November 2005, Chicago, Illinois

By Julie L. Henningfield

“Honey, I’ll come back and get you in about an hour, say?”

“That would be really nice of you.”

“I know I wouldn’t want my daughter to go through this by herself. If I can’t make it or am running late, I’ll call you or send someone else. OK, honey? Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

“I’ll be OK. Thanks.”

Amid the protesters and chants and harsh words, I walked in the clinic, thinking how sad it was that my taxi driver was more concerned about my well being than the man who helped land me there in the first place, a man I thought I would one day marry. A man I thought was my best friend.

I met Tim through mutual friends about two years ago. I never showed interest because my gut instinct told me not to. I’d seen him at the local watering hole I occasionally worked at, escorting various women, not exactly a turn-on for me. A nonchalant bonfire at his sister’s house changed my perception of him. After a few cocktails and good conversation, his offer to take me to breakfast didn’t sound like a bad idea. We skipped breakfast and ended up talking until sunrise. I felt like I knew him my whole life. He called me the next night, and we talked on the phone for two hours. A series of dates followed – dinner, eight-hour talks at his house, drinks after work. I was falling for him.

I had asked about all of his other women in his life. After a marriage in which his wife left him, Tim said he became a gigolo. I wish right then and there I would have realized that Tim didn’t like being alone, and I was going to end up like all the others – like a collection of dolls in a glass curio cabinet – hurt by him as he went on his quest for his ex-wife’s twin. A week after this conversation, Tim went from calling me every day to not calling me at all. When I finally got a hold of him by using a friend’s cell phone instead of my own, he cowardly announced: “I just don’t have the feelings for you that I should.”

“What?! How do you go from really liking me to this?”

He might as well have used the standard, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

I was devastated.

To add salt to my wound, two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant. Too many careless nights, caught in the moment, trusting him with all my heart, I blamed myself for being so naïve and vulnerable.

As painful as it was to accept, I chose to have an abortion.

After finding out about the pregnancy, Tim sent me a few text-messages asking how I was doing – something he did to justify his unconscionable behavior.

The messages only made me feel worse.

Nights of tear-soaked pillows and anxiety over making arrangements led to an appointment in Chicago. I utilized a window of opportunity – a work seminar in Chicago – which meant two nights in one of Chicago’s finest hotels to relax and have some time to myself.

November 8 – I slipped out of a workshop to call a cab. As I slid into the backseat, teary-eyed, Mike asked, “Where to?” His enthusiasm melted once he realized what I was doing.

As we approached the clinic, the arsenal of protesters, came in clear view. Mike offered to even come in with me – one of the most thoughtful gestures ever presented to me.

As promised, he came back for me. I had given him my business card with my cell phone number on it so he could call me if he couldn’t return.

It has been nine months now, and shortly after Memorial Day I received an email from my guardian angel:

Dear Julie:

I’m not quite sure if you remember me or not, but I wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. The sadness on your face has haunted me for some time now. As I said to you before, I know I would never want my daughter to go through something like that alone. I just want to make sure you’re OK. Don’t feel you have to respond to me – just know that you’re in my thoughts.

God Bless,

Mike

Tim has moved on to yet another “victim.” As for me, with the support of my friends, I have been trying to move on as well. I take comfort in the fact that there really are angels who walk this earth, and I was fortunate enough to have ridden in one of these angel’s cabs.

Julie Henningfield has been writing professionally for more than 10 years. She currently is the director of corporate communications for a Midwestern-based national retailer and in her free time enjoys traveling and writing about her adventures.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, October 27th, 2006 | Email This Post

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