“That’s good for us to know, actually,” Alice says. “Which hospital was that?”
“St. Joe’s.” Nancy sits up slowly, reaching out for Dr. Taylor’s proffered hand. She winces. “It hurts.”
“I know. It will for a couple of days; you can take over-the-counter painkillers. Drink plenty of water and try to get some sleep tonight. It can be difficult for a while. Emotionally, I mean. Your hormones will all be resetting once your body realizes it isn’t pregnant anymore, and it can be a bit of a wild ride. Do you have a friend you can talk to about this?”
“Not really.”
“A roommate at home? A sister?”
“My roommates, yeah. I’m pretty close with one of them. I think she might have suspected what was going on with me, anyway.”
“Okay, that’s good. Even if you don’t tell them exactly what’s happened, make sure someone’s there with you for the next day or two, just in case. Write in a diary, talk to yourself, do what you need to do. But I must ask you again not to tell anyone my name, do you understand? That’s part of the deal. The Janes can only continue to exist if we’re not all in prison. If we can’t exist, other girls can’t get abortions.”
Nancy nods. She likes Dr. Taylor.
Alice comes over with a sheet of paper, some pads, and a small white container of unlabeled pills, which she drops into a paper bag. “Take these, and follow the instructions. But please keep the instruction sheet safe from other eyes. At the bottom of your underwear drawer, or under a mattress is a popular spot, too. Burn them once you’re done. Just in case.”
“Okay. Yup. Thanks.”
“We also like to give our patients a copy of The Birth Control Handbook, Nancy,” Alice says. “Do you have a copy?”
“No. I’ve heard of it, though. Some girls on campus have it.”
“There’s a lot of misinformation out there, so we like to send our patients away with a reliable resource. Quite frankly, we don’t want anyone to have to see us more than once.”
“No, I know,” Nancy says. “I need to be more careful.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Alice says. “Just be sure to read the manual and take care of yourself. I’ll go call you a taxi. Can you afford the fare, or do you need some money?”
“Oh no, I’ll be okay. Thank you. You’ve both done enough already.”
Nancy slides gingerly off the table as Alice leaves the room, and Dr. Taylor turns away to give her some privacy while she gets dressed. She gathers Susan’s coat and her purse, pulls her boots back on. Dr. Taylor follows her out to the front door and slides back the locks.
Nancy turns to face her. “Thank you. I… I don’t know what else to say.”
“You’re welcome, Nancy. I’m sorry again about the police. I think it’ll stop eventually.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not okay, but you’re right, it’s not my fault, or yours.”
Both women stare at the floor, awaiting the honk of the taxi. For some reason, Nancy is having trouble saying goodbye. She feels safe here.
“If any of my friends ever need this, can I tell them to call you? Can I give them your name then?”
Dr. Taylor shakes her head. “No. But you can give them this number to call.” She reaches into the pocket of her scrubs and pulls out a small white card, hands it to Nancy.
Nancy turns it over in her hand. There’s nothing on it but a handwritten phone number. “Whose number is this?” she asks.
Three quick honks blare from outside, and Nancy nearly jumps out of her skin. Dr. Taylor reaches behind Nancy’s back to turn the creaky brass handle, opening the door onto a blast of cold evening air.
“Just tell them to ask for Jane.”
CHAPTER 16 Evelyn
SUMMER 1983
In her office at the back of the clinic, Evelyn reaches across the desk for her coffee mug and takes a swig. It went stone-cold hours ago, but with a busy practice, she’s become quite used to cold coffee. She might even prefer it that way now.
She’s been reviewing this week’s patient charts in a bleary sort of way. She’s tired enough that she should probably give up and go home. She has the house to herself tonight; Tom is out for dinner with a man named Reg, a lawyer he met through another gay friend at a party. This is their second date, and Evelyn’s happy for him. She wishes he would get out and date more for his own sake, but she also enjoys the solitude of an empty house every once in a while to be alone with her thoughts.
Evelyn looks at her watch. She’ll give it another ten minutes and then pack it in. Tomorrow she has a full day of regular patients and two abortions for the Janes in the evening.
Just as she’s locking the charts away in the filing cabinet under her desk, the phone rings. Her receptionist went home an hour ago, and Evelyn hates leaving her patients hanging. Reliability is important.
With a sigh, she picks up the receiver. “Dr. Evelyn Taylor.”
“Oh, Dr. Taylor? I’m so glad I caught you. I’m sorry to call so late in the day. It’s Ilene Simpson.”
Chester Braithwaite’s daughter.
“Ilene! So nice to hear from you. How is everything?”
With a lurch in her gut, Evelyn braces for the worst. Despite Chester’s initial assurances that he was in perfect health and only required the services of a doctor to appease his nagging daughter, he ran into some difficulties with his blood pressure and cholesterol. He came in for his flu shot and yearly checkups, but also for more minor concerns like a scab from a rope burn that didn’t quite want to heal, or a stubbed baby toe he thought might be broken. His daughter and her family lived an hour’s drive from the city centre in the northern suburbs, and Evelyn often got the sense that Chester was simply lonely. His enthusiasm for Evelyn and her practice served as a welcome confidence boost in the absence of support from her own parents, so she didn’t mind his frequent presence one bit.
Then there was a prostate cancer scare five years ago that precipitated tests which, to Evelyn’s immense relief, came back negative, and his health was reasonably consistent until the whiskey finally caught up to his pancreas. Evelyn was in regular contact with Ilene as she struggled to provide care for him in her own home, and she made a dozen house calls before the family eventually decided to place Chester in nursing care a few months ago. Evelyn hadn’t heard from Ilene since then.
“Well, he’s… he’s in his last weeks now,” Ilene says. “Maybe days. They declared him palliative. There’s nothing more to be done.”
Evelyn sinks back down into her office chair. “Oh, Ilene. I’m so sorry.” There’s an unpleasant tightness in her chest. “He’s really something special. It’s been an honour, truly.”
“Thank you, Dr. Taylor.” Ilene takes a moment to compose herself. Evelyn waits. “He’s been asking to see you. That’s why I’m calling. To give you an update and, I guess, ask if you’d be willing to visit him. He was—is—so fond of you. I think he was always grateful you didn’t make him give up the drinking.”