Twenty-Three
The elderly man is upon her before she can swerve out of his path.
She blames it on the cloud of distractions hanging over her, wrestling for space in her mind—thoughts of deft fingers, a capable and clever mouth, moans and pleas and sighs, and confusing confessions that make her head spin and keep her up at night.
“Don’t kill your child,” a voice croaks. “I can help reverse your abortion.”
Startled, she stares at the old man, gray and stooped with age. He extends a pamphlet featuring an image of what might be an anatomically correct fetus, but she doesn’t examine it too closely.
“No.” Sidestepping him, she doesn’t even bother refuting his claim that abortions can be reversed. Keeping her head down, she walks the last few steps to the clinic doors, ignoring the large posters screaming ask me about adoption and abortion is murder next to stock photos of smiling children.
“Jesus still loves you,” Charlie hears the man wheeze. “He’s ready to accept your penance.”
Gritting her teeth so hard she’s surprised they don’t crack, she tugs open the clinic door. It shuts behind her with a heavy thud, the silence of the empty waiting room a welcome relief.
They have a clinic-wide rule about not interacting with the protestors, lest it provide fuel for their self-righteous fires—or for a lawsuit—but some days are harder than others.
Like today, when she wants nothing more than to take her frustration out on a white man who thinks women should give birth no matter the cost.
The protestors are usually docile, but lately it feels like they’ve become more aggressive, bolder in their sense of righteousness.
Before, they would stop trying to interact with her as soon as she turned into the clinic or averted her gaze.
Now they hover next to the door, shouting at patients—patients whose appointments aren’t even for abortions—to repent, to seek the Lord, to save their child.
Two weeks ago, she triaged a young woman in tears because one of the older women had shouted that she was a “whore no mother could love.”
The patient just wanted a Pap smear.
It’s two days into spring semester, and she hasn’t heard from Wes in a week. She can’t blame him, considering how they left things. Yet she can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop missing him, feeling selfish and cowardly, yearning to talk to him, to feel his touch again.
She’s so preoccupied by her thoughts of Wes combined with the to-do list for the Expo, she doesn’t even process the name of the first patient until she’s standing in the room and a chipper voice calls out a cheery hello.
Emilia Quinn sits on the exam table, her jean-clad legs swinging over the side, smiling at her.
Charlie gives herself a mental shake, trying to clear her mind from her many distractions. “I didn’t even realize it was you.”
Emilia beams, the familiar dimple making an appearance. “I’ve been coming here for years to get tested. Dr. Angelo put in my IUD last year when they started offering it with sedation. What a game changer.”
Charlie manages a smile while feeling somewhat breathless at Emilia’s bright exuberance so early in the morning.
Setting her laptop on the counter, she begins taking her vitals.
Emilia watches her maneuver the pulse oximeter on her finger. “How’s planning for the Expo coming?”
“Good,” she says, noting her pulse and oxygen level—normal. “Betsy’s confirmed, and we’re working on a few other comedians.”
“I knew she would. She loves that kind of stuff.”
Charlie hums in acknowledgment, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Emilia’s upper arm. The room fills with the hum of the machine. While she waits for final reading, she returns to her stool, opening Emilia’s chart to record her vitals.
“Can I tell you something?” Emilia asks.
“Of course,” Charlie says, not looking up from her screen.
“I hope this isn’t weird, but I knew who you were the second you walked into the room at the party.”
Charlie snaps her head up.
Emilia casts her a rueful smile. “Wes talked about you constantly when he came home freshman year. He’ll probably kill me for telling you this, but I’m his favorite and only sister, so he’ll get over it.”
Charlie stares at her, the confession making her heart beat erratically in her chest. She feels the familiar flush coming on, and she’s about five seconds from it spreading down her neck and across her chest.
The blood pressure machine finishes its reading, the final numbers flashing on the screen. Charlie stands and removes the cuff from Emilia’s arm, not looking at her as she does.
“You could say I’ve wanted to meet you for a while,” Emilia adds softly.
“Wes and I aren’t—” Charlie begins before pausing. “We’re not particularly close anymore.”
Emilia’s eyes light up with a challenge before she says, “So that’s why he skipped out on my parents’ New Year’s Eve party to take a four-hour train ride to see you?”
Charlie wants to refute whatever Emilia’s implying, wants to insist it isn’t what she thinks it is. But her throat clogs with emotion, and she’s desperate to escape under the much too observant gaze of Wes’s sister.
Gathering up her laptop, she sends her a polite smile. “Dr. Angelo will be with you shortly.”
Emilia smiles, so reminiscent of her brother, her chest aches at the sight. “It was good seeing you, Charlie. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”