Turpentine

The place was as pink as Britney Spears' early career. Pictures framed in faux fur, pillows like spun candy, bedspread run through with glittery silver thread. Gumdrop string lights hung around the window. It was the room of a child, Amanda told herself, a child not yet through being a child. Not the room of a mother.

Voices filtered from the living room, and Amanda toyed with the beaded fringe of a woven throw as she debated the merits of rejoining the others. It was so much easier, she thought, hiding here, where the world was still young and innocent and despoiled. There was still time, wasn't there, just to stay here, to pretend her little, pink cousin wasn't in the other room discussing her unborn baby.

“I wanna keep it,” Kimmy said. She sounded so tiny, like a teaspoon clattering in a large room. Amanda could see her sitting there, pillow clutched to her swelling stomach, hair spilling over her face and arms.

“That's out of the question.” Janice, now, the mother, the tight-curls quivering as she hid nervousness under briskness. “You've got your schooling to think of, your life, and I don't have time to take care of a baby for you. You can't have a baby.”

Don't make the same mistake I did, Amanda could hear, unspoken. It clouded the air like smog and clung to the fibers of Kimmy's rosy pillows. The small bedroom now felt tainted, sickly-sweet, soured.

Clara's quiet voice, Clara, the sensible one, the solid one. “It's starting to show, isn't it? Your father will notice soon, if he hasn't already. And the students at school. You can't wait any longer.” Amanda imagined Kimmy's face, buried in the pillow, hiding from the older women and their sympathetic, cruel pity.

“It's too late for any over-the-counter remedies,” Janice said, as though the baby were some regrettable illness plaguing the girl. “And the hospitals ask too many questions. John would find out. No,” and Amanda imagined the pursing of her lips, “we'll have to take care of it ourselves. Where's Amanda? It shouldn't take this long to go to the bathroom.”

“She'll be back soon enough,” Clara assured. “There's plenty of time. John won't be home until tomorrow, after all.”

“Of course, of course.” Kimmy's mother would be wringing her hands now, pushing back the cuticles of her fingers in idly activity. “We just need to think of options. It's too early for a coathanger, and that's too messy, in any case.”

Amanda felt herself hunch over protectively at the suggestion, imagined pain flaring at the invasive idea, and knew Kimmy must be feeling worse. She was relieved to hear Clara refute the idea: “That's not safe, either. Dangerous.”

“Yes, yes, of course. We need something else. Something safer. A . . . tonic of some sort. There must be something like that.”

Glancing slowly around the bedroom, Amanda tried to distance herself from the conversation. Boy band posters, foil stickers on a boom box, the art easel with a face half-outlined, oil brushes in a handmade mug. Her eyes fell on a small bottle, half-full, the heavy glass stained with diluted color. The label had smeared with use, but its contents were obvious: brush cleaner, turpentine. A half-remembered story flitted through Amanda's head.

She made her way slowly back to the living room, bottle cradled in her hands like the growing baby itself, something frightening and precious. “What about turpentine?” she asked, revealing the bottle to the seated women. “I remember Grandma used to mention turpentine for . . . for this. It should work, shouldn't it?”

Janice seemed puzzled for a moment, then a smile dawned on her face. “Yes, yes, I do remember her saying that. She said her first child was never born because of turpentine, when they couldn't afford to have one. Well, that seems like a solution.”

Clara was nodding slowly, recalling that same tale. “She didn't seem to have had any ill effects,” she agreed carefully. “It should be alright.”

“Well, then,” Janice said. She stood. “I'll get a glass. I don't think you should drink it out of the bottle.”

Kimmy was curled upright on the couch, pillow wedged between knees and chest and an expression of nauseous horror on her face. She watched the bottle of turpentine, lips moving but unable to open into words. Amanda tried a reassuring smile. “It's alright,” she said. “Grandma'll be ninety next year, so it can't be that bad. And it's made out of wood, isn't it? I think I read that somewhere.”

Janice returned with the glass and poured a few centimeters of the liquid. Kimmy found her voice, shakily. “I'm not d-drinking that.”

“Oh, don't be juvenile,” said her mother. Amanda found the sentence odd—wasn't that the point? That she was juvenile, too young to be a mother yet? “It's for your own good.”

“No! I--” Kimmy squirmed away from her mother's outstretched arm, and would have fled if Clara hadn't pinned her arm down against the heavy cushion. “You hold her other side,” Clara instructed, and Amanda silently moved to hold Kimmy's left.

“This will be over in a second, dear,” Janice said, and, plugging her daughter's nose, poured the liquid into Kimmy's mouth.