I suggested she contact her local Planned Parenthood office and try to confide in a friend for support. Assuming she came from a fundamentalist background, I wrote that even in Catholic countries such as France and Italy, women and their doctors were not threatened either by law or by self-anointed, if well-armed, soldiers of God. And I gently suggested, as she had already been suffering from morning sickness for a while, that time was of the essence if she did indeed wish to proceed with termination.

I was a little surprised by how involved I felt after a few exchanges. My husband and a few friends observed that I was an ideal target for a con: Had she asked me for the money? No, she had not. But I would have sent it if she had. When I read Naomi Wolf's book "Misconceptions" (sort of the Edward Gorey guide to pregnancy), I was struck by the effect Wolf's impending motherhood had on her feelings toward abortion (although she did remain pro-choice). My experience has been different. If anything, as I try to imagine going through this process alone, immature and ill-prepared, my passionate desire to procreate seems entirely remote from another's wish to remain childless. I feel fiercely protective of us all.

Liz's next message hinted at her growing paralysis. "I do have some girlfriends, but they are so far away and have mixed filling [sic] that they aren't much help. I can't say anything to my roommate because I have no idea what she would do. I live in a dorm in ... Georgia. So that is one reason my parents disapprove so much. It would be great if you sent me a list of the Planned Parenting place in this area ... if there is one. Thank you."

After calling around for an hour, I sent Liz the phone numbers and addresses for all the offices in her state: Atlanta, Augusta, Liburn, Marietta and Savannah. And at the same time I reminded her that Planned Parenthood was also an excellent resource for birth control, down the road. I felt as if I were talking a cat down from a high, precarious perch, with little faith that it would not panic and fling itself headlong into the light well. I held back revealing too much about the differences in our backgrounds, thinking she might discount me as the kind of wacked-out, godless Californian her parents had taught her would burn in hell. (My own parents would have been mildly shocked had I opted to keep a child at age 18, but would have supported the decision as mine to make. Neither heaven nor hell appeared on their moral relief map.)

I did not hear back for several days. Like someone hoping to spur an indifferent suitor, I could not resist sending a brief, studiously casual, note. "Liz, just wondering if you were able to get through to Planned Parenthood?"

A few more days passed. I sent the e-mail again, as if the first one hadn't gone through. I was becoming as pushy and panicky as a slighted lover. But why was she procrastinating? Didn't she get it? How hard was it to pick up the phone? Then she replied, "I haven't had time to call a place yet. I have been busy with a bunch of homework. This week the teachers hit me with a ton of work, I will let you know when I get hold of a place. Thanks for your concern."

I couldn't write her again, and I didn't want to force her hand. After all, there are plenty of 18-year-olds who do possess the strength, desire and resources to make excellent mothers. She didn't strike me as one of them, but perhaps she was now contemplating adoption, despite her fears of being disowned. It was time for me to back off, and I did.

A few weeks ago I read about a 19-year-old student who bled to death while giving birth in the bathroom stall of her dorm at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. Her baby died at the hospital soon thereafter, and mother and daughter were buried together. "No one, not even a roommate, knew about the pregnancy until the baby was found," authorities said. (Around the same time, during the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, President Bush reconfirmed his dedication to the "pro-life" agenda and asserted his faith-based belief in the "just say no" school of contraception.)

While reading about the Wisconsin student over morning toast and coffee, I thought about Liz, studying in her Georgia dorm. I never heard from her again. But I wonder, as my formerly flat stomach has morphed into this strange, hard mound that feels as if it contains a pair of wriggling albatrosses, if she is similarly swollen or if she is greeting spring in slinky sundresses and tank tops. As I alternate between being thrilled and terrified of my impending brood -- far from being accidental, the result of in vitro fertilization -- I'm curious to know if she was ever able to talk to her parents? The father? A friend? Did she make a decision, or was it made for her, as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks melted into months? I wanted to drop her a line, but I feel I've worn out my welcome and also lost my nerve. I hope she's OK.

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