Famished - Meghan O'Flynn (learn to read books TXT) 📗

Icicles seeped from the metal table through the thin gown I wore. I shivered, wrapping my arms around my exposed abdomen. The child would be cold, too, if I didn’t leave.

A woman walked in, rolling an expensive-looking ultrasound machine, her eyes bright with animosity. An elaborate array of blue, green, and yellow cables sprang from the front of the machine and next to it sat a television monitor and a white cord attached to a small paddle.

The woman grabbed a tube of bluish jelly and squeezed a frigid glob onto my abdomen. “Watch the screen.” She shoved the wand against my belly. I bit my lip and tried not to shrink from her piercing stare.

“There’s the heartbeat,” she said, not even trying to hide the disdain in her voice. “Still beating right now.”

Please…please stop.

“Here’s her head…her feet.”

The world was closing in. “Her?”

The woman kept her eyes on the screen. “Sure you want to go through with this? You can still change your mind. There are other options.”

Want to? I had to. And I had to do it now before it was too late.

Through a veil of tears, I nodded. “I’m sure.” I was prone, captive, and totally vulnerable. And I was nothing to her.

The woman thrust the wand back into its holder on the machine and started for the door. “The doctor will be in shortly. God bless that poor child.” She made the sign of the cross and softly closed the door behind her.

I didn’t notice the doctor entering, but suddenly, there she was, only a jet-black ponytail visible between my knees. I stared at the ceiling, removing myself from the pain as I had so many times in the past. When I couldn’t pretend any longer, I let the tears fall, soaking my hair with salt.

One final surge of suction, and I heard a familiar voice: “All done.”

I watched in horror as the doctor stood, but it wasn’t the doctor anymore. It was him, holding the tiny child, my child, by the leg, its face grotesque and bloodied, its scrawny arms and legs flailing against my father’s wrist. He wrenched the child’s head, snapping her neck bones in one fluid motion. He laughed, and it echoed through the room, inside my head, even when his mouth stopped moving.

I scrambled backward on the table.

“You thought you’d get away from me that easily, did you? You will always be a part of me.” My father lunged toward me, extending the mangled infant slick with my blood. “We’re a family now, Hannah. Take her, love her the way I loved you.” The child’s skin brushed my face. Cold, so cold.

I screamed and bolted upright, shivering from fear and the cold sweat that soaked my T-shirt. My hand settled on my flat abdomen. A dream. Just a dream. Just another shitty night to write about in my notebook.

I felt his gaze on me before I saw him, seated in a leather chair in the corner, obscured by shadow. The nightmares were surely too frequent for him to ignore. How often had I woken him up in the last week?

I crossed the room and settled awkwardly on the arm of the chair. “Sorry.”

He shrugged, his face impassive.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes,” he said like he had just agreed to a bologna sandwich. Did he not care about being awake, or did he not care about…me?

I’m going to lose him. Spoors of panic took root in my chest and multiplied, crushing my lungs and ribs. It had been acceptable for Jake to think I was a little nuts—he had been a jerk either way. But, Dominic was genuinely kind. And he actually cared. I didn’t want to push him away by keeping things from him.

So tell him.

Is damaged better than crazy?

I stared at the floor, the words rushing out before I could stop them. “About five years ago, I ran away from home. My father…he… I was pregnant with his child. I aborted. I had no idea what else to do.”

“And you wish you had done it differently?” His voice was neutral, serene even. He was probably relieved that he had a good reason to kick me out.

“No.” My voice cracked.

“Deciding not to carry an infant that you know you can’t feed, seems perfectly rational. What were the other options? Force the child and yourself into a life of poverty? And for what? If anything, you did everyone a favor, including that incest-derived embryo whose mere presence would have served as a constant reminder to you of all that is wrong with the world.” He stood and took my face in his hands. “Would you like something to drink?”

I stared at him. “Uh…sure.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I barely noticed him leave the room. Had he really just said that the things I’d spent a lifetime hiding were…acceptable? I must have misunderstood.

“Here you go.” He was back already, handing me a glass. “Orange juice. I thought you could use the vitamin C. With all that worrying, you’re going to end up sick.”

Was I dreaming now? He doesn’t hate me? I sipped, despite my lurching stomach. Sweet, with a slight bitter tang of peel—probably freshly squeezed. The good stuff.

He looked at me, almost expectantly, but I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say.

I lowered the cup. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Everyone has a past. Children have only so much control.”

My stomach churned, hot with shame. “I mean…it’s a lot to take in. I’ve never told anyone. And I wasn’t a child when I had the abortion.” I waited for him to say something, anything, but he just squeezed my hand and watched me. “Don’t you feel anything about all this?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

And when I searched his eyes, I saw no disgust, no anger. He understood. Calm, pure, and blue ran through my abdomen, where stabbing anxiety had held me prisoner for so long.

He doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t think I’m a terrible person.

He led me to the bed. I lay there, wrapped in his arms, and let the tears fall as years of pain melted into acceptance.

As I fell into sleep, I wondered how I had gotten so lucky.