Counting Backwards

13

Jessa

March 2022

On the way back to the city, I cranked up the volume on the radio to save myself the discomfort of conversation with Dustin. I didn’t want to get into any of the reasons I’d nearly cried in front of a potential client. To his credit, Dustin turned his attention to his phone. It had started raining hard during the time we’d been with Jacinta, and now, as we made our way back to the Belt Parkway, I felt anxious to get home. Even with all our recent arguing, I suddenly wanted nothing more than to sit beside Vance, curled up under his arm.

After we’d been driving for twenty minutes, Dustin reached out and silenced the song playing on the radio.

“You ready to talk about it?” he asked.

“Ugh. No, thank you.”

“My mom couldn’t have children,” he said.

Why’d he even ask if he was just going to charge ahead anyway? I didn’t bother to hide my exasperation. “And yet, here you sit, your mother’s son.”

“I’m adopted.”

I should’ve been polite after he revealed something personal, but I was so utterly uninterested in having this kind of conversation with him. No one seemed to understand why the idea of adoption didn’t adequately address my desire to have a child. It was a great option for lots of families out there, and maybe we’d end up going that route one day—but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Or think about it. So instead, I lashed out.

“What makes you think you know anything about my life? Yay,”

I said flatly. “You’re adopted. Want a gold star?”

He just raised his eyebrows in response.

I attempted to rein in my emotions. “Look, I’m not trying to disrespect you or your experiences here. I just . . . I just really, really want a child who’s biologically mine. A person like you, who’s grown up in what I’m assuming was a perfectly lovely and wonderful home with glorious parents who adopted you, probably couldn’t understand why I feel that way.”

“Then why don’t you explain it to me? Might be good to try it on a fresh set of ears.”

I was surprised by the sincerity in his tone. It actually would be nice, I thought, to talk to someone about everything I was feeling, someone who hadn’t heard it all from me before, someone who had zero stake in the outcome. But where would I even begin? When I was twelve years old, watching reruns of Boy Meets World in the den off the kitchen, and the phone rang? I could still smell the Mallomars I’d been eating. Greta, the babysitter who came over if my parents went out at night, shrieked in horror from the next room. I remembered the way the cookie melted inside my clenched fist as I ran to the kitchen, where Greta stood with the phone to her ear, suddenly quiet, almost whispering, “Now what happens? Now what? Now what?”

Should I tell Dustin how I hadn’t touched foods with marshmallows ever since? Or maybe I should tell him about the time my grandmother forced me to go bra shopping and the salesgirl kept referring to Gram as “your mother,”

and I cried for so long in the fitting room they had to call security to unlock the door? Or the year after that, when the school sponsored a daddy-and-daughter dance and I helped four of my friends choose their dresses, only to spend the night at home, crying over old photos? No, the thing I probably should tell him was how with each passing day, as Vance and I tried and failed to conceive a child, it seemed less and less likely that I’d ever get back a piece of my parents.

But then I looked back over at him and couldn’t bring myself to share anything at all. Not with Dustin. The fact that he was suddenly acting like a good guy didn’t erase all the asshole moves he’d made in the past.

“Nah, that’s fine,”

I said, turning the music back up.

* * *

That night, as I lay in bed beside Vance, I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts kept boomeranging between my own fertility struggles and everything that had happened to the women at Hydeford. I felt a crushing sense of sorrow for myself, but even more so for the other women. No matter what relief we sought in court, Isobel, Denise, and Jacinta would never birth more children of their own. There was no restoring what had been taken, no adequate consolation that could be granted after the fact. A lawsuit to stop the facility from harming any more women, a hefty monetary settlement—that was all I could offer these women, and I wasn’t sure I could even accomplish that. I needed the firm’s permission to file any new case, and the more I thought about moving forward with a class action, the trickier it seemed.

“Stop stressing and go to sleep,”

Vance mumbled.

“I can’t.”

He flipped over to face me, our noses only inches apart on our pillows. Just enough ambient light flowed through the closed shades to help me make out the contours of his face, the sleepiness of his heavy lids.

“Honestly, Jess, you’re putting me over the edge here. You’re the one who wanted me to go for testing. Now it seems like it’s causing you more stress.”

I resisted the urge to sigh dramatically in response to his off-base comment. Again, Vance and I were out of sync.

“It’s not the sperm test.”

