“All right, then,” Selena says, ushering them down the busy sidewalk to nowhere in particular. “You understand you now have to abandon that location, correct?”
They all nod.
“All right. Now we need to think beyond today. Is there anything else anywhere? Any files? Patient records? Where do you keep those?”
“We don’t,” Evelyn says. “We only have one patient docket per day, just for that day’s use, then it gets shredded.”
“Where’s the one for today?”
There’s a single beat before Evelyn answers. “We ate it.”
Selena halts in her tracks, turns to face the other three women with her hand in the air like a stop sign. Both Nancy and Alice nearly plow into her. “Excuse me?”
“We ate it. In the van.”
“Ate the what?”
“The record.”
“The paper record?”
“Yes.”
Selena’s eyebrows pop up. “Huh. Well… it sounds like you could all use a cold beer to wash it down, then. My treat. Let’s go find a patio.”
CHAPTER 21 Nancy
EARLY FALL, 1985
Nancy is folded up in a comfortable armchair in the living room of one of the Janes, a thirty-something legal secretary named Wendy. She’s responsible for the administration of the network: locating new doctors who are willing to help, booking patients, and scheduling check-in meetings like this one.
Since the raid last summer, the Janes have had to be even more careful and creative with their meeting locations. Now, more than ever, they’re painfully aware of the razor’s edge on which the network exists. The anti-abortion factions have become more vocal, and the police have ramped up their efforts to locate the network. Paradoxically, “Jane” is better known than ever before, but they’re also more determined to keep themselves hidden. They’re so busy now, Nancy’s work with the Janes has taken up all the free time she’s able to squeeze in around her job, parents, Michael, and planning their upcoming wedding.
Tonight, Wendy has gathered ten of the Jane volunteers in her own living room. Her husband knows about and supports what she does, so the women can have more comfortable meetings here than they can masquerading as a knitting club in a church basement downtown. Some of the Janes—Alice and Dr. Taylor among them—have told their husbands or partners what they do, but most have kept it a secret, including Nancy. She absently fingers her ring as she focuses on Dr. Taylor, who has taken a seat by the fireplace—the naturally established pulpit of the room—and the reason for this evening’s meeting.
Things have changed for the Janes and the women who come to them for help. Up until now, the abortion procedure was limited to the standard dilation and curettage—or “D and C”—method, the more invasive version that Nancy underwent just four years ago. But there’s a new procedure now that will allow them to expand their services even further.
“This new method we’re hearing about out of Chicago,” Dr. Taylor says, “involves inserting a paste into the cervix, which dilates it and effectively causes a miscarriage. This means that, first of all, the procedure doesn’t have to be as invasive a process for women as the D and C, which can help reduce the potential for physical trauma. It’ll play out pretty much the way a natural miscarriage would. Also, it allows us to perform later-term abortions: women and girls who come to us between twelve and eighteen weeks can still receive a safe abortion when other methods are no longer available to them.”
There’s a chorus of murmuring at this news.
“How does this work for the network, then?” Wendy asks.
“I’m thinking we can line up appointments for insertion of the paste,” Dr. Taylor says, “which our doctors can do as quickly as a PAP test, then have our counsellors monitor the women over the day or two it takes for the paste to take effect. They would watch for any signs of medical distress and support the women emotionally through the miscarriage.”
An impressed silence hangs over the room, blending with the haze of cigarette smoke.
“Wow,” says one of the Janes, a doctor named Phyllis sitting to Nancy’s left. “That’s incredible.”
Dr. Taylor nods. “I know. It really opens things up for us.”
Wendy leans forward in her chair. “From a planning perspective, what are the logistics of this? Where would the miscarriages happen? At the woman’s house, or…？”
“I was initially thinking the homes of the women if they either live alone or are among supportive family,” Dr. Taylor says. “But for those keeping it a secret—which is the vast majority—I think we would need to consider our own homes.” She hesitates before continuing. “As we all know, Morgentaler was attacked and his clinic was almost bombed, just blocks from here. I think, generally speaking, we ought to consider using alternative locations as much as possible, going forward. Personally, I find the prospect of risking my clinic and the well-being of my regular Monday through Friday patients deeply concerning.”
Another silence follows this. Phyllis nods in agreement. Some of the Janes chew their lips in skepticism. Others frown.
“We don’t have the budget to rent an apartment specifically for this purpose,” Wendy says after a moment. “I think the only option is for the women to tell their families they’re going to visit a friend for the weekend, then come to one of our homes.”
Dr. Taylor nods. “I think that could work.”
Wendy turns to face the room. “Could I get a show of hands? Those who might be willing or able to use their own homes for this purpose?”
Nancy considers, and slowly raises her hand, along with two other women.
“I could,” she says. “At least until the winter. After that, well, I’ll be married and moving in with my husband, so it might be more difficult then. But for now, I can do it.”
“Excellent, thank you, Nancy,” Wendy says. She turns her attention to one of the other women who volunteered, and the conversation moves on to an in-depth discussion of the new method and the logistics for the home-based miscarriages.
Nancy glances down at her hand, spins the diamond ring around and around her finger as though she’s tightening a bolt. An uncomfortable knot has twisted in her stomach as her thoughts drift toward Michael. He’s never given her a reason to doubt him, but still she isn’t sure she’ll ever tell him the hidden truths that have shaped her. She knows this natural instinct for secrecy can’t be a great sign in terms of trust in their relationship, something she’s ignored until now. She loves him, but what restrictions will she have to put on herself and her interests once she’s married? Just how much of her life does she plan on hiding from her husband?
* * *
The question haunts Nancy as she heads to the rare book library the next morning. It’s just after seven. She’s always been an early riser, and she likes getting into the office when it’s still nice and quiet. She arrives not long after the overnight janitors have finished cleaning, settles herself down in the small communal office the archivists share with a cup of tea, and sorts out her tasks for the day into neat checklists. Nancy loves her job; it’s like a combination of librarian, detective, and museum curator. It fits her like a glove and she’s proud to say that she’s damn good at it, too.