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Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
Chapter 15

I sleep deeply. Like, Atlantic Ocean deep. SO deep that when I finally do wake up, my head feels heavy. I don’t think I can lift it up, but I somehow do.

Bibio* is standing, waiting, fully dressed.

“Child…”

If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d be indignant at this: “I am not a CHILD! I’m 15 years old! Etc., etc.” As it is, I know I am. I have so much more of life to live. I always thought I felt pretty sure of myself(maybe even TOO sure), but I’m not close to certain enough to be an adult.

This is why I don’t think I can take care of the baby. I am STILL a child, despite the fact that I’m close to passing over, I need the space to do so. A child can’t take care of a child. My aunt has enough on her hands with rambunctious, headstrong ol’ me…she doesn’t need anyone else to take care of.

“…I know saying you had a ‘bad night’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, but I scheduled a doctor’s appointment. This isn’t something we should put off. There’s going to be monthly appointments. Unless…”

She trails off in that way that doesn’t just trail for a second, but trails on. And on. And on and on and on…

“Unless?” I prompt groggily, pulling off the blanket and trying to get off my sprawled position on the couch.

“Unless….you would like to consider abortion.”

I swear my eyes popped out about an inch.

“No.”

“Well, it is an option, Nadya.”

“No it is NOT. I will not kill an innocent baby just because I may be a little afraid that having it will hurt like hell.”

“’Kill’ is a harsh word.”

“It’s what I would be doing. Or what I would be paying someone to do, in any case.”

She sighs.

“Nadya…”

Interesting how my name has been spoken in so many different ways: in disdain, in love, tender, low, loud, tentatively, soft, sharply….

And in this new way: a touch of reprimand, an ounce of compassion, a pound of worry.

“…it was only a suggestion, chavi*. All right?”

“Yeah, okay.”

I’m afraid I’ve lost her trust in me forever.

“Bibio*…do you still love me?”

“Must you ask me that question?”

Smoothing my hair in a condescending way that would bother me if I weren’t so goddamn tired, she says, “Now, Hush kacker*: yes I do. I’m not ever going to stop. But let me tell you…you make it awfully hard to love you sometimes.

Yeah…and HOW am I supposed to figure that one out?
~***~

According to this Health magazine, I should, as a pregnant woman(I’m working on getting used to that word. Pregnant. Preg-nant. Pregnantpregnantpregnant…)I should not be eating:

Raw meat(ah darn it! No more uncooked chicken for me!)

Unpasteurized milk(okay…)

Deli meat(we never make the turkey for Thanksgiving, so I guess I have to skip that tradition…)

Fish with mercury(Dude. But TUNA!!! How do I live without tuna? White albacore tuna with rosemary and dill weed, olive oil and mayo, on toasted bread with butter…this sucks.)

Raw shellfish(yeah…cuz I eat so much of that anyway…)

Raw eggs(God. Why is this even in here? Who eats raw eggs?)

Caffeine(WHAT?! You have got to be kidding me!!! How will I ever drag myself out of bed without physically harming someone?!)

Alcohol(Well, duh.)

According to my patience, if I have to sit any longer in this stuffy waiting room with the receptionist painstakingly trying to tell someone that “No, sir, there are no appointments available today. Is it an emergency? No? Well then I suggest we book another time…What do you mean? Uh huh. Well I’m sorry, but we do have a policy. No I am not going to ask someone to ‘hurry up an appointment’ to squeeze you in…”, all these twenty-ish, thirty-ish woman staring at me like I’ve been beamed down from Mars(or more specifically like, “Oh, another teenage mother, I mean she must be, she’s in the pregnancy ward…”), and elevator music playing in the background, I’m gonna lose it.

“Bashalde, Nadya?”

I put down the health magazine and follow the nurse, Bibio* keeping step behind me. I love her to death, but I really don’t want her in there…

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Bibio* looks up.

“There is a patient privacy rule, and she is old enough to go in there by herself, so unless she wants you to, you need to leave.”

This nurse has transformed into an angel in my eyes.

“Would you mind, Aunt?”

