I used my phone to search “what does a miscarriage feel like” while listening to the stream of urine hitting the toilet water. Miscarriages were often accompanied by bleeding, cramping, and back pain, according to the internet. I was bleeding but Iwasn’t cramping, at least at the moment. Was I experiencing back pain? I didn’t think so, but I also had abysmal body awareness. I squeezed my eyes shut to check, but at that point, it seemed as though I were just trying to summon a phantom sensation, and I confirmed with myself that no, I did not have any back pain.
But I did come to the conclusion that it was time to finally go see a doctor. The problem was, if I used my insurance, my mom would get billed for the appointment. It was the same reason I would’ve had to pay out of pocket for an abortion, back when I still thought I was getting an abortion. So after class, I took the train to a free women’s clinic and met with Dr. Jordan, a perky brunette woman in her thirties. She asked me if I had seen an obstetrician already, and I lied and told her I had. The air-conditioning vent was right above my head. I tried to hide that I was shivering. I wanted to appear strong, to show that I knew what I was doing and what to expect, that perhaps I was only at the free clinic because of a temporary gap in insurance coverage between jobs, or maybe I wanted to see a doctor right away and this was the only place I could go.
She explained what she was going to do but I wasn’t listening; I had already done some research beforehand, and I was too busy thinking of ways to show her that I wasn’t a victim, not like the other women in the clinic for whom this was their last resort, that she didn’t need to worry about me. She probably saw so many patients a day that she didn’t have the mental bandwidth to extend any personal worry toward any of them, but still I specifically didn’t want her to worry about me.
“All right, any questions?” she asked. I shook my head.
Dr. Jordan pulled out an ultrasound machine and told me tolie down and bend my knees. The table paper crinkled as I settled down onto the examination chair.
“Should I lift up my shirt right now so you can rub on the gel?” I asked.
“That won’t be necessary. We’re doing the transvaginal ultrasound, remember? The one where we insert a little probe. It’ll be like a Pap smear. You’ve gotten one of those before, right?”
“Yes,” I lied. My body tensed up as though I were bracing for someone to punch me in the stomach.
“Hey, it’s okay.” She showed me the transducer. “Look at how small it is. If you want, you can even insert it yourself. I’ll guide you.”
My heart slowed down and I felt my body relax again. I held the device the way she instructed. After a few seconds, Dr. Jordan pointed to something on the screen.
“Look at that!”
I wasn’t sure what she was looking at.
“There!”
I still wasn’t sure.
“You see? That little dot?”
I squinted my eyes at the area where she was pointing.
“Oh. That. Yeah, I see it.”
Dr. Jordan droned on about gestational sacs and reproductive organs and trimesters and fetal heartbeats. Meanwhile, I continued to stare at the little dot. I couldn’t get used to the idea that this little speck, in the span of a few months, would grow to become an actual baby. She handed me a picture of the ultrasound and I shoved it to the bottom of my backpack.
I left the clinic and started walking to the station, feelinguneasy about the whole visit. The baby was a means to an end. At the same time, it was still a literal baby that I would need to carry to term. My belly would get huge and I would get stretch marks and maybe even cellulite. I would actually need to give birth. I would need to either push out an entire human that was way bigger than the little transducer thing that I was so scared of or have my stomachliterallybe cut open. Then, I’d be in charge of taking care of a whole other human. I’d have to buy a stroller and a crib and babyproof my apartment, figure out childcare, hope that whatever child support I received from David was enough to cover the childcare so I could focus on my actual life.
But then I thought of the alternative option: losing my dream of going to Harvard Law School. It would be akin to losing a fundamental part of who I was, akin to my future completely going up in flames. That was a future that I’d do almost anything to avoid.
—
The following Friday, Eunjin insistedthat I accompany her to the Edge, the outdoor sky deck in Hudson Yards. It wasn’t the type of place you went to when you lived in New York City. It was somewhere you took friends or family visiting from out of town. We got off the train at Penn Station and walked west toward Hudson Yards. Eunjin pointed at the crowds of people standing on a triangular platform jutting out from the side of the building. “That’s going to be us in twenty minutes!” she said. I rolled my eyes, but secretly, I was excited too.
When we reached the plaza, we both stared up at the vessel, with its interconnected steel pieces arranged like a 150-foot-tall jungle gym. It reminded me of an acorn—an acorn that a madscientist had enlarged into a gigantic, robotic version of itself. We entered the mall on the ground floor, where bored security guards in black suits stood outside nearly empty designer stores. Then we headed up the escalators to the fourth floor, where we found the line for the elevator that would transport us over a hundred floors.
What was it about New Yorkers and aerial views? Take apartments, for instance: It wasn’t enough to claim superiority through square footage, neighborhood, or interior design; you also had to reside higher in the air. I thought of Columbia, situated on a plateau overlooking the Hudson River and Harlem, the hundred-something tree-lined steps you had to take from the west side of Morningside Park to reach 125th. If you made it down there, you’d see the gentrification crawling eastward in the form of artisanal coffee shops and fast-casual chains amid the African hair braiding salons and soul food restaurants. It was all quite literal, wasn’t it?
The elevator opened to a lounge with a bar and café. A gust of wind hit my face as we stepped from the lounge onto the sky deck. It took me a moment to catch my breath. The glass barricades were lined with tourists taking selfies. Eunjin and I found a gap and squeezed ourselves between two families.
Manhattan from a distance always looked like a miniature model of a city rather than a real one—all tall skyscrapers jutting out from neat sidewalks. It was not until you got to the ground that you saw what Manhattan really was: homeless people peeing in front of buildings with multimillion-dollar condominiums, neighboring bodega owners screaming at each other in different accents, trash bags filled with oat milk cartons and takeout containers piled up on the sidewalks.
When I first arrived freshman year, everything in the city felt inaccessible to me. I remember walking along Madison Avenue while waiting for my appointment at the Apple Store for them to fix a problem with my keyboard, demoralized that I would never be able to afford the luxe jewelry, clothing, skincare displayed in the windows of these stores that I had never even heard of before. But then, I would remember that I would one day afford them. As long as I worked hard and got into law school, everything that previously seemed inaccessible would be at the touch of my fingers. I was already halfway there; already at the Ivy League school that would enable me to achieve my dreams. Was I simply materialistic? That characterization wouldn’t be wrong, but it would also be too simplistic. I didn’t want the luxuries themselves; I wanted the feeling of being able to afford them. I wanted to know that they weren’t out of my reach, that this city wasn’t out of my reach.
“This is actually pretty nice,” I said. “I feel a little bad for making fun of you for wanting to come.”
“I told you. Part of maturing is admitting that you like things other people like.”
“Hey, I like things other people like. I like reality TV.”
