Crossing the Lines
Looking back and offering praise and forgiveness for making the right choice
Story by Anonymous
The two little pink lines can’t talk, but they say so much.
Under the warm light of her bathroom, head hung between her smooth thighs, the two little pink lines morph into faces. The faces laugh at her. They chastise her. They tell her there’s a choice looming ahead of her.
The two little pink lines quiet down as they quiver in her hand. She decides they’re not welcome here, so she smothers them under teary tissues and pushes them to the bottom of the trash bin, banishing them to the back of her mind.
Each year, nearly 200,000 American teenagers give birth. Of those pregnancies, 75% are unplanned. Her pregnancy wasn’t scribbled in her trusty planner.
She had never been good at making choices: Which classes to take, which boys to talk to, which ice cream flavor to pick. And now, a multifaceted and monumental choice is laid bare in front of her. She could face her decision, or it could be staring her in the face nine months down the line.
Dinner is ready and so she must be too. She dabs her mascara, exhales through trembling pale lips and calls upon her dwindling emergency reserve of confidence. The door creaks open.
“Dad! You’re home!”
He swoops in to give her a whirling hug, but she recoils at the thought of her midriff touching him. What if his embrace gives away her secret?
“C’mon, you know I’m too old for that.”
And far too young for this, she thinks to herself.
No longer a child but not yet an adult, her body is an unfinished clay piece; Recognizable, passable but ragged around the edges. It needs more time in the kiln, and tempering for strength. It’s not ready to show — but indecision is the enemy of a uterine secret, and show it did.
She looks in the mirror and lifts up her soft cotton top, sliding one palm just underneath her breasts, and the other below her pierced navel. The blue gem she picked out at Claire’s glimmers. For a fleeting moment, her eyes twinkle. She thinks she looks like the photos of her mother from 17 years ago, carefully glued in a family photo album.
Just for an instant, she lets herself slip into a rosy vision. Her hospital bed is surrounded by flowers in full bloom and a tiny face blinks up at her, cooing with gratitude. A hand on her shoulder beckons her gaze upward, but the face is obscured. Instead, there is only a blank fleshy canvas, empty except for two little pink lines.
She knows she’d be on her own and she knows she’s not ready — she’s decided.
If I could pull her away from her dog-eared textbooks, dry her bloodshot eyes and sit on the edge of her hospital-cornered bed and look her in the eye, I’d tell her the six words she’d been repeating for weeks.
“Everything is going to be fine.”
For a while, she toggled between fiery shame, silent grief, timid longing, and unexpected pride. Then, she felt bad for not feeling bad.
She felt alone in her decision to hold off and let her child fall into her arms at a time when she’d be strong enough to catch it. What she didn’t know was that she was joining 25% of teens in her position who choose to terminate their pregnancies. There’s no reason to be ashamed.
And now, like I would’ve told her, everything turned out fine. When the time is right, the two little pink lines won’t glare back, they will smile.
Editor’s note: On Jan. 30, 2021, the author has chosen to remain anonymous and their name was redacted out of privacy and safety concerns.
