Dr. Taylor sighs heavily, but manages a weak smile nonetheless. “Yes, Alice. There will always be a need.”
Nancy shakes her head sadly and returns to the front door. A minute or two later, her patient arrives.
“Patricia?” she asks, pen poised over her clipboard.
The woman standing in the doorway is exactly her age, according to the docket in Nancy’s hands. She’s wearing Bermuda shorts and a plaid shirt, dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Nancy introduces herself and Patricia steps over the threshold. Her eyes flicker around the living room. Nancy knows how it looks: a cluster of old chairs, a coffee table, and some out-of-date magazines. It doesn’t matter, though. Almost all the women who pick them up end up flipping through them without absorbing a single word, recipe, or beauty tip. Their eyes slide over the pages while their minds race; some balancing on the precipice of changing their decision, waffling back and forth between yes and no with every robotic turn of the crinkled, glossy pages. Others are far more sure, like Nancy was, and can’t wait for it to be over.
Nancy leads Patricia into the master bedroom and gestures to one of the chairs beside the operating table. It’s not a proper operating table, just a sturdy, fold-up portable table with a thin camping mattress on it, covered in plastic sheets. But it’s the best they can do under these clandestine circumstances.
As Patricia sits down, her eyes flicker over to the tray next to the table, the silver instruments laid out on the blue paper. Her brows pinch together as she lowers her purse to the floor beside her.
“Would you like some water?” Nancy asks, trying to distract her from the sight of the surgical tools. It’s always the first question she poses to her patients. A simple yes or no, non-threatening, and it puts them in control.
Patricia shakes her head no.
“And just to confirm, you’re here of your own volition? We have to ask that of every woman who comes to see us. If you’ve been forced to come here by anyone, we can try to help you in other ways,” Nancy says.
“Yeah. Yeah I’m here because I want to be.”
“Okay, good. And have you ever had this procedure, Patricia?”
Patricia clears her throat and sits up straighter in the chair. “Um, no. No, I haven’t.”
“Okay, so the procedure itself is quite safe. We haven’t yet had any issues or emergencies, and no one has ever gotten a post-op infection on our watch. Our doctor and nurse are highly trained professionals. They do about four of these a week. They’re kind, compassionate women. You’re in good hands here.”
Patricia swallows and leans forward. “Could you tell me how it’s done?”
“Of course, but you should tell me how much detail you want. Some women just want the general idea, and others are more comfortable if they know the specifics, so they can know exactly what to expect.”
“I’d like to hear it step-by-step. If that’s okay.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. So, the doctor will first examine your uterus using a speculum—the same kind they use for PAP tests. She’ll then inject some medication into your cervix to numb the area, and stretch it out a bit,” Nancy continues, eyeing Patricia closely. This is sometimes where she starts to lose a patient; some people have no idea what they’re about to hear, and it’s where even the most determined woman’s resolve can start to splinter. “She’ll insert a tube, and then—”
A piercing screech issues from somewhere on Patricia’s body. Like the shrill tone of a poorly tuned violin, the sound hovers in the air, vibrates, then dissipates in a whistle.
The two women freeze in tableau.
“What…？” Nancy trails off.
Patricia fumbles around with her shirt, lifting it to reveal a small black box with wires strapped to her midsection. “Shit,” she whispers. There’s a soft click as she flicks a switch.
Nancy opens her mouth to speak again, and at the same moment, Patricia reaches down to the floor and pulls a handgun out of her big black purse. Rising from her chair, she points it directly at Nancy.
“I’m going to need you to stand up slowly and put your hands behind your head.”
CHAPTER 20 Evelyn
JULY 1984
“What the hell was that?” Evelyn freezes, her pen suspended over the clipboard where she’s reviewing that day’s patient docket. She and Alice were just about to head into the procedure room.
She can hear muffled voices from inside the room. They layer themselves over the strange piercing screech that’s still ringing in her ears.
“Evelyn?” Alice is immediately at her side. “What—？”
The door opens and Nancy emerges, her eyes wide and watering, hands clasped behind her head. Behind her is Evelyn’s next patient, Patricia. Her shirt is pulled up at the beltline and tucked in behind a small black box at her waist. She’s holding a gun in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other, which she now speaks into.
“Suspects are neutralized. Move in.” The static of the walkie-talkie clicks off and she slips it into the back pocket of her denim shorts.
“Fuck,” Evelyn swears under her breath.
“Evelyn.” Alice’s voice is small, afraid.
“I’m so sorry,” Nancy whimpers.
“Quiet!” Patricia snaps. She waves her gun at Evelyn and Alice. “Both of you, get your hands up, same as her.”
Evelyn swallows the harsh reality of this inevitability. Alice’s hands go up beside her, but Evelyn presses her thumb down on the metal clamp of the clipboard, removing the patient docket that lists the names of all the women who are scheduled to receive abortion procedures today. She folds it into quarters.
“I said get your fucking hands up!” Patricia shouts at her.
“I think I’m going to need to see some identification first, Patricia,” Evelyn says, not taking her eyes off the officer’s. Her stomach is sinking into her legs as she feigns boldness.
“Evelyn,” Alice mutters beside her.
The police officer licks her lips. “Don’t move.” She reaches into the purse hanging off her shoulder, and in the fleeting seconds when she takes her eyes off her suspects to fish out her badge, Evelyn slides the paper into the waistband of her jeans.
Patricia holds out her badge and Evelyn nods curtly. She raises her hands up behind her head, heart hammering off the walls of her rib cage. “Well played, Officer.”
“Be quiet.”
The door bursts open and both Evelyn and Alice jump. Nancy yelps.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Nancy wails as a stream of three, four, five other officers force their way into the apartment. Suddenly it feels smaller and even more oppressive. Evelyn thinks of Doris, who left just before Patricia arrived to escort Kathleen into a taxi three blocks away. She’s due back any minute.
“Who’s in charge here?” one of the officers demands to the room at large.
“I am,” Alice says immediately.
“Alice,” Evelyn snaps, though she experiences a rush of affection for Alice’s loyalty.
“No, she isn’t. That’s the doctor there.” Patricia points to Evelyn, her gun still extended at Nancy, whose eyes close against a stream of tears. The brand-new diamond ring glints in the light from the window. This girl has her whole life ahead of her, Evelyn thinks. She can feel Alice shaking beside her. Alice, who’s supposed to be getting married tomorrow…