The drive from West End to Vancouver seemed to take forever, and with every passing mile, her bones seemed to tighten. She could have had this done closer to home, but David hadn’t wanted to risk being seen. His family was friendly with too many local doctors.
There, through the filmy glass of the car window, was the clinic. She’d expected picketers out front carrying signs that said terrible things and showed heartbreaking pictures, but the entrance was quiet today, empty. Maybe even protesters didn’t want to be out on such a bleak and freezing day.
Lauren closed her eyes, battling a suddenly rising panic.
David touched her for the first time. His hand was shaking and cold; strangely, his anxiety gave her strength. “Are you okay?”
She loved him for that, for being here and loving her. She would have said so, but her throat was tight. When they parked, the full weight of her decision pressed down on her. She wasn’t taking care of something, she was having an abortion.
For a terrifying moment, she couldn’t make herself move. David came around and opened her door. She clung to his hand.
Together, they walked toward the clinic. One foot in front of the other; that was all she let herself think about.
He opened the door for her.
The waiting room was full of women—girls, mostly, sitting alone, their heads bowed as if in prayer or despair, their knees clamped together. A belated gesture. Some pretended to read magazines; others didn’t pretend that anything could take their minds off why they were here. David was the only boy in the room.
Lauren went to the front desk and checked in, then returned to an empty chair and filled out the paperwork she’d been handed. When she finished, she took the clipboard up to the desk and handed it to the woman, who looked it over.
“You’re seventeen?” she asked, looking up.
Lauren felt a rush of panic. She’d meant to lie about her age, but she’d been too nervous to think clearly. “Almost eighteen. Do I …” She lowered her voice. “Do I need my mom’s permission for the … for this?”
“Not in Washington. I just wanted to make sure it was accurate. You look younger.”
She nodded weakly, relieved. “Oh.”
“Have a seat. We’ll call you.”
Lauren went back to her seat. David sat down beside her. They held hands but didn’t look at each other. Lauren was afraid she’d cry if she did. She read the pam phlet that was on the table, obviously left there by another unfortunate girl.
The procedure, it stated, should take no more than fifteen minutes.
… recovery enough for work within twenty-four to forty-eight hours …
… minimal discomfort …
She closed the pamphlet, set it aside. She might be young, but she knew that what mattered was not the pain or the recovery or the length of the “procedure.”
What mattered was this: Could she live with it?
She pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach. There was life inside her.
Life.
It was easier not to think about her pregnancy that way, easier to pretend a procedure that lasted fifteen minutes could wash away her problem. But what if it didn’t? What if she mourned this lost baby for the rest of her life? What if she felt forever tarnished by today?
She looked up at David. “Are you sure?”
He paled. “What choice do we have?”
“I don’t know.”
A woman walked into the waiting room. Holding a clipboard, she read off some names. “Lauren. Sally. Justine.”
David squeezed her hand. “I love you.”
Lauren was shaking as she got to her feet. Two other girls also stood. Lauren gave David one last, lingering look, then followed the white-clad nurse down the hallway.
“Justine, exam room two,” the woman said, pausing at a closed door.
A frightened-looking teenage girl went inside, closed the door behind her.
“Lauren. Room three,” the woman said a few seconds later, opening a door. “Put on that gown and cap.”
This time Lauren was the frightened-looking girl who walked into the room. As she disrobed and redressed in the white cotton gown and paper cap, she couldn’t help noticing the irony: cap and gown. As a senior, this was hardly the way she’d imagined it. She sat on the edge of the table.
Bright silver cabinets and countertops made her wince; they were too bright beneath the glare of an overhead light.
The door opened. An elderly man walked in, wearing a cap and a loosened mask that flapped against his throat as he moved. He looked tired, as worn down as an old pencil. “Hello,” he said, looking down at her chart. “Lauren. Go ahead and put your feet in the stirrups and lie back. Get comfortable.”
Another person came in. “Hello, Lauren. I’m Martha. I’ll be assisting the doctor.” She patted Lauren’s hand.
Lauren felt the sting of tears in her eyes; they blurred her vision.
“It’ll all be over in a few minutes,” the nurse said.
Over.
A few minutes.
No baby.
The procedure.
And she knew.