Evelyn took a long, deep breath. “Dr. Morgentaler, they can’t take anything away from me that I haven’t already lost. I assure you.”
He paused, a sad smile on his face, then offered for her to come observe the three patients he had booked for that afternoon.
“I’m sorry, sir, did you say three procedures?” she asked him, incredulous.
“Yes.”
“How… how many do you do in a week?”
“Ten to fifteen, usually.”
Evelyn was stunned. “There’s that much of a need?”
Dr. Morgentaler folded his hands together on his desk. His shoulders slumped imperceptibly.
“As long as the male sex continues to exist,” he said, “there will always be a need, Miss Taylor.”
Out on the sunny Ottawa street, Evelyn shakes her head to clear the weighty thoughts of the past. Today is about the future. She tears the Abortion Caravan poster off the telephone pole, folds it, and tucks it into the front pocket of her jeans, turning her feet in the direction of Parliament Hill.
She hails a taxi and throws herself into the back seat. “Confederation Park, please.”
As the taxi crosses through a bustling intersection, Evelyn fishes the poster out of her pocket and lays it flat on her lap.
THE WOMEN ARE COMING, indeed. Several of them had set off from Vancouver several weeks ago, stopping in smaller towns and cities along the way to hold rallies, collect more troops, and stir up media coverage. Women’s liberation is hot news, after all.
This protest is overdue and necessary. The radical feminists who started the abortion caravan in Vancouver say something needs to be done on a bigger scale. “A radical overhaul of the system,” one woman shouted into the camera on last night’s news. Her long blond hair flew around her face in the spring wind as she shouted, her eyes bright with anger and exhilaration. Evelyn thought she looked like a superhero. “The state needs to recognize women’s rights to their own bodies,” the woman said, “and make sure all women can exercise those rights regardless of their race or income.”
Evelyn had watched the woman from her usual spot on the living room couch, felt her face flush with excitement in the glow of the television screen.
“You’re going to go, aren’t you?” Tom asked her in his melodious, English-accented voice from the other end of the couch. Evelyn glanced at him before returning her eyes to the screen. “Well, yes. I think I have to.”
Tom was silent for a moment. “You could be risking your career, Eve. There will be arrests. This part might not be your fight, you know. You do enough.”
The news anchor moved on to the next story and Evelyn had no excuse other than to turn to her best friend, whose eyes were filled with concern. She and Tom had moved into their own apartment, just the two of them, the previous year.
A couple of months into their friendship, Tom had been open with her about his sexuality to ensure she didn’t get the wrong idea about his intentions. But for Evelyn, their relationship was a perfect scenario. She could talk to Tom on a level in a professional capacity, and he understood the demands of their work on her time and mental and emotional energy. They simply enjoyed each other’s company. It was straightforward and comfortable. Evelyn was looking for companionship, not romance. Someone to sit and read with when the snow is falling outside, or talk to over coffee on lazy Sunday mornings while she works on a crossword from the newspaper.
Tom knows what she does, but he’s the only one. Since training with Dr. Morgentaler five years ago, Evelyn has been secretly performing abortions for university girls who find themselves in trouble. She has appointments one night a week in addition to her shifts at a family practice.
“I know, Tom. But don’t you think it would be a bit hypocritical of me to not support the women who are publicly fighting to make it legal? They’re risking just as much as I am.”
“Are they? A fine for protesting and a prison sentence are two very different outcomes.”
They both fell silent as the tension settled between them on the couch.
First thing this morning, Evelyn still headed to the train station, leaving an envelope of cash and a note for Tom saying he should use it to bail her out of jail, if necessary. But she really hopes it won’t be necessary.
Evelyn reaches into her purse and pulls out the piece of paper she scribbled the information down on last night. The organizers put the word out to their networks that they would all meet on the lawn outside the House of Commons on Saturday afternoon to protest and try to speak to their elected officials, then plan their next move.
A few minutes later, the taxi pulls up along the south side of the park. Evelyn pays the fare and hops out onto the sidewalk. She heads up Elgin Street, past the brand-new National Arts Centre and the War Memorial. The spectacular castle-like silhouette of the Ch?teau Laurier looms large beside her, casting its shadow over the street as she makes her way to the sprawling lawn outside Parliament Hill.
She hears the hum of noise emanating from the assembly before the crowd comes fully into view. There are hundreds of women, and some men. The slogan FREE ABORTION ON DEMAND! is scribbled in permanent marker on most of the placards she sees, along with some other, more militant demands like SMASH CAPITALISM!
Evelyn weaves her way through the crowd, the heat of all the excited bodies pressing in on her. But it’s not oppressive; it’s a good heat, like warm rain. She catches snippets of conversation, politically charged, angry voices raised, women laughing and smiling at one another. A chant rises up, starting from the centre and working its way outward like ripples on a lake: “Every child a wanted child! Every mother a willing mother!” Evelyn is jostled as a woman knocks into her, apologizes, then shoves one of the placards into Evelyn’s hands with a grin before returning to the chant.
Evelyn stops at a random spot, staking out her place in the scrum. The woman standing next to her smiles broadly and extends her right hand. Every single finger, including her thumb, is adorned with a chunky silver ring. “Welcome!” she shouts over the din. “I’m Paula.”
“Evelyn.”
They shake.
“Nice to meet you, Evelyn. Where you from?”
“Toronto originally. I’m in Montreal now, just finished medical school.”
“Holy shit, wow! A doctor, eh?”
Evelyn smiles. “Yeah.”
“What do you do? What kind of medicine?”
“Family medicine, and some gynecology.”
“So is it like PAP tests and stuff, or, you know, gyno.” Her eyebrows pop up and down suggestively.
Evelyn hesitates.
“It’s safe here, you know,” Paula says.
But Evelyn isn’t sure she’ll ever feel safe about this. She casts around for a change of subject. “So, what’s the plan here?”
“We’re waiting to see whether any of the fucking politicians are going to come out and talk to us, hear our demands,” Paula says. “But it’s seeming less and less likely. We’ve been here for hours now. I think they’re afraid of us.”
Evelyn continues to chat with Paula as the assembled protesters shout and chatter under the afternoon sun. When the breeze starts to cool and it’s clear that no politicians are coming to speak with them, the crowd starts to thin out. Evelyn, thrilled but slightly disappointed, decides she better go find herself a hotel room for the night. She turns to say goodbye to Paula, but the woman grabs her arm.