you mean?”
Bonnie said nothing for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully. “I have a friend from that women’s Bible study I attend. She confided in me once that she had an abortion when she was very young. She told me she constantly carries an ache in her heart. ‘A relentless sadness,’ I remember her calling it.” Bonnie looked at Carla, slowly shaking her head. “I’ve never forgotten that.”
“But lots of women have had abortions, Mom.” She tilted her head as if to say she didn’t agree with where her mother was going in this conversation. “I don’t think they all feel guilty. Millions of women have done it, you know.”
“Doing something a million times doesn’t make it right—just acceptable. Remember Jason, that little boy I tutored when you were in high school? Remember how he thought lying and cheating was OK, because his whole family did it? But if every family in the world lies and cheats, lying and cheating is not one bit closer to being right.” She turned to Carla. “Ever since I read—I mean purposefully read Psalm 106, where the Israelites’ history is recounted, I’ve been convicted of how really wrong abortion is.”
“What does it say?” Carla had never read much of the Bible.
“It talks about innocent sons and daughters being sacrificed, and their blood polluting the land.” She shook her head. “Our land certainly is polluted.”
Carla said nothing, and the subject was dropped as the two walked on in silence.
……….
Although it had rained in sheets the night before, coming in wave after wave, the morning brought a bright sun and plenty of sunbathers and people strolling the beach. Patrice Hamlin rolled over onto her back on the light blue towel and adjusted her sunglasses. She wore a leopard bikini that didn’t leave much for imagination, and her hair was caught up in a topknot to give full sun exposure to her face and neck. She gave no indication that she was aware of the attraction she was providing on the beach front, and she was oblivious to the persons who detoured from the original direction of their walking in order to get a close-up view of this beautiful figure lying almost bare for all to see.
Marc would have liked to walk a long distance that morning on the open shore, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Patrice unprotected. She was more vulnerable than she imagined herself to be, he felt, so he waded and half-swam in the ocean thirty yards in front of her and engaged the beach hawkers in conversation to amuse himself.
Patrice had wanted to go back to Rock Pier with a signature tan that she took pride in every winter, although usually acquired from a tanning spa. Marc was willing enough to accommodate her. He was achieving the same bronzing of his own skin, but in an active way. Sleeping or lying on the beach was too boring in his mind. He figured he could lie around at home. He was thoroughly enjoying the morning, and part of his enjoyment was glancing over at the beautiful young woman in his care. He was proud to be Patrice’s escort. She was so comely and poised and full of intrigue. She had a certain independence—almost an aloofness—that precluded his ever taking her for granted. But that was still his desire—to be able to relax fully in their relationship, knowing that she was his alone and that she wanted the same in reverse. Somehow that security had eluded him, even though he had lived with Patrice for over a year. He couldn’t deny that he envied married men, but he still supported the decision he and Patrice had made to remain single.
Marc glanced over his shoulder at Patrice just in time to see a tow-headed toddler come running up to her. The mother was hurrying to catch up with him, but not in time to stop him from throwing a handful of sand on Patrice.
Patrice sat up, startled, just as the mother swooped up the child, reprimanding him soundly. Marc turned around in the knee-deep water, his back to the beach, and backed up, wanting to hear the exchange, but not wanting them to know he was listening. He smiled, wondering what Patrice—or the mother—would say to the other woman. Marc enjoyed hearing Patrice interact with people, but he seldom had a chance without his being part of the conversation.
“I’m so sorry. Chad’s really enjoying the sand,” the young mother apologized.
“Well, so am I, now,” Patrice laughed graciously. “I guess this calls for a dip. I needed to stretch, anyway.”
“The water’s beautiful—almost warm,” Chad’s mother offered.
“Do you like the water, too?” Patrice looked at the little boy with a friendly smile. Then, seeing she had elicited a smile to replace the first look of naughty apprehension on the little boy’s face, she added, “Shall we go try it?”
The mother, looking a bit surprised, grabbed her little boy’s hand and started toward the water. “Just for a moment, Chad. Then we’ve got to go find Daddy.”