Her lips tighten in prim, hard line.

“No,” she answers curtly, stalking off.

Greeeaat.

~***~

The nurse asks me the less “personal” questions, I guess she’s saving those for the doctor. I answer them like a robot, “yes, I’m 15, yes, I exercise, no, I don’t have sleep problems(whatever! I don’t think they’re “problems), I’m 5’6” ”, etc.

I hit home with my assumption that the doctor nurse would ask the most personal questions. Though it’s hard, I try to answer them robotically, too, or I’ll never get this done.

“I’ve had intercourse twice, yes, we used protection, no, it didn’t work(OBVIOUSLY, or why would I be here?), yes, I took a pregnancy test, when, two days ago(Christ, has it really only been two days?!) etc., etc.”

“Do you want to keep the child, adopt, or have an abortion?” she asks, measuring, sitting in one of those hard, plastic chairs, hands folded in her lap. Her eyebrows are drawn in, her hair is pulled back in a bun. With the white lab coat, and the way she asks the questions as if they’re scientific, like I’m not an actual person with feelings, makes it hard for me to remember she’s human.

“I…I…suppose I’ll give the child up for adoption…I have no idea how to go about it, though,” I admit.

“There are people that can help you with that,” Dr. Clements assures me, eyes going soft, mouth crinkling a little at the edge as she smiles. Okay, maybe she IS human.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

All right, she’s human, I admit it. Still, how can this not be awkward? Talking to a complete stranger about the fact that I’m pregnant, telling a complete stranger I’m not a virgin(God…I’m going to start to show. Then EVERYONE will know…how will I get used to that?)

“I’m curious, Nadya, I’ve seen quite a few teenage mothers in my time(I wince. Fantastic. Another damn container.), and I’ve rarely seen them choose to adopt. They’d always rather have a child of their own. I know from statistics that it’s rare in general. What made you decide?”

I tell her the whole bit I thought this morning about why not.

“That was a very mature decision, Nadya. I’m proud of you.”

So not weird at all that this woman I didn’t know half an hour before is now proud of me for doing something that I think is rather obvious…

“Um. Thanks?”

She surveys me calculatingly. I feel exposed and put my arms over my chest. I’m reminded that this makes them appear even larger, as they squish up, so I cease doing it.

“You’re not a normal girl, are you?”

Right. Like I haven’t heard THAT one before.

“I guess NOT,” I say a bit more sharply than I intended.

~***~

Dear Nadya, October 26, 1991

I didn’t really think “Oh my God” when I read your letter. “Oh my God” wouldn’t really do it justice. What exclamation would?

You know Lala has given you a choice. She wants you to see both worlds…the normal one and the Romany one, or the secluded Romany one, in any case. But you can have both. I know it’ll be hard for you, when the family comes down for your birthday and maybe Christmas…if your child had a Romany father, one you had married, they would congratulate you. But none of those are true, so I’m not going to lie to make you feel better…they won’t be happy. You should tell them before they come, so at least they’re prepared.

No, scratch that. Have Lala tell them.

I’ll respect whatever decision you make. About the baby, I mean. I wish I could help you, I wish I wasn’t so far away. It’s technically a few Subways or a few hours of a drive, or a train, but it doesn’t matter with the unwillingness of my parents to spend money on it.

I’ll try to persuade them again, though.

Oh, Nadya! I am always your friend. I will never give up on you. Never, ever say that!

This seems so petty compared to your news, but I thought you might need a distraction…

My sister called.

It surprised me right out of my socks, practically. Belle has pretended we don’t exist for quite some time. The “I’m in Hawaii, I’m at college, I’m busy” excuse wears thin after no calls for what, nearly a year?

Dad cried afterwards. I’ve never seen him cry except at Grandpa’s funeral.

Now they’re act like I don‘t exist, because their perfect daughter remembered that they were alive.

I talked to her and she said she was sorry and would “write me letters and send me lip-gloss and other little prezzies, okay?”

Lame.

I’m sorry you’re scared…I’d be scared too. But I know you can make it through this. You can make it through anything.

