I sit here in room 330A in the maternity ward at St. Margaret Mercy Medical Center, wishing away the nuns that keep visiting me. I keep telling them I’m not Catholic, but I think they’re required to visit since I’m a charity case. My water broke yesterday as I was leaving yet another job interview I’d epically failed. Walking across the marble floor in the lobby of the huge office building, heading straight for the revolving doors that would lead me out to the street, my eyes to the floor after nodding goodbye to the receptionist, I felt a trickle and then a swoosh. It left the floor slippery and, instinctually, I lowered my butt to the floor to avoid falling. The receptionist, in turn, thought that I’d fallen, ran to my side, and yelled for someone to call 911. An ambulance showed up, and I was asked what hospital and which obstetrician, and I had to answer, shamefully, that I don’t have one.
They want to send me home tomorrow, but I can’t really tell them where home is. I left four months ago, and have no more than drifted from place to place since. I’ve had twenty-six interviews in those four months, but have been unable to provide valid references or an address of residence, which are more important than I ever imagined. At first, I tried using a different name, hoping that it would be harder for my father to track me down. But, my identification didn’t match the name on my job applications, and I was threatened with jail time for fraud. I’ve since been using my middle name and last name, hoping to disguise myself a bit. Unfortunately, my real life job references will all lead him directly to me, so I’ve had to leave those off of everything with a hope that I can talk my way into a job with all of the knowledge but no documentable practical experience. I’ve had no luck so far.
I snuggle my baby, who is both my son and my brother, and think about how strange that relationship is. I was so afraid he would be born with something wrong with him, but he seems physically okay. I hope he doesn’t grow up to be mentally damaged from all the stress and worry I put him through during my pregnancy. The nuns have repeatedly tried to convince me to surrender him to their care, promising they will find a good Christian family to adopt him. I shake my head adamantly, insisting they leave, but they always return and the conversations always end the same way. I don’t trust anyone else to keep him safe. A Christian family got me where I am today, and that’s not want I want for my son.