Deborah P. Blaine, Contributor

I did not dress myself this morning. My mother would not let me put on the white taffeta dress with the velvet ruffles on the sleeves and the hem. She said that the cloth was too delicate and it could be easily soiled. I, however, did wrestle with the white nylon stockings and the white shiny leather shoes before Mother combed my hair and put in favourite red ribbons.

She could not stop me from looking at my reflection in the mirror, though. I twirled and twisted if only to feel the soft crispness of the taffeta against my legs. The dress reminded me that I use to be pretty and smart. However, as Mother kept reminding me, smart girls always make smart choices. I began to feel repulsive. Not even my beautiful dress caressing my skin could undo the repugnance.

We were able to book a flight and flew off the island for a week. So that no one would suspect that I had the procedure done. I would return to the island looking rested and renew. We arrived to autumn in New York on a Saturday and were to stay at one of Mother's sister. Aunt had scheduled the procedure for early the following Monday morning. At 8:30 that morning, we were rushing out of the small apartment. Aunt drove to the office, promising to pick up us in two hours.

"Procedures like these last no more than two hours," she called flippantly as she slipped the gear into reverse. Then added to assure me, "This is where everybody get it done."

I wish I were like Aunt. She was so sophisticated and she didn't cower under Mother's glares. Mother hated her, which made me like her even more.

"Why?" Aunt asked Mother, all the while looking at me.

Mother looked at her, her flawless make-up beginning to melt after the long flight and the wait in customs and the wait for the checked baggage. We were sitting in Aunt's living room drinking tea and eating crackers. "What will people say?"

It was less than a week ago I broke down and told Mother - after two months of denial and desperate thoughts, only to find that my confession served only to validate my decision.

"People always have something to say."

Mother sucked in her breath and admitted softly, "She won't tell us who is the father. But I have my suspicions."

She anointed me with a scornful look, "That black bwoy that is working on the house."

I stifled a smile when Aunt looked at me with a raised brow.

"But she's a big girl, Betty. She has a right to lay with whom she pleases."

Mother cut her off in a huff, "But you think dis bwoy is going to take care of his responsibility. Yu know how dem live. Him probably have five or six of dem begging for food on the streets. Good God Almighty."

I listened as they talked about me as if I was not in the room. Mother talked about me having no ambitions and if I were smart I would not have got myself in this situation.

In my head, I reverted to a time when I was most safe and most innocent. A time when my smarts were unparalleled and my prettiness was the standards by which all beauty was measured. I went to bed the age of 25 and woke up six years old.

That Monday morning, we stood and watched Aunt drove off. In that moment, there was so much I could have said to Mother. But the brisk unfamiliar autumn wind of New York stood between us. So I did the smart thing, I remained silent. Then slowly, in unison, we turned and walked across the freshly laid asphalt in the parking lot. To have her held my hand would have taken away the fear that was building in my stomach. Instead of asking for her hand, I curled my fingers into my palm and focused on the white lines that divided the parking spaces.

What made me glance over my right shoulder?

This was not my first time in the big city, nor was it the first time I visited in the fall. However, never had New York been more beautiful with the trees lining the shoulders of the Sprain Brook Parkway been so red, orange and yellow. Never was the wind this crisp, filling my lungs with life. I had to get my fill, for when I leave this city I would never return to an autumn this magnificent.

Unadulterated fear started to rumble in my chest and exploded in the back of my throat. I slowed my pace and Mother turned to look at me. I saw in her eyes what I was feeling - something I could not name. I felt the tears and it tasted bitter like gall. She took my hand and I trembled in relief. Gently, she tugged on my arm and I forced a smile. I took one last look at the leaves and the trees. The last brush of autumn's chill snuck under my dress.

We entered the doctor's office. There were other women like me waiting. I signed in and took a seat in the far corner of the small office. My appointment was for 9:30. It was 9:35. My name was called and I slowly walked to the desk.

To my right, a wayward branch of a sycamore tree tapped against a closed window. A clock on a desk ticked. I glanced at the door. My knees wobbled as the woman behind the desk cleared her throat and shuffled some paper into a green file.

"How are you?" she asked without looking at me.

"I'm fine. You?"

She looked at me a little surprised at my query. "I'm good," she answered and handed me some papers.

"Is it too cold for you?" She recognised my island accent.

Taking a deep breath I answered, "Not yet."

"I need you to fill these out and bring it back along with your insurance card."

I leaned closer to the desk and whispered apologetically, "I don't have any insurance. I'm paying with cash."

"That's OK," she took the money and wrote a receipt. I took it and crushed it in my palm. "When you're finished bring them back to me."

I nodded my head and feigned a smile before walking back to take my seat next to Mother.

"What did she say?" Mother leaned too closely and the smell of her perfume made me nauseous.

"She just tek the money."

"Did you tell her that you were in law school?"

I swallowed the acidic taste in my mouth.

"Did you tell her that you weren't ready?"

I bit my tongue and tasted blood. It tasted like revulsion and remorse. I turned and looked out the window.

"I want ... " I started to say that I wanted to see a counsellor as we sat in the small, airless room, but I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence.

She looked at me and I recognised the pity in her eyes. "You don't have to do this, you know," she whispered.

"But I want to," my voice cracked.

"Then, take off all your clothes and put this on," she handed me a backless paper gown. I followed her into another room with an operating table. "The doctor will be in to see you."

My white patent leather shoes weren't so shiny anymore. My dress that was made of soft sheer taffeta and velvet was coarse like a crocus bag as I undid the button under my arm. I pulled the dress over my head, folded it and placed it over the back of a chair. Next were my stocking and underwear, followed by a trail of tears.

"Well, hello Miss," the doctor entered the room looking at a chart, pretending not to see my tears. "Morris, what's new?"

Although I was only six, sometimes my thoughts were that of a woman who was 25 years old.

"The leaves are changing. Winter will be here and soon the trees will be bare. Then melancholy will dim and I will be hearty enough to take on a new lover."