I flipped onto my back to stare at the dark ceiling. “I have to speak to Andrew in the morning,”

I said, mentioning the firm’s supervising attorney. “I just . . . if he doesn’t go for it, I won’t be able to help those women. Not them, and not the women who come after them. I don’t know if he’ll trust me to do this. And then what? I can’t just do nothing.”

I’d finally come clean to Vance the day before about the nature of the medical abuse I suspected at Hydeford. If he started up again about how I couldn’t possibly be right about the clinic, I was going to lose it on him. I now had actual testimony from three different women, and he still thought I might somehow be misinterpreting the situation. All I wanted from him was support, not judgment. Over the years he’d talked me through so many complicated work scenarios, helping me decide what to do. He had an uncanny ability to understand complex situations between partners and associates and how they related to the firm’s overall success, but I was beginning to wonder if all that collaborating we’d done had really just been Vance giving me instructions and me doing as I was told. Now that I was disagreeing with his directives, we were painfully out of step.

“It’s been four years, Jess,”

Vance said, focusing on the topic I actually did want to discuss. I felt my shoulders relax. “The only one who’s not over what happened with the Shantrane case is you. It’s going to be fine.”

He reached for my hand beneath the covers and held tight.

“Maybe,”

I answered half-heartedly, turning back onto my side, this time facing away from him.

“Come here.”

He pulled me closer and nestled me against him, my back against his firm chest.

After another minute, he started running his hand along my rib cage down to the hem of my tank top, which he began pushing up in slow motion.

“Vance.”

My tone was halting, a shorthand to shut down his advances.

“Oh, come on,”

he whispered beseechingly. He leaned down and put his warm lips to the part of my side that was now exposed. The only thing I felt at the contact was annoyance.

“You know we’re not supposed to tonight. Don’t make me be the bad guy here.”

I reached under the covers to shift my shirt back into place. Undeterred, Vance started untying the drawstring of my sweatpants. “Vance.”

My voice was harsher now. “Seriously, stop. You’re going to mess everything up.”

“I promise my sperm supply will replenish itself plenty by morning.”

He tugged at my waistband, but I pushed away his hand with force.

“I’m not doing this.”

My voice was loud. “They said to abstain until after your appointment tomorrow, so that’s what we’re doing.”

I sat up and turned on the lamp on the bedside table. “I don’t even understand. Every time I say it’s a good night to try, I feel like I’m forcing you to have sex with me. Yet all I have to do is say no once, and you turn into a horny teenager? Why can’t you be on the same page as me? Like, ever?”

Vance sat up too, his expression clouding over with anger.

“Because that’s exactly it. We’re not on the same page. Not anymore.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed the quilt we kept folded at the bottom of the bed. “I’m going to sleep in the other room.”

“The other room? Because I said no? On the one night you’re not supposed to ejaculate? Seriously?”

“No, not because you said no.”

He made it halfway out the bedroom door, but then he stepped back toward me. “Because you don’t give a shit about what I want in this baby quest of yours. It’s all about you and your grief and your search for ‘connection.’”

He made quotes in the air as he said it, mocking me. “I don’t even know what else, but you are making me miserable.”

“Miserable?”

I was shouting now too. “But you want babies. All those times you talked about teaching your children all the little things—to love Where the Wild Things Are, to make your grandma’s matzo balls, to run track in high school . . . Why are you acting like I’m the only one these things matter to?”

“Because you are, Jess!”

He moved closer to the side of the bed and bent his head so we were eye to eye. “What I wanted, Jess, was you. Would I also like kids? Yes, you know I do. But that’s not all I want from life. What I’d really like to know is what will happen if it turns out we can never have kids, biological or adopted. Would we survive, just you and me? Would I ever be enough for you on my own?”

His question was ridiculous. There was no reason to think we wouldn’t ever raise children. Certainly we could adopt one day if we chose to go that route. Plus, IVF and surrogacy were still on the table—so many options we hadn’t explored at all. The only reason to drum up a scenario like the one he’d described was if he was actively trying to upset me. But I wouldn’t take the bait.

“Stop. Just stop. You’re going to screw up your test, your body chemistry—”

He interrupted me with a guttural roar, and I understood belatedly that returning to clinical topics was probably the wrong move.

“I just can’t be near you right now,”

he said as he turned and walked out of the room, the navy blue quilt trailing behind him.

* * *

The next morning, I checked the time on my watch again.

Andrew Hendricks, the chair of the litigation department, was at an off-site client meeting and was expected back at noon.

That’s what his assistant had said an hour ago.

