Look at You Now Read Online Free

brown. A large black woman with unfriendly eyes was sitting at a desk behind a wiry chain link–looking fence barrier, almost as if she were in a cage. I peered through the fence into the small room where she sat. I saw a little TV and some file cabinets. The woman ignored us. My mother leaned toward the desk and said in her slightly hushed Katharine Hepburn voice, “Pardon me, we are here to see Ms. Graham.”
    I whispered, “Why does it say Locked Facility, Mom?”
    There was a ball of terror churning inside me. Before she could answer, another woman approached, a petite white woman wearing a gray wool suit, with short black hair and wire-rimmed glasses resting on her head. She looked to be in her forties, around my mom’s age. She said hello and led us into her office. There was a framed plaque that read,
    Even though I walk in the dark valley
    I fear no evil for you are at my side
    With your rod and your staff that give me courage
    The woman took off her coat, folded it just so, and sat down on the wooden desk chair. She looked at me and said, “I am Ms. Graham, welcome to the Gwendolyn House.” She said it without a lot of welcome. She looked down at the papers in front of her as she continued. “I am the resident social worker and will be here for Liz in any way she might need me. Beginning with the mandated weekly sessions she will attend here in my office . . . Tuesdays are her day, one o’clock, and she may never miss.” She wasn’t a warm person, but she wasn’t mean either, she was just kind of cold and sterile. My tears were falling out of my eyes like rain off a roof, but there was no sound.
    My mother spoke. “I am Dooorrrooothy Pryor, and as you know this . . . is Liz. We are grateful for the accommodation on such short notice.” The woman looked at me curiously over her reading glasses for a long moment and then asked my mother, “Why is she crying?”
    Dorothy, in the way only she could, said in a matter-of-fact tone, “She’s pregnant.” She said it long and slow, making her point.
    The woman paused. “Well, yes, that is why she’s here. But why is she crying?”
    Dorothy paused, and then, “I would guess she’s crying because she’s terrified, Ms. Graham. She just turned seventeen years old, she has to leave her friends and family, she has to hide from everyoneshe knows, miss her last months of high school, and of course she will have to labor and biiiiiiirth a child.” The Charlie Brown–muffled-parent voice had disappeared. I could hear my mother again, loud and clear.
    Ms. Graham appeared miffed. She looked at me over the edge of her glasses, sitting low on her nose now, and handed me a tissue. She went on to explain what I could expect for the next several months. Ms. Graham described the “facility” as a place where unwed mothers, some “in trouble,” some just “unfortunate,” come to receive the care and assistance they need during pregnancy. It was now a government-run facility.
    â€œMany of the girls in this facility are wards of the state,” Ms. Graham said. “They’ve come from juvenile detention homes and/or foster care. They all come from households surviving below the poverty line, which allows them to come in for the care they need for the duration of their pregnancies. This is a locked facility; the girls cannot leave the premises. They have specific times when they can go outside, but we have worked very hard to make it a place where they feel welcome.”
    The silence was deafening as we both absorbed Ms. Graham’s words. Was this a prison? Was that how badly I’d messed up my life? My mother finally asked, “Can you explain to Liz what we spoke about on the phone?”
    Ms. Graham began. “Yes. Here is how it will work: You will have access and free rein to go anywhere at all times. You will have a badge that gives