Call or write when the going gets especially tough, okay?

Your Best Friends(ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS),
Consta

~***~

Dear Cee, October 30, 1991

Your sister called? That IS amazing. I’m sorry she gave you some shtick about sending you “prezzies”(barf) and letters. Though maybe I’m a little jealous about the letters…you’re probably more excited to be getting them from Belle than me.

I went to the doctor’s. Apparently I’m two months along. AND I AM LIMITED TO 30 MILLI GRAMS OF CAFFEINE A DAY!!!!

It’s torture. Forget the whole squeezing-a-human-being-out-of-my-body bit…that I can take. But the minimal caffeine limit thing? Uh huh. Don’t think so. Bibio* seems more concerned about the baby that I am, though, she forbids me from coffee or black tea. Green is going to get old after, oh, what, MORE THAN HALF A YEAR??!!

But I digress.

Whoever said pregnancy is a beautiful thing of life must’ve been on some heavy pharmaceuticals , because vomit bright and early is not beautiful by even the most hideous of troll’s standards.

I was slightly nauseous last month, but I passed it off as a weekend bug. It came on and off. Now it’s insane, and afterwards I’m starving.

I’ll summarize an episode of the gypsy and her niece, the crazy pregnant teenager, morning 101:

ME: (two minutes after retching in the toilet): I’m starving.

B: What?

ME: I. Am. Starving.

B: Nadya, why don’t you wait for a few-

ME: No. Mmmm. You know what I want really bad right now? French toast. Warm, buttery, smothered in syrup…

B: Why don’t we get you some regular toast and…and chamomile tea? That would be-

ME: Chamomile? From the box with the girl in the meadow with daisies that says “Herbal Caffeine Free”? I think NOT.

B: It’s very good-

ME: I don’t give a damn if it’s “very good”, I only got-

B: Don’t use that language!

ME: -you use it all the time, and ANYWAY, as I was SAYING, I only got about five hours of sleep last night-

B: Why did you only get five hours of sleep?

ME: (because I ran until my legs fell off) Because I’m pregnant, probably.

B: That can’t be good for the baby.

ME: Well I just couldn’t get to sleep okay?

B: Maybe you should take some sleeping pills, then you could-

ME: Nooo, no, no, I would rather be insomnia-addled and real then tired and fake.

B: You really shouldn’t judge things so quickly-

ME: Dude, do I get French toast or not?

B: We don’t have time to-

(I rush into kitchen, crack eggs, milk, and cinnamon in a large glass bowl, melt butter on a pan, dip bread in mixture, and cook away.)

B: Nadya! Did you listen to a word I said?! Are you just so careless that you’re going to eat a ton of food just after-

ME: The latter.

(After a few minutes, slide French toast onto plate, get a glass of orange juice, grab the syrup and devour.)

B: (triumphantly, after I have finished four pieces) Guess what?

ME: (with my mouth full) What?

B: You have fifteen minutes till your school starts.

ME: AAAAAH!

(run upstairs for backpack, squirt toothpaste in mouth then rinse, tear brush through hair, lace up shoes…run downstairs, trip stub my toe-)

ME: Ow, ow OW!!! Fuck a doodle-

H: (waiting impatiently by the stairway, car motor still on in driveway) Did you seriously just say “fuck a doodle”?

ME: Shut up.

Oh, and I’m not seeing Raphael anymore. We didn’t really “break up” but I don’t talk to him and he doesn’t talk to me and Will keeps telling me he’s never seen him more depressed and I very sensitively tell him to shut up.

I guess you could call it a non-break-up-break-up.

Or something.

Oh AND I almost got raped by this guy whose dad owns a restaurant in town who I thought was funny and looked like a Greek God but no he’s a complete psycho who can’t handle it when a girl says no and Bibio* called the court and I have to do testimony and some guy that heard me yell help is going to be an official witness and it’s all just very, very confusing-

But I’ll call you and tell you more about that later, because I’m writing this on the roof during lunch and I only have approximately five second till the bell rings-

All my love,
Nadya the Anxiety Attack

Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
Chapter 15

I sleep deeply. Like, Atlantic Ocean deep. SO deep that when I finally do wake up, my head feels heavy. I don’t think I can lift it up, but I somehow do.

