“Here,” Lizzy prompts gently, relieving me of the task. “I’ll do it.”
“Thanks.” I go back to studying the women surrounding me, finding a few of them also watching me. I bet they’re wondering what my story is, just as I’m wondering what theirs is. But we’re all here for the same reason, to fix the shit situation we’ve gotten ourselves into, no matter how it happened for each of us. I wonder if any of them imagined themselves here. I wonder if their sins are as deep as mine. We all have one thing in common, but are their reasons for being here valid? Are mine? I look down at my stomach, reminding myself that this is the best decision for me.
“Annie,” Lizzy says quietly, pointing the pen at the form and looking at me apologetically. “What do you want me to put here?”
I lean in and read the question. My reason for undergoing the procedure? I don’t know what comes over me. I start laughing, drawing the curiosity of everyone in the room, yet the attention doesn’t embarrass me, nor does it make me stop. I take the clipboard from Lizzy, ignoring her alarmed face as I continue chuckling.
Then I write the most inappropriate response I guess has ever been written on one of these forms. I fill the box with a shortened version of my life these past few months. I note the wife, her pregnancy, and I finish it off with, “I bet she won’t be here to have her baby sucked from her womb.” I sign where indicated, slam the pen down, and shove the form back into Lizzy’s lap. Then my laughter abruptly transforms into body-jerking sobs. I cover my face with my hands and let my tears pour into them.
“Oh shit, Annie.” Lizzy sighs, placing the clipboard at her feet and throwing her arms around me, hushing me gently. “It’s not too late,” she soothes, rubbing at my back. “You can’t do this unless you’re one hundred percent sure. I won’t let you.”
It’s way past too late. “I’m sure,” I weep, lying, breaking away from Lizzy and wiping at my eyes.
All the thoughts I’ve safely pushed to the deepest parts of my mind have come thundering forward as I sit here in the waiting room, waiting to be called so they can rid my body of my final reminder of Jack. Unexpected anger starts to bubble in my tummy. I focus on the perfection of my surroundings, the relaxed atmosphere, the friendliness of the staff, and the luxury environment. They’re trying to make everyone who walks through that door as comfortable as possible about what they’re going to do. Make them forget. Because something as hideous as an abortion couldn’t possibly happen in such a lovely place.
“Miss Ryan?” I look up to find another smiling member of the staff standing over me. “We’re ready for you. If you’d like to come with me.” She gestures the way.
Like? Would I like to? I get to my feet with Lizzy’s help and slowly start to follow, my legs heavy, my heart heavier.
We’re shown into a room. More luxury. I’m directed to a chair. More comfort. I’m spoken to by a nurse. More friendliness. I blindly sign more forms with the nurse’s lovely silver pen. I feel like I’ve stepped out of my body. I’m standing to the side, watching people talk at me as I sit in the chair like a zombie, someone holding my hand comfortingly. Lizzy is next to me, answering questions, helping things along.
It’s a blur. Everything is a blur. I’m surrounded by activity in slow motion and a fuzz of white noise. I nod when I think I should be nodding and I stand to let Lizzy help me into a gown. Then I’m being guided through another door, Lizzy holding my hand until she’s forced to drop it when I’m out of reach. I hear her supressed sob as I enter a room that’s clinical and white. There’s a bed and medical equipment at every turn—medical equipment that’s going to kill my baby. My breaths start to come shallow and fast, my body chilling to the bone but sweating. I don’t want to do this. I can’t talk as my hand is taken, can’t speak to tell them that I’ve changed my mind. I’m helped onto the hard bed. A friendly face appears, floating over me, his mouth moving but I’m not hearing his words. My stomach swirls, my head spins.
All I can hear is Stop!
Stop them!
I feel tapping on the back of my hand. I see a needle coming closer. “No,” I mumble. “I ca…” My words fade to a slur.
Then everything goes black.
*
I feel groggy, exhausted, and sick. The heat that my body is kicking off is unbearable, yet I’m shivering uncontrollably. I move a little, feeling a thin sheet shift across my body. Then I open my eyes. And I remember where I am. And intense pain steams forward and makes my stomach convulse. I roll onto my side and throw up in long, painful heaves. But nothing comes up. Just bile.
A flurry of activity breaks out, nurses appearing from every direction. “Annie!” Lizzy’s stricken voice hurts my ears and I moan, dropping to my back. “Annie, can you hear me?” I blink, waiting for my vision to clear, and when it does, I see her suspended over the bed with pure dread distorting her pretty face. But she only holds my bleary attention for a few seconds, because someone standing behind her steals it.
Jack.
He looks like he’s in shock, standing still and silent in the background while people fuss around me, asking how I feel. Numb. I’m numb.
Approaching slowly, his haunted eyes fixed on mine, he comes to a stop at the side of the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I look away, tearful and ashamed. It’s too late now.
His hand rests on mine and he sits on the edge of the bed. “Annie, look at me,” he demands with a harsh edge. I refuse, so remorseful.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move,” a nurse says, gesturing curtly for Jack to move to the side.
“One minute!” Jack snaps, standing firm. “Just give me one minute.” He takes my face and turns me to him, forcing me to look at him. To face what I’ve done. His eyes are watery. “What were you thinking?”
“Sir, please. I need to check Annie’s blood pressure.”
Jack’s jaw begins to pulse, the pressure of his fingertips firmer on my cheeks. He flinches and looks up when Lizzy takes his arm, encouraging him to move and give the nurse the space she needs. Jack shifts to the side under duress and watches the nurse move in.
“How are you feeling, Annie?” she asks as she presses a button on a machine to the side of me and slips a small gadget on the end of my finger.
“Okay,” I mumble, feeling the band around my arm begin to inflate.
“That’s good.” She makes a note of my blood pressure on a mobile device in her hand before removing the band from my arm. “Let’s get you sitting up, shall we?” She helps me up a little, and I manage with surprising ease. “What a pickle you’ve gotten into,” she chuckles. “Patients usually pass out on their way to the OR, not on the table.”
I look at her in a daze. “Sorry?”