She met his gaze over Bex’s body and nodded.
Izzy pulled the tubing from its sterile plastic packet. She reached for a Kelly clamp, and then picked up the stab blade. She wished she’d had the foresight to grab Betadine or an alcohol wipe, but this would have to do. Lifting Bex’s right arm, Izzy trailed her fingers to a spot between the fourth and fifth ribs and paused.
Just because she had seen this done didn’t mean she was qualified to do it herself.
“Go on now,” Dr. Ward urged. “Make the cut.”
She drew in her breath and pressed the scalpel deeply into Bex’s skin. A thin line of blood rose. Izzy stuck her left index finger into the incision and felt for the chest wall, blocking out Bex’s scream. She lifted the Kelly clamp with her other hand and slipped it through the incision.
“You’re going to have to push hard,” Dr. Ward said.
Izzy nodded and maneuvered the nose of the clamp above the rib, then punched through the chest wall with a pop. Immediately there was a whoosh of air, and blood spattered into her lap. Bex gasped, finally able to breathe.
It had been not just a pneumothorax but a hemothorax. Blood, not air, had filled her pleural cavity.
Izzy opened the clamp and twisted it back and forth to make a bigger opening in the chest wall. With her index finger, she felt the balloon of Bex’s lung as it rose and deflated. She pulled out the clamp, keeping its nose open so that she didn’t accidentally snag the lung. Keeping her finger still inside the chest cavity, she inched the suction tubing into the incision until it reached the tip. Only then did she slide her finger out.
Izzy didn’t have anything to hold the tube in place, or any way to suture it in. So she grabbed the plastic package that the tubing had come in and pressed it up against Bex’s side to make an occlusive seal. Dr. Ward reached for the tape that she’d used to secure his tourniquet and ripped off two pieces for her to secure the plastic.
“Miss Izzy,” he said, impressed, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were born to the ER.”
The tube had done its job: blood was running from the tube and dripping on the floor. Izzy wrapped a towel around the end of it, wishing for a container. With a container she could monitor how much blood Bex had lost. Eventually, if Bex didn’t get a transfusion, she would die.
Izzy felt a hand grab her shoulder. She turned to find the shooter holding a wastebasket. “Put it all in here,” he said, jerking his head toward the discarded instruments on the floor.
She gathered the needle, the tenaculum, the bloody Kelly clamp, and the items she hadn’t used, and threw them inside.
“Is that it?” he demanded.
Izzy nodded.
He waved the gun, gesturing that he wanted her to step back so that he could see for himself. Satisfied that nothing had been left behind, he backed away and set the wastebasket beneath the receptionist’s desk.
Bex grabbed her hand. She already looked more alert, and definitely more comfortable. “Thank … you,” she murmured. She tugged until Izzy leaned down.
Her voice was a prayer. Save my niece.
Izzy drew back, looking at her face. She nodded.
Izzy fussed with the edges of the tape where it met Bex’s skin. With her free hand, she reached beneath Bex’s hip and retrieved the scalpel she had hidden there after making the incision. She leaned closer, her hands folded between her and Bex, so that only the two of them could see Izzy retract the blade and slip it through the neck of her scrubs, tucking it into her bra.
—
ALTHOUGH HUGH HAD ORDERED THE police to clear the area, there were still stragglers. The media, who were too stupid or ambitious to leave. Gawkers, with their cellphones out, recording footage to post on social media. There were still a few of the protesters, too, although they’d moved a safer distance away to hold a prayer circle. Littered on the ground they’d ceded were the hallmarks of their beliefs: a sign that proclaimed ABORTION IS HOMICIDE; dolls painted with fake blood and abandoned in haste, limbs twisted on the concrete in their own miniature crime scene.
Hugh couldn’t remember the last time the cops had been called to an altercation here at the Center. For years the employees had coexisted with the protesters the way that oil and water settled in a jar: in the same space, but separate. Each side had an odd, grudging respect for the fact that in spite of the obstacles, they both showed up every day to do the work they believed needed to be done. The protest had mostly been nonviolent and civil.
Except, Hugh noticed, right now.
A ripple of surprise ran through the protesters, triggering some innate reflex he had for impending trouble. He turned around in time to see a young woman with pink hair break through their little sanctimonious tangle. It was the girl he had interviewed an hour ago, the employee who had called 911 after running out of the Center when shooting began. She stood toe-to-toe with one of the protesters, a tall, round man with a shock of white hair.
“Rachel,” the man said. “Please. Come pray.”
Hugh watched her poke the man in the chest. “Allen, you do not get to act like this wasn’t all your fault.”
He was mildly surprised to realize she knew him by name.
“He’s not one of us,” Allen replied.
“How can you even stand here and say that?” she cried. “If people like you didn’t spout the bullshit you do, people like him wouldn’t exist.”
Hugh took a step forward. “This is an active hostage situation,” he said. “You all need to go home.”
“I can’t,” Rachel sobbed. “Not until I know everyone in there is safe.”
“That’s why we’re praying. There’s someone pro-life inside,” said Allen.
Hugh ran a hand through his hair. “Clearly.”
The protester shook his head. “Someone else,” he clarified. “She’s a hostage.”
—
IN TENTH-GRADE DEBATE CLASS, JANINE had to debate Roe v. Wade. She stood to argue for overturning it, her knees trembling as she pressed them together, and saying that abortion was ending a life. She had lost the debate, according to her teacher, who was pro-choice. But afterward a girl named Holly came up to her and asked if she was busy Saturday morning. Which was how Janine wound up with her arms linked to those of two strangers who were part of Holly’s church, forming a human “life chain” that stretched for a mile.
Over the years, Janine had not wavered in her belief that life starts at conception. And yet, it was something she usually kept secret, because when you admitted you were pro-life people started looking at you like you were not so smart, or like you were part of a religious cult. Or they said they were personally opposed to abortion, but believed in a woman’s right to choose. That was like insisting, I’d never abuse my kid, but I’m not going to tell my neighbor he can’t beat his son.
Janine had kept coming back to this truth like a lodestone. It was what brought her to Mississippi to work with Allen. They were so close—only one clinic away from ridding the state of abortion facilities.
She liked the other protesters. In addition to Allen, there was Margaret, who had CP, and who said the rosary as patients passed. There was the professor, who taught at the university. Ethel and Wanda handed out blessing bags as the women walked into the clinic.
It had been Allen’s idea that as their youngest member, Janine should start a vlog in which she explained, from a millennial point of view, why abortion was murder. Her first installment was going to be called “Inside the Abortion Factory.”
She had wanted to get up close and personal. But she had never anticipated this.