New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (fun books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

as I tried to dial. Thanks to her job, Sheila knew her way around the medical profession. She arrived less than an hour later with pamphlets, phone numbers and a tub of chocolate ice cream. Mom was out, so we sat in the kitchen with two spoons, passing the ice cream back and forth.

Eventually Sheila said, “What’s the plan?”

I picked up the brochure for the abortion clinic and waved it weakly in the air.

“Are we telling Jake?”

I loved her for saying we. But Sheila’s mother was even more hard-core Catholic than mine. “Are you sure you want to be involved with this?” I asked.

“Rachel,” she said. “Do you not remember that we got married in kindergarten? Sickness and health, babe, ’til death do us part. My mother may be a living saint, but I’m on the other side of the divide. So I repeat, are we telling Jake?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Good,” she said. “Makes it cleaner.”

Two days later, Sheila drove me to the clinic. She checked me in, sat beside me in the waiting room and filled in various forms. My hands were trembling so much I barely managed the signature. Sheila walked the completed paperwork back to the desk, then came back and talked about her annoying boss. She shared the latest pop-star gossip she’d gleaned from her brother Mike and mused aloud as to which of the three men in her current rotation was on the rise and which was about to be cut loose. None of it was new, but all of it helped.

When a nurse with squeaky shoes called my name, Sheila enveloped me in a hug. “I’m staying right here until you’re done,” she whispered.

Later, when I was cleared to leave, Sheila insisted on coming home with me. We walked wordlessly upstairs. I took off my sweatshirt and let it drop to the floor, crawling into bed in my sweatpants and top. I was somewhere between bulky and empty.

Sheila plumped pillows and smoothed sheets. She fetched me a glass of water and put it gently on the bedside table. Then she went to the other side of the bed and crawled in beside me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No,” I squeaked.

She stroked my hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Crampy.”

She propped herself up on her elbow. “The nurse said that’s normal, though, right?”

I fell asleep watching Sheila watch me, her normally sunny expression sombre. When I woke in total darkness, she was asleep beside me. I nudged her awake.

“I fell asleep,” she mumbled.

“Me too.” My teeth were chattering. “I’m cold.”

Sheila threw back the covers. “Well, I’m boiling.” She turned on the bedside light and got out of bed.

I pulled the covers higher, shivering.

She came around to my side of the bed and rested her hand on my forehead. “You look awful and you’re burning up.”

“Oh God,” I said. “I think I just peed the bed.”

But when Sheila pulled back the covers, we both gasped at the blood.

“Don’t move,” she said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

Even as I was telling her not to, I felt myself slipping away.

When I woke up the next day in hospital, Mom was sitting in the chair beside my bed, her face grave. She leaned forward and squeezed my hand too tightly. “I can’t lose you, too,” she said, her voice fierce. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

We both knew she would have tried to stop me. “I didn’t want you to worry,” I lied.

“That’s my job,” she lied back. It had been mostly Dad’s job and we both knew it.

She let go of my hand and rubbed her eyes. I wondered how long she’d been there.

We listened to machines being wheeled down the corridor and the occasional announcement over the PA system. After a while, Mom spoke again.

“Does Jake know?”

“I didn’t see the point of telling him since we’re broken up.”

She touched the cross on her necklace, then said, “How did you let this happen, Rachel?”

“I was careful, Mom,” I said. “I was on the pill.”

She frowned. For her, that was almost as bad.

I could bear all those memories, even though I hoped they would someday be buried under a scab that I would never pick off. But one memory was seared in my consciousness, one I couldn’t forget, no matter how hard I tried. It had happened during my convalescence at home.

After I was discharged from the hospital, Mom and I developed a habit of watching videos late into the night. One night, Mom decided to open a bottle of merlot. I was forbidden to drink because I was on antibiotics, but Mom kept refilling her wine glass until the bottle was empty. Then a dog died in the movie, and she started crying, becoming maudlin about Dad. She worked herself into such a state that I, the invalid, had to help her upstairs and into bed. I flicked the light switch off and was closing the door when she said, “It’s a good thing your father’s dead, Rachel. Otherwise this whole thing with you and your procedure”—she spat the word out—“would’ve killed him.”

I knew it was the wine talking, but if she had slugged me, it would have hurt less. I left her room and drove straight to Sheila’s for the night. Mom and I spent the next few days avoiding each other. Then I saw the ad for the job in Little Cove and lunged at it. It was the word Newfoundland that had clinched it. New. Found. Land. Somewhere to start over.

But now here I was in Newfoundland reliving my past. I started the car in an effort to dislodge the memories, and headed home. It was funny, but the physical distance that existed between Mom and me seemed to be bringing us closer. I found myself wondering what our relationship would be like when her sabbatical was over and she came home.

As I pulled into my driveway, I remembered that Mom was due to call me. I wasn’t in the greatest shape to speak to her. The