“I wahnt Daddy!” Chad exclaimed, but nonetheless willingly scrambled down the beach, his hand in his mother’s. Patrice walked beside them.
“Chad, how old are you?” she asked.
“I’m this many.” Chad held up his left hand and with his right hand held down his left thumb and little finger, leaving three fingers up.
“Three? You are big.”
“No, two!” Chad frowned, holding up three fingers again. Patrice looked at the mother.
“He’s right, and his fingers are wrong. But he’ll be three pretty soon.”
“Apwoh twouf,” Chad volunteered proudly.
“That’s wonderful. Does your mommy enjoy having you around?” She glanced up at his mother. “Are you a lot of work?”
“Mommy says I’m a awfo wot of wuck, but I’m wuff it.” The little boy beamed proudly. So did his mother, grinning.
“Yes, he’s a lot of work, and yes, we let him know he’s worth every bit of it. My husband and I don’t know what we’d do without him.” Turning to Chad and scooping him up in her arms, she added, “You add a lot of sunshine to our lives, don’t you, honey?” Then, to Patrice, “He really is a blessing.”
Patrice said nothing. She smiled a surface smile and looked around for Marc, who was standing with his back to them, about twenty feet away. Patrice was sure he’d heard their conversation, but he didn’t say a word about it when she abruptly left the mother and child and walked over to him. Neither did she.
“I need to go for a dip to wash off a little sand. Want to come?”
“Sure.” Marc could sense tension in the air. “Babe, look at that sand crab under that rock. Do you see it?”
“Yeah, cute. Come on! Let’s race.”
Marc stole a glance at the mother and child abandoned, then took off, running, after Patrice.
……….
El Ciento was a quaint little restaurant high up on a hill not far from the gold coast of Mazatlan. It was surrounded by dense vegetation including sheflera, quince, and hibiscus. The windows were leaded panes that were only about nine inches wide—narrow for a restaurant window, but most charming in this case. What made them appealing was that they were set in the walls so that the bottom ledge was flush with the table, each containing vases with budding flowers which brought fresh romanticism to anyone looking for it. Every narrow table had one window, the purpose for which, according to Señora Florisma, was to necessitate the señors and señoras (“or señoritas,” she would add with a spicy gleam in her eye) having to put their cabesas close together to point out to each other the iguanas which ran freely on the grounds.
It was in the corner to the far right of the entryway that Marc and Patrice sat enjoying another intimate evening. Their dinner finished, they were sipping Mexican hot chocolate. Marc had decided tonight would be the night he would broach the subject of children. He and Patrice loved each other, obviously, and life was good enough. But Marc wanted to be a father even though, by mutual agreement, he and Patrice didn’t seem headed for matrimony. He put down his cup and took Patrice’s left hand in both his own.
“Patrice, we need to talk about having children. I don’t think about it so much when we’re at home, because we both keep so busy. But being down here and seeing kids with their parents—or just playing on the beach, makes me want to start a family.”
Patrice looked genuinely incredulous. “Am I sitting across the table from confirmed bachelor Marcus Garman?” Then she smiled, and her expression had just the faintest ‘I told you so’ cast to it. “When did this domestication first manifest?”
“Well, actually, right about the time I met you.” Marc’s sincerity gave depth to his suave answer. “But it’s pretty much taken over my psyche, I guess, Dr. Hamlin, because whenever I see a little curtain climber, I feel this void.” He smiled, a confident grin on his face. “Any suggestions? Is there a cure?”
“The doctor does have a cure, Darling. I’ll share it with you when we’re in the privacy of our room.”
“I feel really tired, all of a sudden.” Marc lowered his voice and reached across the table, cupping his hands around Patrice’s cheeks and drawing her face close to his. “I think we should go to bed early tonight.”
“Me, too,” Patrice said, softly.
In the intimacy of their bed, Patrice confided, “Marc, I wasn’t going to tell you, but I suppose I should. I guess I can’t keep secrets very well.”
“What?” Marc looked at her with a hope that was almost fierce in its intensity.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.” Patrice laughed softly. “Why should I joke about it?”