Noon was also the time of Vance’s appointment at the doctor.

When he’d made the appointment following our visit to Dr.

LaRusso, Vance insisted he didn’t need me to accompany him.

I thought I should be there for moral support, but he seemed to feel self-conscious, so I’d backed off.

After our argument the night before, I found myself worrying that he might not even show up for his testing, that he might skip the appointment just to spite me.

When I’d woken up, the apartment had been empty, the blue quilt from our bed folded neatly on the end of the sofa in the living room.

Vance had clearly tiptoed around to avoid waking me before he left, and I was choosing to take that as a good sign, that he was being considerate instead of trying to avoid me.

Maybe the folded blanket, left so carefully in place, had been meant to tell me he was ready to reconcile.

I could only guess.

Had he stuck around until I was up, I huffed to myself, maybe I’d have at least some inkling of what he was currently feeling.

Five years earlier, when we got married, I’d thought marriage would change my life and end my time of feeling alone.

After all the years of therapy and planning and bucket lists, I had turned myself into a carefully curated person, finally able to live a happier life.

That’s what marriage had signaled to me.

But as I sat at my cluttered desk that morning taking stock, I was unsure of who exactly I’d become since then or whether I was actually any happier now than before I met Vance.

Somehow everything had just gotten more complicated.

My office phone rang, and the admin on the other end of the line informed me that Andrew was back and ready to see me.

“Jessa.”

Andrew smiled warmly as I stepped into his office.

He was seated behind his large glass desk, three computer monitors aglow on its gleaming surface, and his cell phone in his hand, dinging with notifications.

As usual, he was dressed in a crisp, pastel button-down shirt, obviously expensive, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

A pair of eyeglasses rested on top of his snow-white hair.

For someone in his late sixties, Andrew didn’t show any signs of slowing down, still always doing a million things at once. “Just one more sec.”

He looked back to his phone and began typing something.

While he tapped out the communication, I stood there awkwardly, looking around his meticulous office.

Andrew’s setup always reminded me of my dad’s office at his old firm, which was still headquartered only three blocks away.

Andrew’s office had clearly been attended to by a professional designer, with its intentional placement of desktop accessories, floor statues, and area rugs.

A pair of wooden giraffes in one corner stood about four feet high, and an enormous framed black-and-white depiction of a Ferrari covered in graffiti graced the far wall.

My father’s office hadn’t been anywhere near as flashy, but partners at his firm had each decorated their offices in varying themes.

Mom always loved how it gave the stuffy corporate attorneys a little bit of charisma.

The offices here at Dillney, Forsythe & Lowe were more sterile in their uniformity, except for Andrew’s, with its burst of personality.

Sadly, I knew already that despite the decor, Andrew was just one more by-the-book lawyer.

I felt myself starting to sweat in anticipation of our conversation.

“All righty then,”

he finally said, placing his phone on the desk and sitting up straighter in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

He motioned to one of the two purple leather chairs opposite him, and I dutifully sat down.

“I’ve been working on this pro bono immigration case,”

I started.

Andrew nodded, but his eyes slid over to one of his computer screens. He was already losing interest at the mention of a non-billable matter. I decided to get straight to the point.

“I think I’ve uncovered a pattern of serious medical abuse at the detention facility, and I want to file a class action suit. That’s why I’m here, for authorization.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath.

“Jessa.”

He said the one word like it answered everything.

“Please, just hear me out.”

A droplet of sweat trickled between my breasts, and I was glad I’d worn a dark high-necked blouse. I should have known he’d try to shut me down from the get-go.

“You’re on the Witlock matter, and you’re basically running the show on Everson Towels and Matherson’s negotiation. It just doesn’t make sense,”

he said, steepling his fingers and leaning even farther back. He regarded me a moment and then continued. “Now that you’re thriving again, to put you back into the limelight like that, especially when you’re in the middle of another negotiation . . . We can’t do it.”

He shook his head as he finished.

I’d prepared myself for him to bring up Shantrane, expecting him to point to that case during our meeting. I just hadn’t expected him to get there so quickly.

“It was four years ago, Andrew,”

I said, echoing Vance’s words from the night before. Shantrane had been one of our most important clients, and four years earlier, I’d been quite proud of myself when, at only twenty-seven years old, I’d been staffed as one of the leads on the matter. I spent months working with them on a complex negotiation, and when I finally got the other side to agree to Shantrane’s patently unreasonable demands, I’d been a star of the firm.