Bibio* is standing, waiting, fully dressed.

“Child…”

If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d be indignant at this: “I am not a CHILD! I’m 15 years old! Etc., etc.” As it is, I know I am. I have so much more of life to live. I always thought I felt pretty sure of myself(maybe even TOO sure), but I’m not close to certain enough to be an adult.

This is why I don’t think I can take care of the baby. I am STILL a child, despite the fact that I’m close to passing over, I need the space to do so. A child can’t take care of a child. My aunt has enough on her hands with rambunctious, headstrong ol’ me…she doesn’t need anyone else to take care of.

“…I know saying you had a ‘bad night’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, but I scheduled a doctor’s appointment. This isn’t something we should put off. There’s going to be monthly appointments. Unless…”

She trails off in that way that doesn’t just trail for a second, but trails on. And on. And on and on and on…

“Unless?” I prompt groggily, pulling off the blanket and trying to get off my sprawled position on the couch.

“Unless….you would like to consider abortion.”

I swear my eyes popped out about an inch.

“No.”

“Well, it is an option, Nadya.”

“No it is NOT. I will not kill an innocent baby just because I may be a little afraid that having it will hurt like hell.”

“’Kill’ is a harsh word.”

“It’s what I would be doing. Or what I would be paying someone to do, in any case.”

She sighs.

“Nadya…”

Interesting how my name has been spoken in so many different ways: in disdain, in love, tender, low, loud, tentatively, soft, sharply….

And in this new way: a touch of reprimand, an ounce of compassion, a pound of worry.

“…it was only a suggestion, chavi*. All right?”

“Yeah, okay.”

I’m afraid I’ve lost her trust in me forever.

“Bibio*…do you still love me?”

“Must you ask me that question?”

Smoothing my hair in a condescending way that would bother me if I weren’t so goddamn tired, she says, “Now, Hush kacker*: yes I do. I’m not ever going to stop. But let me tell you…you make it awfully hard to love you sometimes.

Yeah…and HOW am I supposed to figure that one out?
~***~

According to this Health magazine, I should, as a pregnant woman(I’m working on getting used to that word. Pregnant. Preg-nant. Pregnantpregnantpregnant…)I should not be eating:

Raw meat(ah darn it! No more uncooked chicken for me!)

Unpasteurized milk(okay…)

Deli meat(we never make the turkey for Thanksgiving, so I guess I have to skip that tradition…)

Fish with mercury(Dude. But TUNA!!! How do I live without tuna? White albacore tuna with rosemary and dill weed, olive oil and mayo, on toasted bread with butter…this sucks.)

Raw shellfish(yeah…cuz I eat so much of that anyway…)

Raw eggs(God. Why is this even in here? Who eats raw eggs?)

Caffeine(WHAT?! You have got to be kidding me!!! How will I ever drag myself out of bed without physically harming someone?!)

Alcohol(Well, duh.)

According to my patience, if I have to sit any longer in this stuffy waiting room with the receptionist painstakingly trying to tell someone that “No, sir, there are no appointments available today. Is it an emergency? No? Well then I suggest we book another time…What do you mean? Uh huh. Well I’m sorry, but we do have a policy. No I am not going to ask someone to ‘hurry up an appointment’ to squeeze you in…”, all these twenty-ish, thirty-ish woman staring at me like I’ve been beamed down from Mars(or more specifically like, “Oh, another teenage mother, I mean she must be, she’s in the pregnancy ward…”), and elevator music playing in the background, I’m gonna lose it.

“Bashalde, Nadya?”

I put down the health magazine and follow the nurse, Bibio* keeping step behind me. I love her to death, but I really don’t want her in there…

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Bibio* looks up.

“There is a patient privacy rule, and she is old enough to go in there by herself, so unless she wants you to, you need to leave.”

This nurse has transformed into an angel in my eyes.

“Would you mind, Aunt?”

