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| Monday, May 18, 2009
Choice Writer : Charis NgI know God will not give me anything I cannot handle. I just wish He didn't trust me so much. Mother Teresa "You may go upstairs now," the assistant nurse tells the girls, leaning over the counter. "No guests allowed," she adds, peering at them over the top of her glasses. Upstairs, the curtains are thin and the sun shines right through onto the row of beds. The sheets are well-used and the pillows are flat. She pulls back the curtain that separates her bed from the next. The girl in the next bed looks no older than herself, and they smile at each other wearily. The girl gives off an air of confident independence. "I have my life ahead of me," the girl says, an answer to a question no one asked. They lean back against their pillows, searching for their own reasons. She draws the curtain around her bed again and in the privacy of her corner, she places a hand on her tummy. She says her goodbyes and waits. The girls in the other beds get called in first, and are helped back to their beds ten minutes later. She peeks round her curtain and looks at the girl next door. "Are you scared?"She whispers. "Only of the nightmares," comes the reply, "they say the nightmares are the worst." "Here we go baby," she hears the nurse say. The girl who was in the next bed is heavily drugged now (more or less asleep actually) and is being half carried back. All dignity has left her and she walks awkwardly, sticking one leg out after the other. "I want to sleep," She whines insistently to the nurse, "I want to sleep!" She listens to the nurse tucking the girl in before being called into the next room. The doctor is warm, helpful and patient. He gestures to the reclining chair and the nurses prep her. "I need you to count backwards for me dear," one of the nurses say. "Ten," she says, pulling her eyes away from the needle and focusing on the corner of the ceiling, "Nine, eight..." She's out by the time she hits seven and barely even remembers being brought back to her bed. It's been just about nine months now, and I watch her smiling wistfully at children in playgrounds. Recently, she's found an online community of teenage mothers and she follows their updates about things that seem completely insignificant to people like me. Things like how much milk the kid drinks since turning six months old, or whether or not they can lift their heads or flip themselves over. It's become quite an obsession but she says that she wants to know what she's missing out on. "He would have been here with me by now," she said quietly the other day. It was late in the afternoon and she was staring in the direction of a group of young children being taken out to the playground by their Nursery teachers. "You were seventeen," I replied simply, if that was supposed to be enough of a reason. Peeling her eyes off the little girl that was closest to us, she turned to face me, her eyes reflecting unforgiveness, not guilt. "There are so many other girls out there who have been faced with the exact same situation. If they could have their baby, why couldn't I have mine?" she asks me. I had turned away, frustrated because I could neither comfort her nor give her the answers she needs. The little girl who was wandering near us earlier stumbles over a water-bottle that another kid has left lying about. My friend was off the bench in a second and caught the girl before her face hit the floor. "We're going to have to be more careful, aren't we?" settling the girl comfortably in her arms. She pressed her cheek to the girl's head and carefully put her down. "I wish you were mine," I heard her say softly, as she watched the little girl climb the stairs to the slide. (c) Charis Vera
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