The Mechanic's Daughter

The Mechanic's Daughter Part 8: My body, my choice

Nikki and I stopped off at the house and found ourselves in the midst of a meeting of some sort involving women from Barbara's feminist study group. Four women were wedged onto the Indian cotton of the couch and others had dragged in the kitchen chairs.

"Join us," Barbara said in an offhand way as we paused on the way in. There was nowhere to sit, so we leaned on the doorframe.

A woman wearing a Central American poncho was advocating for quotas for hiring women in the workplace, saying that without them women would not have access to most workplaces. 

"Women get hired, but men still treat them as if they have cotton wool between the ears," she said. "And forget about getting ahead – every woman I know is still at entry level. The pay never gets better."

A woman with a short, mannish haircut, Nora, talked about equity legislation that would mandate equal pay for women. As others took up this thread, it became clear that Barbara was not the only woman of her ilk. Voices were raised – often over one another. These women spoke forcefully and with the fervour of conviction. Tired of standing, Nikki and I sat beside each other on the stairs.

A long-haired blonde jumped to her feet and raised a hand in the air. "Until women can get an abortion whenever they need one, we're never going to be equal."

I touched Nikki's shoulder and said, very quietly, "Did you get your period?"

She nodded. "I'm on the pill."

"One less thing to worry about."

The blonde, wearing an Indian print skirt and a T-shirt, was describing her own experience. "I would have been ruined. No money. No job. No family support. He's disappeared. If Marion hadn't known where I could go, I would have had to have the baby and be a sad statistic."

I caught Marion's eye. She was cool as a cucumber, dressed in a little houndstooth jacket and jeans, perched on the side of the armchair. She didn't look embarrassed with this revelation.

I knew too well how difficult it was to get an abortion in this country. One day this spring, Cheryl called me, crying. "I have to talk to you." She insisted I go to her house, saying we had to talk in private now, while her parents were not home. I thought she must have had a fight with Jimmy. I borrowed the car from Dad and drove to her house.

"I'm pregnant," she said, before I could even get in the door. She had the drug store test result crumpled in her hand. I smoothed it out and stared at it.

I had not seen this coming. We knew how to prevent pregnancy. We had read about it together, sitting in a quiet corner of the library three years ago. But Cheryl was helpless with love for Jimmy. Jimmy was charming – he played the opening bars of Whole Lotta' Lovin' whenever she walked into a room where the band was playing. But he treated her almost casually, or so it seemed to me in contrast with the elaborate courtesy I had from Paul.

"It was kind of...we got carried away. I didn't think I was going to and then we did."

"But didn't you use any birth control?"

"Yes, well. I guess it was too late."

We sat on the porch steps, watching the dogs chase each other around the rose bush. I was angry with Cheryl – as if it was me and not herself she had betrayed. We had talked often of the day when we would achieve independence. No one to tell us what to do. We would be together, we would travel or maybe we would live together in an apartment in the city. This was going to wrench her away from me in an unexpected direction. Everyone knew a pregnancy was the ultimate disgrace for any girl. There were few consequences for the boy involved – it was the girls who everyone talked about, it was the girls who disappeared.