The Right Choice

This story is by Trish Perry and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

It was February and the gloomy winter days seemed to be impossible to tell apart.  I felt myself slipping away again as if my soul was the lone rider on a never-ending merry go round. It wasn’t the first time I had contemplated taking my life, but it was the first time I felt certain it was the right choice.  The path to my decision had not come all at once; but gradually over the past year.  I had turned forty and it seemed to me that I had experienced everything I needed to experience in my life.  I had married the man I was meant to marry; gained prominence in the career I was meant to have; and gave birth to the child I was meant to raise.  It was time for me to get off the ride.

I took the bottle of sleeping pills out of my medicine cabinet, poured a glass of whiskey and went into the bedroom.  The bed was comfortable.  I opened the bottle of pills and put it to my mouth. And as I lay there, I thought about John and our life together.

John Williams was a gentle soul whom I met during a July 4^th trip to Bear Lake in 1974.  He was twenty-five years old, and I had just turned twenty-one.  John caught my eye immediately. He stood about 6 feet tall, had long dark hair, and a walrus mustache like David Crosby’s.   He was throwing a ball to a beautiful black Labrador named Jet who ran splashing into the lake to fetch it. The sun was flickering off the water and kept resting on my face.  I was the first to speak.

“I like your dog” I said, cupping my hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun.

He smiled the most incredible smile. “Thanks.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It’s John. John Williams. What’s yours?”

“It’s Tessa. Tessa Donovan.”

“Oh. I see.” He laughed. “You like teasing me.”

“Who, me?” I asked.

“No, the guy behind you,” he said, winking at me.

I rolled my eyes, and we both started laughing.

That was it.  That was the beginning.  We spent a little time together that afternoon but not much.  It was later that evening that our connection grew stronger.  The sun had gone down and the stars were shining brightly, like thousands of flickering candles placed in the sky just for our enjoyment.  John had traveled to the lake with his two roommates, Stephen and Eli. The four of us sat around a crackling campfire passing joints, drinking cold Lucky lager and sharing stories.  I felt free and happy, like I was being accepted into a small club.  When I returned home, John called me on the phone and asked me out on a date.  From that moment on, we were practically inseparable. We took long walks, went on picnics in the park, and visited each other’s friends.  Occasionally we went out to dinner or to the movies when we could afford it.  He was studying drafting and I was chasing a career in interior design.  Money was tight, but we didn’t care. Being together is what mattered.

John asked me to marry him the following March and we were married in May, 1975.  John’s brother Caleb was a minister in the Mother Springtime church. My parents refused to come to the ceremony.  They loathed my hippie ways and they particularly loathed John’s long hair and beard.  But that was fine.  We were so much in love that nothing was going to spoil our wedding day; and nothing did.  It was a beautiful ceremony filled with good friends.

The next few years were full of activity. John finished his degree and was immediately hired by Locklear and Jones, a small, but prominent architectural firm.  I also completed my degree but I started my own design business. I had plenty of clients to meet; houses to decorate; fabrics to buy.  These were busy days, but they were good days. John was involved in his career and I was involved in mine. But in the evening, we sat outside on a blanket drinking wine, talking and listening to the radio.  Each evening we learned a little more about each other, and each evening, we grew even closer and more in love. The only subject we disagreed on was having a family.  John wanted three children and I didn’t want any. It wasn’t because I didn’t love kids.  But, I believed the world was so overcrowded and full of chaos that it wasn’t fair to bring another life into it.   We went several rounds, but in the end, I decided to lose the argument.  Two years later, I was pregnant with our first child.

On October 31, 1977, I went into labor during my seventh month of pregnancy. I had already completed my Lamaze classes so I was excited to go have my baby.  I knew in my heart I was carrying a son. My labor pain started out as a dull backache.  If this is all there is, no problem; let the games begin. But, a few hours later, the pain was stronger, like the muscles in my back were strangling each other. The cramping was continuous and it became difficult for me to concentrate. When my water broke, it felt as if my body was having an earthquake inside that was strong enough to split me in two. It caused my mind to short circuit and I lost complete control of myself.  I was panting wildly, and howling like a wounded animal. John helped me into the backseat of our Volkswagen bus where I stretched out the best I could.

“Just hold on, baby, it’s going to be ok,” John said.

But I wasn’t holding on.  I was falling apart.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was immediately wheeled into one of the rooms. The baby was coming. Nothing could stop it.  A nurse put a needle in my arm and hooked me up to machines. John was there but I couldn’t touch him. A man in a green gown and white mask appeared out of nowhere.

“Tessa, I’m Dr. Gordon,” he said.  His voice was gentle.  “Hold on one more second,                  and you’ll feel a whole lot better.”

I tried to focus my eyes, but they just wanted to close. When I woke up, John was in the room with me. He smiled that incredible smile of his, but he looked drained. He walked over and sat down on the bed next to me.

“How are you feeling?” John asked.

He leaned down and kissed my cheek.  Then, he began to stroke my head.  His fingers got caught in my long hair, and we both giggled nervously. When I looked at John, a peculiar smile came to his lips, as if he was posing for a television camera.  I knew something was terribly wrong, and I knew that John wanted to tell me what it was.  I also knew I was the one who would have to say it out loud.

“The baby didn’t make it, did he?” I asked.

Tears formed in John’s eyes. “No, baby, he didn’t make it.”

I fought back my own tears. I knew I had to do my best to be strong for John. He looked so weary and worn.  I can fall apart later, I thought. I can fall apart later.  

John and I sat in silence hugging each other for the longest time.

We named our baby John Donovan Williams and laid him to rest.

After that, John and I seemed to walk through life like two zombies.  His career flourished.  My business managed to drag on, though I wasn’t sure how that happened. All the enthusiasm I once felt for making beautiful houses was gone. John and I saw less and less of each other.  He stayed out late.  I went to bed early.  I stopped answering the phone and it finally stopped ringing.  I was left alone with my memories.  And then, last October came. I got a year older, and he met Joanna.

I jolted myself back to reality. It was time for me to stop thinking about the past, and get on with what I came in the there to do. I pushed all thoughts of John out of my head, and relaxed on my bed.  The pills I had kept in my mouth had begun to dissolve. The gritty taste of the grains of medicine was dreadful and I almost gagged.  I lifted the glass of whiskey to my mouth to help me wash them down.