1962: It's Always the Girl's Fault

by DC Diamondopolous

Blindfolded, Donna and Wendy sat in the backseat of a Ford Fairlane. Donna shuddered at the thought of lying on a slab of wood, bleeding to death. At every turn, their shoulders collided. Wendy touched her hand. Not wanting her little sister to feel her sweaty palm, Donna put her arm around her.

The driver, a woman in a hat and dark glasses, had met the sisters in Ralphs’ Grocery parking lot. After locking their mother’s car, Donna gave the driver one hundred dollars. It was all the money she had saved from babysitting and teaching piano.

A siren wailed in the distance. She caught whiffs of McDonald’s. A radio from a passing car blasted “The Twist.”

The siren was upon them.

“Oh no—” Donna cried.

“Keep your blindfolds on. It's not for us.”

In the classified section of the Daily Breeze, Donna had recognized a coded message with a phone number and called. A woman gave her instructions and told her to bring someone she trusted. Donna’s best friend was her younger sister. At sixteen, Wendy could drive her home.

“Will she be all right?” Wendy asked.

“I’m just the driver.”

Weeks from graduating as valedictorian of West Coast High, how could she have been so stupid to go all the way? Until April, her biggest worry was which major to choose, political or social science. Then Chuck cheated on her.

The driver turned a corner. Wheels crunched over potholes. The Ford crawled, backed up, and parked.

“You can take off the blindfolds.”

Donna pulled the strap over her bouffant flip. In the west, the day hovered over the Pacific. They were in an alley. A shattered streetlamp was on the left; on the right, a white building with brown streaks and rust. Parked beside them was a green van. Next to the building, a dumpster reeked of garbage. She wiped clammy hands down her navy pedal-pushers.

“I don’t like this,” Wendy whispered.

Donna didn’t want to end up like her childhood friend, Bonnie. The neighbors gossiped. Her pregnancy had brought out their meanness, had caused shame on her family. Bonnie put a knitting needle up her vagina and bled to death.

“I don’t have a choice.”

They left the Ford and stood before a door with a peephole. The driver unlocked it and pushed it open.

The sisters walked in. The driver departed.

A naked bulb lit the tiny foyer. Side by side were two folding chairs. A door led to another room. 

Wendy sat, twisting a strand of brown hair around her finger.

Donna paced. Her thoughts became atomic explosions: filthy room, quack doctor, botched abortion, dead. But when her eyes met Wendy’s and she saw fear in her sister’s face, she switched from victim to comforting older sister.

“I’m sorry,” Donna said, sitting beside her, “that I dragged you into this.”

Wendy grasped her hand.

Donna felt her warmth, smelled the floral fragrance of Prell shampoo.

“It’s our secret,” Wendy said.

The inner door opened. “Come in,” said a young woman in street clothes, surgical mask, and white cap.

Against the weight of dread, Donna rose. She took a step, stopped, and glanced back. “It’ll be ok.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Mickey.” It was the nickname she’d given Wendy after their repeated trips to Disneyland.

She entered a small room. The odor of alcohol and bleach overpowered the space. There was a door with an exit sign, a gurney with a white sheet and stirrups. The doctor had his back to her. He wore a knee-length white smock and a surgical cap that covered his hair.

When he turned around, Donna gasped. The doctor was a woman.

“I was promised a real doctor.”

“I am,” said the woman in slacks, surgical gloves, and mask. “Let’s get started.”

The assistant handed her a wrinkled but clean gown. “Leave your top on but take everything else off including your shoes and socks.” She rolled the tray next to the bed.

Donna’s fingers fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. “Will I still be able to have children?”

“Most likely,” the doctor said. “How many weeks pregnant?”

“About eight. I’ve never seen a female doctor.”

“More all the time.”

Donna’s teeth chattered. “For real?” Barefoot, shaking, she questioned a woman in a man’s profession.

“How old are you?” the doctor asked.

“Eighteen. Is it safe? How long—”

“Yes, please.” The doctor patted the bed. “It’s a simple procedure, about ten minutes.”

Donna sat.

“Lie back. Graduating?”

“Yes.”

“Going to college?”

The assistant filled a syringe.

“What’s that?” Donna asked.

“An anesthetic,” the young woman answered.

“Slide your bottom to the edge,” the doctor said, “your feet in the stirrups.”

Donna made the adjustment as tears ran sideways across her cheeks.

The doctor walked to the foot of the bed. The assistant rubbed alcohol on her

arm.

The needle pierced her skin.

In seconds, her worries ceased.

*****

Panic cut across Donna’s confusion. “What’s happening?” she asked as Wendy helped her to sit up.

She watched the assistant pack boxes. The driver hurried through the door with the folding chairs.

“It went well. Everything’s all right. We have to move often,” the doctor said, handing Donna her clothes. “You’ll bleed for a day or two. I’ll give you antibiotics with directions. If you start hemorrhaging, go to the emergency room. Don't tell them you had an abortion. They’ll arrest you.”

Donna turned away—a fugitive from the law. She was furious with Chuck for refusing to wear a rubber, angry at herself for allowing it. It was always the girl’s fault. And Wendy. In time, would she despise her and tell their parents?

“I hear you’re debate captain and valedictorian,” the doctor said. “We need women lawyers.”

Wendy gently helped her sister off the gurney.

Donna’s feet touched the cold cement floor. Blood flowed onto the pad in her panties. She moaned. Wendy held her tighter. Donna thought no one should go through this, or end up like Bonnie.

* * * * *

“1962: It’s Always the Girl’s Fault” was first published by table//Feast. 

DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction writer with hundreds of stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in: Progenitor, 34th Parallel, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, and others. DC’s recently released collection Captured Up Close (20th Century Short-Short Stories) has two Pushcart Prize nominated stories and two nominated for Best of the Net Anthology. Her first collection of stories was Stepping Up. She lives on the California coast with her wife and animals. dcdiamondopolous.com