At seventeen, Rachel had very little room for maneuver in her life plan. There was room for her study, her folders of newspaper cutouts, and there was also a certain amount of room for keeping her boyfriend happy by going to see inane films and letting him feel up her breasts in the back-row cinema seats. Rachel tolerated a certain amount of cliché as necessary.
One such cliché was her virginity, which was not something she wanted to carry with her into university, nor was it something she wanted to have to worry about during her exams, when it was crucial that she not be distracted. So she decided that on her seventeenth birthday she and her boyfriend would have sex.
She planned it all out meticulously. She researched the best brand of condoms; she carefully considered the position that would cause her the least pain; she talked to her more experienced female friends about what to expect.
She had seen her boyfriend’s penis already; they may not have had penetrative intercourse yet, but they had fooled around more than a few times. It was longish, with a small circumference; somewhat snake-like: Even erect it veered ever so slightly to the left.
Rachel found it entirely underwhelming. She found the sex underwhelming too, but she’d expected that.
When it was done, she took a shower and brought the bathroom trash can with the used condom in it out to the bins outside. Her parents were away that weekend and wouldn’t be home until the following day to celebrate her birthday, but she knew that if they came across a premarital condom in the bin her father might well cast her out. He would probably have assumed it was Mandy’s before ever suspecting her, but Rachel’s sister had run away (not for the first time) several weeks before. (“More trouble than she’s worth,” our father spat, while our mother said peaceably, “She’ll have to resit her exams next year. Just don’t tell the family, okay, Rachel love?”)
The night air cooled her skin as she closed the lid of the bin. A scream sounded, sudden and frightening, through the night. Rachel jumped, then laughed at herself, smoothed down her hair self-consciously, although there was no one but her around. Kids messing about in the park, she thought. Or cats fighting.
In the jamb of the front door as she closed it were caught a few strands of long gray hair. Bloody cats, she thought, swatting the hairs away.
When Rachel came back into the bedroom, her boyfriend was asleep, happily snoring. She read a little, rubbed moisturizing cream on the long red scratches on her skin that her boyfriend had clearly given her in the throes of his brief but obvious passion, and then fell asleep beside him, content in the knowledge that everything was going perfectly to plan.
* * *
—
Having a baby at seventeen was not part of Rachel’s life plan.
It took a while for her to figure it out. She had always had regular, perfectly timed periods that lasted four days for every twenty-eight and gave her virtually no premenstrual symptoms. The first one wasn’t even late. By the time she had understood that the second wouldn’t show up, she was puking three times a day and couldn’t stand behind a man wearing aftershave on a bus without gagging. By the time she figured it out, she was almost eight weeks pregnant.
The first person she told was not her boyfriend. It was an anonymous voice on the other end of a telephone line. One of the crisis pregnancy call centers advertised on the back of every public bathroom door, the ones you never in a million years think you’ll ever have to call.
The agency Rachel called promised to “allow women to explore all options, at home and abroad.” Rachel was a smart girl. She knew that “at home and abroad” was a veiled reference to abortion. Terminating a pregnancy was illegal in Ireland. Even taking pills was punishable by up to fourteen years in prison. Going to prison until she was thirty-one was not part of Rachel’s life plan either.
The only way to end a pregnancy legally was to get out of Ireland. To travel to a clinic in the UK. Rachel had some money saved up for college, hoping that she could move out of her family home and live with friends in a dingy flat-share, which was clearly a large part of what college was all about. She figured that with a bit of financial help from her boyfriend she could afford the flights and medical costs. But she wanted to make sure, figure out what to do. Did she need a referral? Was that even legal? She wanted the agency to tell her. Help her. Send her on her way.
When she called the center, she didn’t dither. She told the woman on the other end of the line that she was pregnant and didn’t want to be. Couldn’t afford to be. Was far too young to be. She used the euphemism everybody knew. She said: “I want to know how to, you know, take the boat to England.”
The woman said, “You’ll have to come in for a consultation. I can’t give you that information over the phone.”
What Rachel got could hardly be construed as a consultation.
30.
The boat to England
Dublin and London, 1995
The appointment was for evening. Creeping ink splashes in a darkening sky. The crisis pregnancy agency was down a lane a few side roads across from O’Connell Street. The statues by the bridge—giant stern angels, iron or bronze; grumpy-looking things, Rachel thought, so haughty—stared blankly in the other direction. They wouldn’t be watching out for her tonight.
Rachel followed the phone woman’s directions to a small plain door with a laminated sign beside a vacant shop that might once have been a bakery. A ghost of the smell of apple pie still floated on the air.
In the waiting room, she sat in a blue plastic chair, ignoring the adoption services leaflets with smiling, dimpled babies on the front. A crying older woman was the only other person there.
The counselor was friendly, shook Rachel’s hand warmly. “Rachel, isn’t it?” she asked. When Rachel nodded, nervously taking a seat, the woman said, “My name is Joyce. It’s lovely to meet you. Please don’t be nervous—I’m here to help.”
Rachel tried to relax, crossed and recrossed her legs as Joyce asked how far along she was, if the baby’s father knew.
“I, um,” Rachel said. “I’m going to tell him tonight. Ask him to lend me some money for the procedure if he can. It’s a lot, with the flights and all. I think I might be okay to come home the same day, not need to pay for a hotel room or . . .” She ran out of steam, waited for Joyce to pick up the thread of the conversation, to tell her what to do and how to go about it. I’m here to help.
“Well, I definitely think it’s important to tell him.” Joyce smiled. “To give him all your options. How long did you say you’ve been together?”
“Almost two years. But I don’t see it lasting. I’m going to college next year and—”
“Two years is a long relationship, for your age,” said Joyce, still smiling. “Shows true commitment. Real maturity.” The woman smiled some more.