Her mother loved weddings.
Given the quality of her education, Claudia has done reasonably well in life. Given the quality of her education, she should have ten unwanted children and be riddled with syphilis.
Her afternoon with the Modess rep did nothing to enlighten her, and yet, for some reason, she’d needed a parent’s permission to attend the session. Deb had signed the form without comment. They’d never had a conversation about sex and never would. The following year, when Claudia started bleeding, she saw no reason to mention it. She simply swiped a maxi pad from the box under the sink.
NAOMI AND CLAUDIA WERE WORKING THE HOTLINE.
The caller gave her name, Brittany, and asked how Claudia’s day was going. Never underestimate the politeness of mannerly young women! Even those who’d been date-raped or infected with chlamydia were happy to observe the conventions, reflexively eager to please.
Brittany sounded anxious. Four days earlier, she’d had unprotected sex. She was scared to death she might be pregnant.
“It just happened,” she said—apologetically, as though she had wronged Claudia personally. “It was all my fault.”
Over the years, Claudia had heard the same words from teenagers and middle-aged women; from nurses and teachers, cops and soldiers; sex workers and rape victims and survivors of incest. It was a lesson they’d been taught from birth, swallowed and digested: at all times, in all circumstances, the woman was to blame. Claudia resisted the urge to correct them. If you’re pregnant, you had help.
Brittany said, “What can I do?”
It was a simple question with a confusing answer. Most pharmacies in Massachusetts dispensed emergency contraception without a prescription. The morning-after pill could be taken within five days of unprotected sex, but its effectiveness diminished with each passing day. To complicate matters, it was less effective in overweight women. Explaining this to a caller was delicate.
“This is a little personal,” Claudia said, “but how much do you weigh?”
Silence on the line. Of all the prying questions she asked the callers (Does it burn when you urinate? Is the lesion red, or crusted over? Is your husband circumcised?), this one incited the most outrage. She’d been called a nosy bitch, a body Nazi. Occasionally a caller hung up in disgust, but no one ever said I don’t know. Claudia had yet to encounter a woman who didn’t know her own body weight. (Her mother—a woman who could polish off a can of buttercream frosting in a single sitting—had known her weight to the ounce.)
Grudgingly, Brittany named a number.
Claudia explained that for a woman her size, the safest bet was an IUD, which prevented implantation. The insertion took just a few minutes. Dr. Gurvitch had an opening in her schedule and could see Brittany that afternoon.
But there was a complication: Brittany lived in rural western Massachusetts, far from public transportation, and didn’t own a car.
There was always a complication.
In Brittany’s case, the answer was clear. She lived half a mile from a CVS drugstore, which dispensed the morning-after pill without a prescription. After four days it would be less effective than an IUD, but far more effective than doing nothing at all.
“I’ll go tonight,” Brittany promised.
Claudia said, “Go now.”
When she hung up, Naomi stripped off her headset. “Was that another EC? That’s the third one today.”
“It’s the snow,” said Claudia. “Storm babies. It accounts for half the population of New England.”
“These girls,” Naomi said, shaking her head.
She spoke of the callers as if they were her own daughters: What are these girls thinking? Exasperation in her voice; affection, amusement, a grudging admiration. She seemed to be rooting for them. Naomi was the mother Claudia wished she’d had.
She often had this feeling about acquaintances and even strangers, as though parents were parts of a life that could be swapped out like an alternator or a fan belt. The truth, she knew, was more complicated. If Naomi had been her mother, she would be someone else entirely, unrecognizable to her current self.
Unlike Claudia’s mother, and unlike Claudia herself, Naomi was patient. Answering the same questions—month after month, year after year—Claudia sometimes wanted to throttle the callers. Their crises seemed unnecessary. Truly, it was not that difficult to avoid getting pregnant.
“How was Maine?” Naomi asked.
“I didn’t go. I came to my senses.”
“Did you have a talk with your tenant?”
“Not yet,” Claudia said. Nicolette’s phone still wasn’t answering, which might mean anything or nothing. “I’ll run up there next week, maybe. It isn’t urgent,” she added, which may or may not have been true.
At noon, predictably, the line fell silent. Friday afternoons were always dead; young women were otherwise occupied, furiously calling and texting, making plans for the weekend. In a few hours they’d be off doing the things they’d be calling the hotline about on Monday morning. Claudia was about to step out for lunch when the phone rang again.
She slipped on her headset.
“Hello?” The caller was male—unusual, but only a little. About a third of the STD patients were men. This one had a deep voice, a hard Boston accent. “What is this numbah?”
“We’re a medical facility,” said Claudia. “This is the counseling line.”
“A facility,” he repeated. “Like, a hospital?”
“How can I help you?” Claudia said.
“My wife has been calling this numbah.” Traffic noise in the background, a motorcycle roaring past. “Her name is Alicia Marzo. M-A-R-Z-O. Is she a patient there?”
“That information is confidential,” Claudia said.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! It’s a simple question. Is she or isn’t she?”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Claudia. “It’s against the law.”
A car horn in the distance, the Dopplered wail of an ambulance passing. The caller was driving somewhere.
“Are you shitting me? This is my wife we’re talking about.”
“It’s called the Health Information Privacy Act,” she said evenly. “You can Google it.”
Another car horn. The caller, clearly, was a lousy driver. Hang up the phone, buddy, she thought. Keep your eyes on the road.
“This is bullshit,” the caller fumed. “Let me talk to your supervisor.”
“I am the supervisor.”
“I’ll come over there if I have to,” he said, louder than necessary. “Someone will have to talk to me.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” said Claudia, but the line had gone silent. He’d already hung up the phone.
THERE WAS A PROCEDURE FOR HANDLING SUCH CALLS. VERBAL threats were to be documented using the Suspicious Caller Report.
* * *
Date and time of call: ____________
Duration: ___________
Did the caller make a specific threat? Check all that apply:
Shooting___ Explosive device___ Fire___ Sexual assault___ Other threat (please specify):______
How did the caller sound? Check all that apply:
Male___ Female___ Indeterminate gender___
Young___ Elderly___