Her lips tighten in prim, hard line.

“No,” she answers curtly, stalking off.

Greeeaat.

~***~

The nurse asks me the less “personal” questions, I guess she’s saving those for the doctor. I answer them like a robot, “yes, I’m 15, yes, I exercise, no, I don’t have sleep problems(whatever! I don’t think they’re “problems), I’m 5’6” ”, etc.

I hit home with my assumption that the doctor nurse would ask the most personal questions. Though it’s hard, I try to answer them robotically, too, or I’ll never get this done.

“I’ve had intercourse twice, yes, we used protection, no, it didn’t work(OBVIOUSLY, or why would I be here?), yes, I took a pregnancy test, when, two days ago(Christ, has it really only been two days?!) etc., etc.”

“Do you want to keep the child, adopt, or have an abortion?” she asks, measuring, sitting in one of those hard, plastic chairs, hands folded in her lap. Her eyebrows are drawn in, her hair is pulled back in a bun. With the white lab coat, and the way she asks the questions as if they’re scientific, like I’m not an actual person with feelings, makes it hard for me to remember she’s human.

“I…I…suppose I’ll give the child up for adoption…I have no idea how to go about it, though,” I admit.

“There are people that can help you with that,” Dr. Clements assures me, eyes going soft, mouth crinkling a little at the edge as she smiles. Okay, maybe she IS human.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

All right, she’s human, I admit it. Still, how can this not be awkward? Talking to a complete stranger about the fact that I’m pregnant, telling a complete stranger I’m not a virgin(God…I’m going to start to show. Then EVERYONE will know…how will I get used to that?)

“I’m curious, Nadya, I’ve seen quite a few teenage mothers in my time(I wince. Fantastic. Another damn container.), and I’ve rarely seen them choose to adopt. They’d always rather have a child of their own. I know from statistics that it’s rare in general. What made you decide?”

I tell her the whole bit I thought this morning about why not.

“That was a very mature decision, Nadya. I’m proud of you.”

So not weird at all that this woman I didn’t know half an hour before is now proud of me for doing something that I think is rather obvious…

“Um. Thanks?”

She surveys me calculatingly. I feel exposed and put my arms over my chest. I’m reminded that this makes them appear even larger, as they squish up, so I cease doing it.

“You’re not a normal girl, are you?”

Right. Like I haven’t heard THAT one before.

“I guess NOT,” I say a bit more sharply than I intended.

~***~

Dear Nadya, October 26, 1991

I didn’t really think “Oh my God” when I read your letter. “Oh my God” wouldn’t really do it justice. What exclamation would?

You know Lala has given you a choice. She wants you to see both worlds…the normal one and the Romany one, or the secluded Romany one, in any case. But you can have both. I know it’ll be hard for you, when the family comes down for your birthday and maybe Christmas…if your child had a Romany father, one you had married, they would congratulate you. But none of those are true, so I’m not going to lie to make you feel better…they won’t be happy. You should tell them before they come, so at least they’re prepared.

No, scratch that. Have Lala tell them.

I’ll respect whatever decision you make. About the baby, I mean. I wish I could help you, I wish I wasn’t so far away. It’s technically a few Subways or a few hours of a drive, or a train, but it doesn’t matter with the unwillingness of my parents to spend money on it.

I’ll try to persuade them again, though.

Oh, Nadya! I am always your friend. I will never give up on you. Never, ever say that!

This seems so petty compared to your news, but I thought you might need a distraction…

My sister called.

It surprised me right out of my socks, practically. Belle has pretended we don’t exist for quite some time. The “I’m in Hawaii, I’m at college, I’m busy” excuse wears thin after no calls for what, nearly a year?

Dad cried afterwards. I’ve never seen him cry except at Grandpa’s funeral.

Now they’re act like I don‘t exist, because their perfect daughter remembered that they were alive.

I talked to her and she said she was sorry and would “write me letters and send me lip-gloss and other little prezzies, okay?”

Lame.

I’m sorry you’re scared…I’d be scared too. But I know you can make it through this. You can make it through anything.

