After my divorce, I took a job teaching poetry to inmates in the Massachusetts prison system. By then, my daughter and I had moved into a large, creaky house in Cambridge with two other single moms and their children. Looking back, I can honestly say that life in that big house could seem as dark and dangerous as the rigors and uncertainties of life in prison.

THIS IS PART 5 of an EIGHT-PART STORY

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

My relationship with my boss, Roger Davis, was very up and down. Because we’d had a haphazard and not very rewarding sexual experience shortly after my arrival in Cambridge, we were nervous and uptight around one another. I had a major crush on him and wanted to be with him all the time, whereas he probably found me overbearing and tiresome and frequently went out of his way to avoid me. Out to dinner with friends like Eloise and her boyfriend Aaron, we would snap at each other … or act as if neither of us was there. If I were drunk, which I frequently was, I had no control whatsoever over my behavior. I’d go into a blackout, say something terrible, then return to a more conscious state to discover that everyone was staring at me, appalled.

What had I said? Probably something derogatory about Davis and what a pansy ass he was. A few dinners like that, and Eloise began to slowly distance herself from me. We’d been best friends since the age of sixteen; now, fourteen years later, a coolness crept into the relationship. She was jealous of the attraction between Davis and me. And jealous of all the attention I received from men, since I didn’t seem to have any inhibitions about flaunting myself at them. The truth was, I was extraordinarily shy around members of the opposite sex. Drunk, I could deal with them (or so I thought). But sober, I’d feel less-than, mumble god knows what, and stare at my feet. Eloise’s mother had been an alcoholic who got sober in AA, and my behavior must have rung some very bad bells. Certainly, I embarrassed myself though that didn’t prevent me from running around. And, too speedy and crazy to understand what was going on, I stopped paying attention to my body, which had grown thin and ribby. I hadn’t had a period in two months, but I attributed that to stress.

One Sunday, much to my alarm, I heard a voice in my head that warned, You’re in danger, you’re in danger over and over again. Danger from what? I wondered, deciding to ignore the voice. That night I finally got my period, so I figured all was well. 

The next morning was my time to pitch in at Jofka’s daycare center. I loved it there, the peace in the cozy room where women nursed their babies, the undaunting cheerfulness of the staff. I arrived, handed Jofka over to her teacher, and began my task of the day -- cleaning up the kitchen. I’d been bleeding heavily, soaking through a tampon every few minutes. “What’s going on with you?” one of the other mothers asked. By then my flow was so substantial that I’d had to switch to Pampers. “You’re white as a sheet,” she said, scrutinizing me. “Do you think you’re having a miscarriage?”

Cover Image: Pexels-Cottonbro

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