Claudia explained that on the first day, Dr. Gurvitch would insert laminaria, sterilized seaweed sticks that expanded gradually to open the cervix. “It doesn’t hurt,” she added, though Shannon hadn’t asked.
She thought of Shannon’s son, the little boy who was now, in all likelihood, someone’s foster. Would he ever see his mother again? Did he even remember who she was?
Shannon’s eyelids fluttered.
“Shannon, are you with me?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shannon said.
The following day the doctor would remove the laminaria. Then plastic tubing would be inserted through the cervix. The tube would be attached to a gentle suction machine.
“That’s it?” Shannon seemed wholly unimpressed. In the context of her life, this didn’t qualify as a disaster.
“Dr. Gurvitch can insert the laminaria first thing Monday morning. We open at eight.”
“In the morning?” Shannon looked aghast. “I mean, can’t we just do it now?”
Women in crisis were sometimes unbearable. Sometimes, honestly, you wanted to break them in half.
“I explained this,” Claudia said. “You’ll need two appointments, Monday morning and again on Tuesday. Remember?”
She explained the procedure again.
This time Shannon was outraged. “This is bullshit,” she fumed. “I mean, why did I even come here today?”
Claudia said, “To have this conversation with me.”
“What a fuckin waste of time! First some asshole takes my picture. Now you tell me—”
“Wait, what?” Claudia frowned. “Someone took your picture?”
“One of those assholes outside. I see him again, I’m gonna kick his ass.” Shannon sat up very straight—wide-awake now, blinking rapidly, her pupils dilated. She seemed alert but disoriented. She seemed—in Claudia’s professional opinion—out of her fucking mind.
“Shannon, I’m confused. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
“Fuck this.” Shannon rose awkwardly from the chair, hand over her belly. “I’m outta here.”
“Wait,” Claudia said, but it was no use. Shannon was already out the door.
Claudia thought, No way in hell will she show up for that appointment.
It took a certain kind of person to do this work, and she was that kind of person. She believed this most of the time.
SOME YEARS BACK—IT MUST HAVE BEEN THE SPRING OF 2008—Claudia was riding the T to work when a story in the Globe caught her eye. A jogger on Deer Island had discovered a pile of debris washed up on the beach—a black plastic trash bag, the thick, sturdy type used by building contractors. Protruding from the bag was a tiny hand.
The bag held the drowned body of a child—a little girl, perhaps two years old. Her face was bloated beyond recognition. Her waterlogged body, wrapped in a Hello Kitty blanket, weighed twenty-four pounds. Her eyes were blue, her ears pierced though she wore no earrings. She wore a disposable diaper and pink cotton leggings printed with tiny hearts.
Who was she, and where had she come from? For the next several months, these questions would dominate the metro pages of the Globe and the Herald. The little girl had no fingerprints; the tides had damaged the skin of her hands. To readers of both papers—to the entire city of Boston—she became known as Baby Doe.
The child was found barefoot. Her shoes, if she’d been wearing any, had been stolen by the tides. Her toenails were painted cherry pink, and this was a detail the press would seize upon, a detail almost too painful to bear. Imagine someone, her mother presumably, taking the plump little foot in hand and dabbing the brush over each tiny toenail, the child squealing with delight.