But then I’d accidentally sent the opposing side an earlier draft of the agreement to sign, not the final version. Both parties signed before our client or anyone at the firm realized the error. The client was stuck with terms significantly less favorable than the ones they’d have gotten had I just double-checked the attachment to one email. Not surprisingly, the firm swiftly lost Shantrane as a client, and I lost all the respect I’d been working so hard to earn.

I would have been fired at another firm, but Andrew’s longtime friendship with my father saved me. Andrew arranged for me to keep my job so long as I kept myself under the radar with clients. Recently, after all this time had passed, and with the solid work I’d produced, I thought I’d finally gotten back to a place of trust and esteem with my colleagues. But not making partner, and the current furrow to Andrew’s brow, said otherwise.

“Our firm has a reputation to uphold, one you greatly jeopardized the last time you were the lead on such a high-profile case.”

“I understand. I really do. And I’m grateful for the chance you’ve given me to prove what I can do. But this case is more important than reputation.”

Speaking slowly, I said, “Women in federal custody are having their uteruses removed without their consent, Andrew.”

He flinched at my words, surprise and horror flashing across his features. I was desperate to make him understand the urgency of the situation. “It’s forced sterilization. It’s . . . it’s . . . eugenics.”

Instead of jumping to his feet to lead the charge like I would have hoped, he stared back at me stoically.

After a beat he asked, “You’re basing this on what? You have proof you can show me?”

Even though I understood many of the senior attorneys at the firm had ceased taking me seriously, I’d been under the impression that Andrew still believed in me, that he thought I was an attorney worth nurturing and supporting. I needed to show him how very serious I was.

I began rattling off all that had been alleged by the women. As I listed one horrid detail after another, he returned to an upright position in his chair again, his gaze intensifying as if I actually had his attention now.

“But only one woman is willing to be named in the complaint?”

“So far,”

I answered. “Only one woman so far. But the others—I know I can get them on board once they know they’re not alone. They’re afraid of the retaliation. But with each one who steps up, I think others will follow. Meanwhile, this doctor, this butcher, is getting away with it.”

Andrew went silent as he thought over my words. He stared blankly down at his desk, the way I’d seen him do so many times in the past. He would retreat into himself when he was parsing through complex issues until he came up with a solution. The longer he maintained that vacant stare, the more optimistic I began to feel.

“Please, Andrew. What if it were your daughter at risk?”

The moment the words escaped my mouth, I wished I could take them back. It was the wrong thing to say. A man like Andrew could never envision his own daughter in a situation like this. He clammed up again and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Jessa. It sounds like a worthwhile case, but I can’t put our firm on the line like that. A case like this would be all over the news, and if it turns out you’re wrong . . .”

He let me fill in the blanks in my mind. “It’s too big of a risk for the firm. You’re talking about going after the federal government.”

“That’s exactly the point,”

I answered. “I have to bring the case, Andrew.”

“I’m sorry, but for the sake of Dillney, Forsythe & Lowe, I can’t let you do it.”

His tone said the matter was settled, but I refused to back down.

“What if I took a leave of absence?”

I surprised myself with the suggestion, but suddenly I knew it was the right thing. “I could file the case on my own, as a solo practitioner. If I did that, would you let me come back? After the case was over?”

He let out a long sigh as he regarded me.

“Honestly? Depending on how it goes, this could become a very high-profile case. If you lose . . .”

He trailed off, and I once again heard everything he wasn’t saying. His lack of support was a surprising betrayal, his willingness to totally shut me down providing a rude awakening about where I actually stood with him. I waited, determined that I wouldn’t make this easier on him.

“Jessa,”

he said, his voice tired, “if the press decided the case was some kind of political move or a wild-goose chase, it’d be too much of a liability. Especially with the bad press after Shantrane, all of it focused on the same one attorney. Clients would wonder why we kept you on, and it’d weaken trust in the firm.”

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I won’t lose,” I said.

“You’re really willing to take that chance?”

Andrew asked. “You think this is what your father would want?”

I felt a burst of anger that he’d bring my dad into this, especially when he knew how important my father was to me.

But maybe it was exactly the right question.

“This is definitely what my father would want,”

I answered, realizing as I said it that it was absolutely the truth. I pictured my dad telling me to count off in my head, and I felt new strength. “I won’t lose,”

I repeated, as much of a promise as it was a wish.

“I really hope you’re right, Jessa. At least this time.”