The Rachel Incident(59)

I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah, like Bonnie and Clyde.”

We smiled at each other, because we had seen the Faye Dunaway film not long before. James took my hand, putting on his warbling Southern-belle voice.

“They call them cold-blooded killers, they say they are heartless and mean. But I say this with pride, that I once knew Clyde…”

My friend put his lips to my knuckles and pressed hard, then met my eyes to finish the verse.

“…and she was honest, and upright, and clean.”

The nurse entered the room with James still holding my hand, and he didn’t let go while she talked to us. She told me that she could schedule a termination in the UK for two weeks’ time, which would bring me to eleven weeks, and that I had a choice between medical and surgical. Medical was just taking a pill, but it was painful, and you did it over two days, which meant booking two nights in England. Surgical was more common for Irish women travelling. I nodded. If surgical was what most Irish women did, then that is what I would do.

I drifted out of the room then as the nurse was still speaking. I imagined my return to Ireland, all empty and scraped out.

“Excuse me,” James said, jolting me back in the room. “Did you say five hundred euros?”

“Five hundred?” I squeaked. “Are you fucking serious?”

“We don’t have that,” he said.

“Yes, we don’t have that,” I echoed.

The nurse nodded with a practised sympathy. She probably had this conversation a dozen times a day. “Part of that is the consultation fee you’ll pay today,” she said unhelpfully. “Which is sixty-five. The rest you’ll pay when you’re there.”

I was to phone later that day when I had decided what I wanted to do. I paid the sixty-five and we left the clinic. I leaned my body over the railings of the River Lee, trying to breathe in the wet air.

“Don’t throw yourself in, for the love of God.”

“How am I going to pay that, James?” I said. “And then there’s the flights.”

“And the hotel,” he said gently.

“And the fucking hotel,” I echoed.

He sat down by the railings. “And realistically, there’s public transport, cabs, lunch, dinner for the two of us. We can bring sandwiches but not for every meal.”

“The two of us?”

“I’m not letting you go alone.” He looked into the river. “There’s five hundred and fifty-seven euro in our fund.”

“That’s half your money.”

“It’s our money. We’ll make it back. We’ll just have to emigrate later.”

I hugged him, my arms around his waist, his around my shoulders. We really did look like a couple. I felt his slim body tense, and I loved him, not because it was easy for him to say goodbye to that money but because it was unbelievably hard.

“We need another two hundred, at least, for flights and all that,” I said. “And we have to book it soon, too, so it’ll be even more expensive.”

“Two hundred!” he scoffed. “Three, at least.”

When we got home we looked at flights. London flights were all in the high hundreds; we found a few Manchester ones for sixty-five euro each, provided we didn’t book luggage.

“Do you think Ryanair makes all their money from abortions?” I said limply. “It’s a pretty amazing business model, when you think about it.”

I called the clinic back to confirm that I had decided on Manchester. We booked the flights using the card from our savings account.

“We need to go begging,” he sighed. “Let’s make a list.”

Here was his list.


Rachel parents

Carey

James parents

Ben?

Call centre

Harrington-Byrnes



“My parents don’t have it,” I said. “And I’m not telling them, anyway. My dad is pro-life.”

“And Carey?”

“Definitely doesn’t have it. He’s got no job, and he’s looking after his parents.” I looked at his list. “And I can’t ask your parents, I don’t know them.”

I crossed out the first three, along with Ben, who was a stupid idea.

“I could ask the call centre for an advance,” I said, and then felt a wave of depression settle over me. I didn’t want to owe the call centre a favour. I already spent every bus journey hoping that it had caught fire the night before. “Maybe just a hundred, out of my next pay slip.”

“And you could tap up Fred and Deenie for another hundred,” James suggested. “Or maybe two. They love you. They’ll give it to you gladly.”

I squirmed. “I don’t know. I don’t want them to…to know this about me.”

I pictured myself telling Deenie and Dr. Byrne about my situation. Particularly given what I now knew about their own luck with pregnancy. She would hate me for this. I had drunkenly stumbled into a state that she had been trying to get into for years.

“You could ask Fred,” I said. “So Deenie wouldn’t know.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t know. I think he’s finished with me, again.”

I sat up. “Why?”

James was always so thorough about Dr. Byrne’s comings and goings. It was an act of remarkable grace that he hadn’t shared these new woes with me while I was dealing with abortion planning.