The subway ride from Brooklyn to upper Manhattan felt endless. My mother sat next to me staring at the subway map on the opposite side of the car. An unshaven man, mumbling to himself, sat on the other side. I kept my small suitcase tucked under my feet while I tried to read my new paperback, The Godfather, a going away present from Di. She had brought it to my room the night before,and I hugged me. I knew she felt uneasy, so did I. What hurt the most was I think she felt relieved that I was leaving.
As the train screeched to a stop at 96th Street, my mother stood up and I followed, carrying my suitcase as I tried to steady myself on the overhead grab rail. We walked in silence, jostled by the people hurrying to buses and trains to start their Monday morning. Di and I visited mid-town to shop on occasion, and once we took the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty, but this part of the city felt like foreign territory. The sweet smell of pastries from a bakery made me queasy. We turned down a quieter street, passing dozens of three story brownstones. I switched the suitcase back and forth from hand to hand as it grew heavier with each block we passed. It felt too chilly for late summer, and the handle kept slipping from my cold hands. But I couldn’t ask my mother how far we had to go. I just couldn’t.
My mother had hardly talked to me since the day I told her. I got used to it. A numb relief filled most of my days while I finished the semester and worked at the store without my pregnancy showing through the baggy sundresses I wore. For the first time I was happy about being overweight. No one knew, not even my aunt or my friend Janet. My mother made meals, did my laundry, and acted civil, except when she told me that in the six years since my father’s death, she never expected to feel grateful he hadn't survived. What I"d done would have broken his heart, she told me. After that we said little to one another, until the day she informed me I’d be going to a special Catholic home for unwed mothers in Manhattan to give birth and give up the baby. A good daughter, I accepted it as a just punishment and my only hope for restoring my future.
Just as I caught a glimpse of a park down the block, my mother stopped in front of a pretty brownstone with window boxes overflowing with geraniums. “This is it. We have to ask for a Mrs. Benson,” she said, without looking at me, and pushed open the door. As I followed her into the marble floored entrance way, a rush of hot air hit my face. I dropped the suitcase in front of the desk while my mother spoke to the receptionist in hushed tones. I pretended an interest in the beautiful surroundings to avoid what they were saying, but the ritzy lobby, with its huge crystal and gold chandelier and polished mahogany tables, made me feel even more self-conscious, like a lonely immigrant looking for charity.
In a tiny room with faded, rose bud wallpaper, a vase filled with paper carnations overflowed the top of a low table between two red and white striped love seats. My mother and I sat across from Mrs. Benson, and I mostly nodded my head while the two of them talked. It felt as if I floated above them watching their lips move, listening to the muffled sounds of honking horns and sirens. I saw my mother stand up and kiss my cheek. She had done the only thing she could, hadn’t she? There might have been tears in her eyes, but she walked out of the room too quickly for me to know for sure. Then I sat alone, across from Mrs. Benson, who seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
