Belabored Chapter 1: Tanya

“It’s not time to worry yet.”

 – Atticus Finch in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird

“Tanya, honey, are you sure you need more potatoes?” Mom asks with emphasis on “more” and an eye on my protruding gut.

            Since I loathe being reminded about my weight, I answer with a resounding, “No, I probably don’t need more, but I did want more, and thanks for embarrassing me in front of the whole family.”

            With that, I haul myself up from the table and stomp out of the kitchen, ignoring her apologies and pleas for me to stay. I thump up the stairs to my room and slam the door. I throw myself onto on the bed and swing my size 10 feet onto the comforter, taking great pleasure in not removing my shoes because that annoys Mom.

I refuse to let tears come.

My shirt is high-waisted, and when I lie on my back, I can see how flabby my stomach is. It literally ripples like jello. We read an article in my ecology class about how whale blubber can be boiled down to make oil. I don’t know about whale blubber, but I bet my belly fat could power a whole village for about six months. Mom’s advice about the potatoes has brought all that up, so I do what I always do when I get to feeling awful about my body – I mentally compare myself to some of the massive girls I go to school with. Lucy Draper must weigh 250 pounds and carries herself like an orangutan. Somehow it makes me feel better to envision her in the dress she wore last year to the junior prom – a flowery nightmare that accentuated every bulge.

“Tanya!” Mom’s apologetic voice interrupts my mental image of Lucy swinging her tree trunk arms on the dance floor.

I start to respond, then remember how much it bugs her when I play deaf.

“Tanya, please answer me!” she begs, her footsteps getting closer to my door.

Why should I make things easy on her, when she causes a lot of my appearance problems to begin with? She’s always trying to save money by taking me to the thrift shop. What 17-year-old girl in 2017 America wants to shop in second hand stores? I have a hard time finding clothes that look right anyway because my scrawny shoulders are way out of proportion to my mega-hips.

Mom loves to tell the story of how Aunt Fran almost died having my cousin, Sam, because her hips are narrower than the gate Christians have to squeeze into to make it to heaven. That’ll definitely never be said of my hips! When I see myself in the mirror, my body looks like a light bulb (the old-fashioned kind my stepfather hoards, not those corkscrew shaped deals).  I’m only about 30 pounds overweight according to the doctor, but the BMI charts the gym teachers keep shoving at us every year say I’m obese. Obese! It’s a little disheartening when you’re not even out of your teens, and the powers that be declare you a whale just because you’re too short for your weight.

Mom tries the knob on my bedroom door. I smile, thinking of her irritation when she jiggles it without success. 

“Alright, Tanya, that’s enough. Please open the door!”

Jess screams from the kitchen, “Mommy, do I hafta eat my peas?”

Mom thinks she’s good at multi-tasking, but she gets distracted easily. Even though David answers my sister’s whining with, “It’s OK, Bon, I’ll take care of her,” Mom can’t leave it alone.

“Yes, Jessica, you have to eat two spoonfuls, just like always! You know the rule!” she bellows, instead of letting David handle it.

She lowers her voice but continues speaking frantically through the door.

“Tanya, I don’t wanna play this game with you. I know you can hear me, and I need you to open this door!”

“Fine!” I bark. I rise from the bed and turn the knob to detach the lock with as much defiance as I can muster.

Belabored: Opening Quote, Endorsement and Prologue

Faithful readers, thank you so much for your patience as I worked (with the invaluable help of my tech mentor, Angela Schans) to set up a Facebook page dedicated solely to posting excerpts from my novel, Belabored. The following quote, delivered poignantly by one of my favorite actors, Jimmy Stewart, sums up the purpose of the book:

"And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other. Yes, you even die for them."*

*Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Directed by Frank Capra. By Lewis R. Foster. Screenplay by     

           Sidney Buchman. Columbia Pictures, 1939. VHS.

I chose this as my theme quote because many believe the goal of reversing the runaway train of abortion in this country is a lost cause. Perhaps it is, but I want to go on record as doing my part to shed light on the inhumanity of this particularly cruel form of murder, and on how the institutionalization of this horrific practice has affected the generations of children who have been raised in the post-Roe v. Wade culture.

So, without further ado, Belabored!

                                                                Endorsement: 

“Real people with complicated lives are the ones who wrestle with abortion decisions. The challenges and victories and their ripple-effects come alive through this compelling novel.”

      

          – Karen Hess, Executive Director, AlphaCare Pregnancy Center, Philadelphia, PA

             

Prologue: Tanya

“Love is a fruit in season at all times, and within reach of every hand.” – Mother Teresa

          I sit frozen on a hard chair while I wait for my visitor. My eyes are practically swollen shut from the barrels of tears I’ve cried over the past few – what? Hours? Days? Months? I don’t even know what day it is, let alone how long this has been going on.

My chest and belly ache from racking sobs. Though my stomach’s empty, I fight against perpetual nausea. It even hurts when I go to the bathroom. I wonder if this is the start of a UTI.

            He comes in. His dark, wavy hair is tamed back in its usual pompadour-ish way. My grief fog lifts for a minute, and I think for the thousandth time how someone needs to take him aside and bring him up to date on current trends.

He’s gained weight since I last saw him. His head looks precarious topping off that pear-shaped build, like somehow it might just topple off those skinny shoulders and land on the floor next to those gargantuan, smelly feet of his.

His clothes, as always, reflect a tight budget and even narrower fashion sense. At times I’ve been embarrassed by his lack of style. Yet, today he carries with him a strong presence that somehow I never noticed before.

He sits down across from me and leans forward.

            I don’t look at him, but instead keep my eyes on the paint-chipped floor. Slowly, he raises my face and offers me his handkerchief.

Who carries a handkerchief these days? I find myself thinking ironically, followed by, What am I, crazy? Who worries about nonsense like that at a time like this?

“How ya doin’?” he asks.

            “What do you want?” I choke out.

I pick at a piece of loose skin around what used to be one of my fingernails. It’s gnawed and swollen and starts to bleed. I hear Mom’s voice in my head.

Oh, Tanya, honey, you’ve bitten it down to the quick again! Oh, Sweetheart, you have such pretty hands, if only you wouldn’t bite your poor little nails!

            Without thinking, I wrap his clean, white hankie around my bleeding finger. I wonder if he’ll recoil or say something cute like, “Just keep it.” But if he noticed, he doesn’t let on.

            “I came to talk to you,” he replies softly.

            I sneer.

            “There’s nothing to talk about. My life’s ruined.”

            His voice doesn’t waver as he responds, “Oh, no. Your life’s just beginning. And I still want to be a part of it.”

            “Yeah, right!” I smirk. “Well, that’s not funny. It’s – it’s – it’s cruel!”

            “Tanya, don't you get it? I know what you've done, and I still want you in my life."

             He pauses, then adds, "Whaddaya say?"