Call or write when the going gets especially tough, okay?

Your Best Friends(ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS),
Consta

~***~

Dear Cee, October 30, 1991

Your sister called? That IS amazing. I’m sorry she gave you some shtick about sending you “prezzies”(barf) and letters. Though maybe I’m a little jealous about the letters…you’re probably more excited to be getting them from Belle than me.

I went to the doctor’s. Apparently I’m two months along. AND I AM LIMITED TO 30 MILLI GRAMS OF CAFFEINE A DAY!!!!

It’s torture. Forget the whole squeezing-a-human-being-out-of-my-body bit…that I can take. But the minimal caffeine limit thing? Uh huh. Don’t think so. Bibio* seems more concerned about the baby that I am, though, she forbids me from coffee or black tea. Green is going to get old after, oh, what, MORE THAN HALF A YEAR??!!

But I digress.

Whoever said pregnancy is a beautiful thing of life must’ve been on some heavy pharmaceuticals , because vomit bright and early is not beautiful by even the most hideous of troll’s standards.

I was slightly nauseous last month, but I passed it off as a weekend bug. It came on and off. Now it’s insane, and afterwards I’m starving.

I’ll summarize an episode of the gypsy and her niece, the crazy pregnant teenager, morning 101:

ME: (two minutes after retching in the toilet): I’m starving.

B: What?

ME: I. Am. Starving.

B: Nadya, why don’t you wait for a few-

ME: No. Mmmm. You know what I want really bad right now? French toast. Warm, buttery, smothered in syrup…

B: Why don’t we get you some regular toast and…and chamomile tea? That would be-

ME: Chamomile? From the box with the girl in the meadow with daisies that says “Herbal Caffeine Free”? I think NOT.

B: It’s very good-

ME: I don’t give a damn if it’s “very good”, I only got-

B: Don’t use that language!

ME: -you use it all the time, and ANYWAY, as I was SAYING, I only got about five hours of sleep last night-

B: Why did you only get five hours of sleep?

ME: (because I ran until my legs fell off) Because I’m pregnant, probably.

B: That can’t be good for the baby.

ME: Well I just couldn’t get to sleep okay?

B: Maybe you should take some sleeping pills, then you could-

ME: Nooo, no, no, I would rather be insomnia-addled and real then tired and fake.

B: You really shouldn’t judge things so quickly-

ME: Dude, do I get French toast or not?

B: We don’t have time to-

(I rush into kitchen, crack eggs, milk, and cinnamon in a large glass bowl, melt butter on a pan, dip bread in mixture, and cook away.)

B: Nadya! Did you listen to a word I said?! Are you just so careless that you’re going to eat a ton of food just after-

ME: The latter.

(After a few minutes, slide French toast onto plate, get a glass of orange juice, grab the syrup and devour.)

B: (triumphantly, after I have finished four pieces) Guess what?

ME: (with my mouth full) What?

B: You have fifteen minutes till your school starts.

ME: AAAAAH!

(run upstairs for backpack, squirt toothpaste in mouth then rinse, tear brush through hair, lace up shoes…run downstairs, trip stub my toe-)

ME: Ow, ow OW!!! Fuck a doodle-

H: (waiting impatiently by the stairway, car motor still on in driveway) Did you seriously just say “fuck a doodle”?

ME: Shut up.

Oh, and I’m not seeing Raphael anymore. We didn’t really “break up” but I don’t talk to him and he doesn’t talk to me and Will keeps telling me he’s never seen him more depressed and I very sensitively tell him to shut up.

I guess you could call it a non-break-up-break-up.

Or something.

Oh AND I almost got raped by this guy whose dad owns a restaurant in town who I thought was funny and looked like a Greek God but no he’s a complete psycho who can’t handle it when a girl says no and Bibio* called the court and I have to do testimony and some guy that heard me yell help is going to be an official witness and it’s all just very, very confusing-

But I’ll call you and tell you more about that later, because I’m writing this on the roof during lunch and I only have approximately five second till the bell rings-

All my love,
Nadya the Anxiety Attack