“Since when?”
“Ten weeks—almost three months.”
“Honey, why didn’t you tell me? I thought you shouldn’t take a plane when you’re pregnant—that it might endanger the baby.”
“Don’t worry; it’s all right.”
“But why haven’t you told me? I don’t understand.” Marc’s face showed genuine curiosity—maybe even hurt, and Patrice chose her words carefully. She hadn’t realized before tonight just how much Marc wanted children.
“If you want the truth, I really hadn’t planned to tell you at all.” She sighed.
“What do you mean, you weren’t going to tell me at all?” Marc demanded.
“I don’t think this is a good time for us to have a child. I think I’d rather wait a little longer. Women are having children later and later anymore—sometimes not until their mid to late thirties. By that time I could be through medical school and free to enjoy a baby so much more than right now.”
Marc didn’t respond. He was incredulous: in a matter of moments the hope he had felt of becoming a father had been dashed. He fell back on the wisdom he’d learned earlier than most people—to say nothing at all when one isn’t sure what to say.
“It’s not that I don’t want children, Marc. It’s just that I’m not sure I want a baby right now.”
Marc responded by rolling onto his back. He ran his fingers through his hair, flabbergasted.
Patrice propped herself on her elbows and looked at Marc. “Hey, Baby, it’ll be OK,” she said, tenderly kissing him. “We’ll work this out. I like kids too, you know.”
“Sure,” Marc said. Then, fighting a tinge of bitterness, he thought to himself, “Sure. Sure you like kids.”
Patrice started talking about tomorrow’s activities. It would be their last day in Mazatlan. Marc listened with half-interest, although Patrice couldn’t tell this in the darkness of the room. Marc had already planned the last day, including brunch on the ferry, but his anticipation was gone. He sighed, wishing he could rewind the tape of the past few moments, and re-record.
……….
Patrice was left to her own thoughts in the ensuing silence. It was the first time in their relationship that she had felt uneasiness. She was troubled by the complication Marc’s desiring children so soon had placed on her private ambition. Lying beside him, she reasoned that he had no right to want children already; after all, they’d been together only a little more than a year. She pursed her lips, her eyes wide open in the darkness. How ironic that this worldly-wise, handsome young bachelor, off to such a great start in his own career, should turn out to be so conventional as to want to start a family so soon. She rolled over and, with a stubborn determination, said to herself, “Well, good for him, but I do not!” Then she sighed again, asking herself, “What now?” She faced a serious dilemma, as she had mistakenly convinced herself that Marc would be fine with an abortion in this first pregnancy. They were both young. Besides, in her own mind, actually, although she certainly cared for Marc, their relationship was for all practical purposes up for grabs as much as it was permanent. Granted, their present cohabitation was extremely desirable. There was security in each other—socially, financially, and physically. But Patrice was quite certain she wasn’t ready for the permanency that children would bring to the picture.
Even more importantly, she had a personal career goal that she was determined not to give up. For several years she had anticipated being the first woman to carry a fetus to full term for the express purpose of donating it to research. She sighed with resignation, knowing now she was not free to discuss her ambition with Marc.
It was unsettling to contemplate the strange twist Marc’s wanting a child had introduced. She lay awake, distraught and emotionally exhausted, wondering how she could get through the next several months living with a man who anticipated the birth of his baby while she anticipated the full development of a fetus she most certainly was going to abort.
Tears of frustration filled her eyes as her mind projected the challenge of living with this duplicity. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Yet she knew she had to do it. And wasn’t that what pioneering was all about?
Patrice rolled onto her back and lay there. She knew Marc, lying right beside her, was as awake as she. She reached for his hand and took hold of it, but there was only a limp response. She had never felt so alone as she did at that moment, knowing that the journey that lay ahead of her would be a risky one. Rather than sharing her pioneering ambition with Marc, she would have to keep it under wraps and somehow get Marc to keep her pregnancy a total secret. That would be the first step of this adventure. She sighed, heavy hearted, but knowing exactly what she had to do next.