Back before Christmas, when Angela got her period after the last failed treatment, she walked out of the bathroom sobbing, shaking with rage and resentment and a dozen other emotions. But mostly, she was full of hate. So full of it that she couldn’t breathe.
She hated her friends who already had children.
She hated those stupid teenagers who got pregnant by accident, without even trying.
She hated how fucking hard this was on her body and her heart and her marriage. Her bank account.
She hated trying to get pregnant but hated the thought of not getting pregnant even more.
Tina came home from work to find Angela in her spot on the couch, a glass of real wine in her hand and Grizzly curled up in her lap as tears poured down her swollen face, and she knew immediately what had happened. They were both so intently tuned in to Angela’s cycle, they knew that in the coming days they were approaching either the beginning or the end of something.
“Oh, Ange,” Tina said, flopping down on the couch beside her wife and pulling her into a hug. Grizzly meowed between them, and to Angela it somehow sounded like an apology for everything they wanted and couldn’t have. Angela sobbed even harder in Tina’s arms, devastated by the loss of the possibility.
A couple of days later after Angela had calmed down enough, Tina broached the idea of adoption with her. They talked all evening, but Angela wouldn’t budge. Having been adopted herself, there was a drive deep down in her being to have a biological baby of her own, a direct line where her child could connect the dots, without having to search for them like Angela had. Tina never wanted to be the one to carry, and Angela was determined.
Tina eventually agreed to keep trying, though Angela could tell she still worried about the impact their fertility efforts were having on them. People talked about it as a “journey,” a trip down a winding road guided by a presumption that eventually they would reach their golden destination, but most of the time it just felt like a Sisyphean task. They never spoke about it directly, but Angela had the sense that there was a limit of some kind on the horizon—financial, emotional. She wasn’t sure exactly what, but she could see it in the creases in Tina’s forehead every time they came in for an IUI procedure. Every time one failed. Every time Angela started bleeding.
In the treatment room now, Angela looks up at her wife’s face and sees those same creases of apprehension. But she squeezes Angela’s hand as the nurse approaches the table with the syringe.
“All right, Angela, take a deep breath now and keep breathing. This’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Yeah,” Angela says, letting her breath out in a long stream, staring at the institutional drop ceiling and thinking of all the other times she’s lain on this table in a hospital gown, praying that this time will be the one. But she’ll keep pushing that boulder up the hill as long as she can. “I know.”
* * *
Two weeks later, Angela unpacks a box of Valentine’s Day decorations on the cash desk at the antiques shop. She dug out the dusty cardboard box from the bottom shelf of the tiny storeroom, and she’s spent the past hour finding appropriate locations for the various shiny red baubles, glittery strings of beads, and pink plastic dollar-store hearts. It’s a slow Monday morning at the shop, so she’s getting the decorating finished before the foot traffic picks up later in the afternoon.
Angela puts her second pot of decaf on to brew, then carries some decorations, a pair of scissors, masking tape, and a step stool to the back of the store. She’s just hung the first strand of hearts from the top of a bookshelf when the bells above the door jingle, welcoming her second customer of the day.
“Hello!” she calls, stepping down off the stool.
“Hi, there! Delivery for you,” a male voice responds.
“Excellent, thank you.”
Angela weaves her way to the front, brushing her hands on her jeans to rid them of the thick coat of dust and making a mental note to do a thorough spring-clean.
The delivery driver holds his mobile phone out to her, and she signs a sloppy signature with the tip of her index finger. She takes the first of several boxes from him without thinking. It’s heavy, and she realizes that she’ll have to ask him to bring the boxes around to the back of the cash desk next time. She shouldn’t be lifting anything heavy at the moment.
The bells jingle as the driver leaves the shop, and a chorus of street sounds rushes inside before the door swings shut again.
After Angela finishes hanging the decorations, she pours herself a cup of coffee, then slits the tape on the first box and starts unpacking this month’s shipment of used books.
It’s a curious collection: contemporary and classic fiction—Angela swears they must already have fourteen copies of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and she’s just unpacked another two—biographies and memoirs, outdated travel books that rarely sell, dog-eared and oil-splattered cookbooks, unread self-help guides, and a smattering of general nonfiction in a sweeping array of topics from war history to terrace gardening and horse breeding.
Angela sorts the books into piles by genre, entering each one into the computer system as she goes. She’s nearly at the end of the fifth and final box when she pulls out a paperback bound in a slightly tattered black cover with a bold white title.
THE JANE NETWORK
The author is a Dr. Evelyn Taylor. There’s no cover art or anything else to indicate what the book is about. Is it fiction or nonfiction? Both intrigued and a little irritated at the extra effort required to sort this book into the appropriate pile, Angela opens it to the copyright page, scanning for more detail. It’s nonfiction, published in 1998. Under the subject heading, she reads: Jane Network, The （abortion service） | Abortion services—Toronto—Ontario—CANADA | Abortion—Canada—History.
“Wow.” Angela’s eyebrows pop up into her dark bangs. On the opposite page, she reads the dedication, which simply says: For the Janes. She flips two more pages and smooths down the table of contents.
No Other Choice: A （Very） Brief History of Women’s Reproductive Options to 1960
My Montreal Years: Training Under Dr. Morgentaler
A Right to Know: The Birth Control Handbook and Other Subversive Texts
The Revolution Begins: The Abortion Caravan of 1970
The Jane Network Is Born
“I’m Looking for Jane”： Expanding the Service
Raids, Revival & Restructuring
R. v. Morgentaler （1988）： The Trial & Decriminalization
“There Will Always Be a Need”： Life After Jane
“Huh.” She sets the book aside near her computer monitor and quickly processes the remaining two books in the box. She glances at the clock; it’s nearly time for lunch and she’s starving. Angela heads into the storeroom and pulls her lunch out of the mini-fridge on the floor. She heats up her leftover soup in the microwave, tapping her finger impatiently on the white plastic door and ignoring the fact that she’s now made the whole store smell like onions. Using her scarf as an oven mitt, she takes the steaming container back to the cash desk and settles down on the stool. Propping The Jane Network up against the computer monitor, she flips through its pages.
Angela wonders whether Tina has ever come across this organization in her academic life. Angela’s never even heard of it. After blowing on her first spoonful of soup, she picks up her cell phone and dials her wife’s number. Tina answers after two rings.