Author: Girl Who Writes
Feedback: is beloved
Word Count: 690
Summary: ...she kind of wishes she didn't have a choice
Notes: A strange pairing, but the minute I read the speed rent challenge, this is what popped into my head. Also, this is pre-Rent.
Warnings: Touches upon a sensitive topic.
Disclaimer: belong to Jonathon Larson, no profit is being made from this fan-based venture.
It's been a bad day.
Roger's strumming his guitar on the end of her bed, she's flicking channels on the T.V – only Spanish soap operas are on, and Maureen's already got a headache. She's clammy as well, even with the heater turned off and the snow outside. She hates being sick, hates this house, wants to be back in school, with noise and chatter. The quiet and solitude of the Johnson home makes her feel suffocated, if that makes sense.
Roger looks at his watch and stands up. "I've gotta pick Lindsey up from soccer," he explains, dropping a kiss to her forehead. "Do you want me to get your Mom?"
"Ask her to bring up some lemonade?" Maureen asks, sounding as pathetic as she feels.
It had been one of those bloody Spanish soap operas that had planted the idea in her head. Stupid television. Maureen sat on the edge of her bathtub, staring at the test with dull eyes. She was barely sixteen! She barely even had boobs! She wasn't allowed to have a baby.
And Roger! What the hell would Roger do? He could leave her, walk away, get a new, thin girlfriend, while Maureen got fat and had a baby and didn't become a movie star. She vomits into the toilet as the timer buzzes, the traitorous test reading 'positive'.
She sneaks out of the house while her parents are bickering, wrapped in her red wool coat, her wallet in her pocket. She's called Roger's Mom to tell him to meet her at the pizza place that's eight blocks away.
The smell of pizza makes her mouth water, and Maureen thanks the higher power that it's Friday night – game night – so no one she knows is here. She buys herself a Coke and a slice of pizza, sitting in the booth by the window so Roger can see her.
He's late – forty minutes late – and he runs in, looking apologetic. "Sorry, Mom went out and didn't give me the message till just now." She forgives him on principle because his screw up isn't as big as hers.
Well, it takes two to tango, but she's pretty sure if he walks away now, it's her that will be the one in trouble.
He buys her more pizza and they sit quietly for a minute.
"I'm pregnant, Roger."
They had a plan – simple and terrifying, but a plan. Roger had five hundred dollars saved for a new guitar, and Maureen's got some birthday money left over. Neither knows how expensive an abortion is.
Abortion. Before now, Maureen's campaigned for women's right to chose. Why the hell should a woman be stuck with a baby she doesn't want? But now, knowing that word applies to her, she kind of wishes she didn't have a choice, that the choice would be made for her.
They were both uneasy about suggesting it, dancing around with words like 'adoption'. But Maureen lifted her tired eyes to Roger's and simply said, "What am I going to do, Roger?"
"I'll make an appointment for Wednesday," she promises when he walks her home. Wednesday, they finish school early, at 2pm, so no parents will be suspicious if they're home late.
They don't make it till Wednesday.
She wakes up in pain, wrapping her arms around her middle and trying to will the cramps away. It doesn't work. There's blood, and there's not meant to be blood.
She calls Roger and puts on a summer dress and meets him out the front, in his mother's car. She's crying and he's white as a ghost. The hospital ER is empty, and he carries her in, a towel wrapped around her, her skin lit up in goose bumps from the winter cold, her thin dress damp from the rain.
The hospital bed is uncomfortable, and the sheets feel like paper.
"I'm sorry Miss Johnson, but you've had a miscarriage."
The words echo, the doctor shakes his head a lot, and Maureen suddenly wishes she could have made this choice herself.