Chapter 22

Jerry and Chloe sat side by side, hand in hand, at the Sacramento Women’s Health Clinic. A converted Craftsman home, they sat in the living room, waiting for Chloe’s appointment. Jerry’s hands perspired.

“Chloe Taylor?” called a young woman with curly brown hair. 

Chloe bolted to her feet. 

“Stand up,” Chloe said to Jerry.

Jerry, caught mid-reach for a tattered Ms. magazine, froze. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. We’re in this together.”

“Is that OK?” Jerry asked the doctor.

“Of course,” she responded. “Just because this is a women’s collective doesn’t mean we don’t allow men.”

As he followed behind, Jerry observed a small rose tattoo on her shoulder and smelled patchouli. It reminded him of hamster litter, yet he liked it.

Inside the doctor’s room, there were posters on the wall of women’s reproductive organs. The graphic placards covered the walls like slathered blood. Jerry’s stomach felt as if it were being undulated by the sea.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” said the doctor with the hippie stylings.

Jerry squeezed Chloe’s hand. She climbed up onto the table and placed her feet in the stirrups. Without further ado, Jerry was staring into her vagina opened by a metal speculum and lit up by a pointed light.

“You see that dimpled donut there, Jerry? That’s the cervix.”

Jerry peered in. Ablaze with light, the uterine walls glistened, and yes, there down center, a tightly closed bump protruded. Jerry flashed on his nocturnal sanctuary visit when he first arrived, and its glowing rose window centered in back. His vision whirled, and he stood up.

“You’re looking all good here.” said the doctor. “I’ll take a little sample for a Pap smear. And then why don’t you wait a bit more, and I’ll have the results of your pregnancy test.”

“Jerry,” Chloe said back in the waiting room, “I never expected; I never intended…”

“Of course not. I didn’t either.” It must have happened that week-end getaway at Ashland. In their hotel room, after she invited him on board, Chloe had held her foamed up diaphragm in her hand. Jerry mentioned there was something wrong with this picture. They both laughed unable or unwilling to pause the Slip-n-Slide ride.

Back inside the doctor’s office, the doctor said, “You’re pregnant, about six weeks.”

Life, suddenly a dead weight, hung heavy around Jerry’s neck. He turned to Chloe andfound two dark oceans of sorrow.

“I’m assuming you know your options. Let me know what you decide to do,” said the doctor.

It was a quiet ride home. Jerry was thinking she must have known, must have detected changes going on within her body. A new life was growing. 

Life altering choices, with no do-overs, had to be made, and with no ability to put it off.

Back at Chloe’s home, they lay on her bed, side by side, face to face. 

“What d’ya think?” Jerry said.

“There’s no question.”

Jerry said nothing.

“Still,” she said after a bit.

“Still…,” he said.

He drew her close, and she began to cry, first soft, then a tsunami.

“Oh God, I’ve fucked up big time, Jerry, Jesus Christ, goddammit,” she said. “And with a fucking minister.”

Night fell and now they lay side by side staring at the black ceiling. 

As Jerry faded, he fantasized that Thomas Barton at the Career Counseling Center was reviewing his aptitude tests for parenting.

“Well, Jerry, we’ve reviewed your tests. You have no skills in diaper changing, very little aptitude in potty training. You might get lost in your thoughts and forget your baby. Role modeling for the baby, let’s not even go there. I’m sorry but I can’t recommend you for parenting at this time.”

He turned towards Chloe and laid his hand on her belly.

“Still…,” Jerry said.

“Still…”