and forced her face toward the floor, forced it down and down until
Amy’s forehead was touching the tiles, until her nose was pressed into
a wet splotch of spilled coffee, and Amy kept saying, “Mama, please,”
over and over again, “Mama, please,” but Mama wasn’t listening to her,
because Mama was busy praying to everyone, to Mary and Jesus and Joseph
and God the Father and God the Holy Spirit, and she prayed to various
saints as well, and when Amy gasped for breath a couple of drops of
coffee slipped up her nose from the small puddle into which she was
pressed, and she spluttered and gagged, but Mama held her down, held
her even harder than before, squeezing the back of her neck, and Mama
wailed and whined and shouted and beat the floor with her free hand and
thrashed about and shuddered with religious passion, begged and
wheedled and whimpered for mercy, mercy for herself and for her wayward
daughter, howled and wept and pleaded in a fashion which Catholics
usually disdained, in a devout frenzy that was more suited to the
fundamental Christianity for the Church of the Nazarene, flailed and
babbled fervently, until she was finally all prayed out, hoarse,
exhausted, limp.
The ensuing silence was more dramatic than a thunderclap would have
been.
Mama let go of Amy’s neck.
At first Amy remained as her mother had left her, face against the
floor, but after a few seconds she lifted her head and rocked back on
her knees.
Mama’s hand had cramped from maintaining such an iron grip on Amy’s
neck. She stared down at the clawlike fingers, massaging them with her
good hand. She was breathing hard.
Amy raised her hands to her face, wiped away the coffee and the
tears.
She couldn’t stop shaking.
Outside, clouds passed over the sun, and the morning light streaming
through the kitchen windows rippled like bright water, then grew
dimmer.
The clock ticked hollowly.
To Amy, the silence was frightening, like the endless instant between a
skipped heartbeat and the next sound of your pulse, when you could not
help but wonder if perhaps that vital muscle in your chest would never
again expand or contract.
When Mama spoke at last, Amy jerked involuntarily.
“Get up,” Mama said coldly. aGo upstairs and wash your face. Comb
your hair.” aYes, Mama.”
They both stood.
Amy’s legs were weak. Her skirt was rumpled, she pressed it down with
her quivering hands, smoothed the wrinkled material.
“Change into fresh clothes,” Mama said, her voice flat and
emotionless.
aYes, Mama.”
“I’ll call Dr. Spangler and see if he has an opening in his
appointment book this morning. We’ll go in right away if he can take
us.” “Dr. Spangler?” Amy asked, confused.
“You’ll have to take a pregnancy test, of course. There are other
reasons why you might have missed your period. We can’t really be sure
until we get test results.” “I know I am, Mama,” Amy said shakily,
softly. “I know I’m going to have a baby.” “If the test is positive,”
her mother said, “then we’ll make arrangements to take care of things
as soon as possible.”
Amy couldn’t believe the implications of that statement. She said,
“Take care of things?”
“You’ll get the abortion you want,” Mama said, glaring at her with eyes
that contained no forgiveness.
“You don’t really mean it.” aYes. You must have an abortion. It’s the
only way.”
Amy almost cried out with relief. But at the same time she was afraid,
for she figured that her mother would extract a terrible price for this
amazing concession.
aBut . . . abortion . . . isn’t it a sin?” Amy asked, struggling to
comprehend her mother’s reasoning.
aWe can’t tell your father,” Mama said. “It’s got to be kept a secret
from him. He wouldn’t approve.”
“But . . . I didn’t think you would approve either,” Amy said,
bewildered.
“I don’t approve,” Mama said sharply, a trace of emotion returning to
her voice. “Abortion is murder. It’s a mortal sin. I don’t approve
at all. But as long as you’ve got to live in this house, I won’t have
such a thing as this hanging over my head. I simply won’t have it. I