Chapter 4 Stranger Danger
Self-loathing dogs me through the next day, along with a wave of guilt at my lack of preparation.
I have so much to do—finding and vetting new volunteers, responding to outreach opportunities for our clinic, and reaching out to some of my acquaintances at other clinics to see if they’re experiencing an increase in protest activity.
I’m always worried that ICE will show up to detain our patients, or that we’re going to be falsely accused of a crime and the police will raid us, or that someone will bomb us, or that the antis will send in a fake patient to sabotage us so that we lose our licenses.
Perhaps it’s paranoia, but all these things have happened to other clinics.
By the end of the day, I’ve successfully gotten two inactive volunteers to commit to shifts and confirmed a tabling opportunity at a big Holi expo three weeks away, but I’ve gotten no bites on my social media posts looking for new volunteers and a couple of the other clinics have confirmed that the intensity of protest activity is unique to us. Some special hell.
On the train back to my apartment, down in Near South Side, I scroll on my phone. My feed knows me and knows what I’m interested in, but unfortunately, updates on the body autonomy space tend to be doom and gloom.
I’ve been a reproductive justice lawyer for thirty years, and here’s why I’m worried about the Comstock Act, one post reads.
Of course I click. I have some basic knowledge about the Comstock Act—something about not mailing obscene materials in the postal service—because it’s been referenced in the past in relation to being able to mail abortion pills.
But this woman, who I follow because of her legal expertise and who has yet to lead me astray, explains that the problem with the Comstock Act, beyond the obvious, is that it redefines obscenity to include objects, not just speech.
Birth control pills could be an obscenity under the Act.
Look around you, she writes. Do you own anything that didn’t enter the mail system at some point?
Do you take any drugs that weren’t shipped to you or to the store?
It sends a shiver down my spine just thinking about it.
I remember being in college, and the student health doctor chuckling and commenting, “Good on you” when I asked for birth control pills.
It creeped me out, especially since I started taking them because a friend said it would help with my period.
Even as pro-choice as I was, I felt the urge to show the smarmy doctor that I wasn’t like other girls.
I wanted birth control for the “right reasons.” It’s embarrassing now; we’ll all suffer no matter our reasons if this future comes to pass.
Any day now, the ban could come. I imagine my job duties including driving to Canada to pick up abortion drugs.
Would that be allowed? Where do they manufacture abortion drugs?
I hop from thought to thought, unable to fully grasp any one of them.
I doubt the protesters have any idea of the consequences of their actions.
A woman could die right in front of them from miscarriage-induced sepsis, and they would still believe in their rightness.
Their overlords speak the language of dogma and control, not life and conception.
Even pro-choice people, who make up the majority of the country, don’t realize that abortion was simply a helpful tool to reunite a fracturing conservative movement post-segregation.
It doesn’t matter that the antis’ “heartbeat” at six weeks is just an electrical impulse, because the fetus doesn’t have a heart yet.
It doesn’t matter that many of these collections of fertilized cells are not capable of growing into babies, and that even the ones that can develop are far from having any markers of independent life.
It doesn’t matter that women are dying, or what doctors and scientists say.
Hell, it doesn’t matter that the Bible says nothing about when life begins.
Back then, they thought a life began at quickening, when the fetus started moving around.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I’m giving speeches in my head, an old habit from when I thought I would go to law school and change the world.
By the time I get home, I’m shaking and nauseous with the futility of it all.
I’m only pressing on an open wound, because I’m powerless to change anything at all.
I shuck off my backpack and coat and lie down on the hardwood, unable to do anything more.
The despair is too overwhelming. I close my eyes, just for a moment.
I wake up an hour later, supremely sore from lying on the floor, to someone knocking at my door.
I’m perversely grateful to whoever is forcing me to get up; otherwise I’d probably have stayed like that for hours.
It’s around six thirty p.m., and pitch-dark outside.
I live on the second floor of a three-story house, so it’s usually safe enough to answer the door.
Something makes me hesitate, though. I look through the small peephole and see a bald, middle-aged white man in a suit.
His expression is so perfectly neutral he could be an automaton.
I slide the chain into place, and then open the door the six inches it allows.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
The man smiles, a weird and disproportionate thing, like he has a few too many teeth. His smile grows wider and wider, grotesque, but then I blink, and he’s normal.
“My name is Daniel Olsen,” he says. “I’m here on behalf of a third party interested in buying your assets.”
Assets? It seems like a standard inquiry about my apartment, but I scan him for a recording device.
The antis have pulled stunts like this before, goading tired abortion workers into giving them a sound bite for Fox News.
A little bit of sarcasm can be headline fodder on a slow news day.
“I’m a renter,” I say, trying to keep my statements as vague and inoffensive as possible.
He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket.
“Nisha… Cool-car-knee?” I’ve heard worse butcherings of Kulkarni, but it’s still pretty heinous.
I don’t respond, since I certainly know better than to confirm my name and address for a stranger, especially one this suspicious.
My name is only signed on a nonpublic lease.
He knows me from something else. “Well, is that you?”
“I don’t own this place,” I say to him. “I can’t help you.”
He leans toward me, and suddenly I see long teeth jutting out of his face and an inhumanly long neck twisting into an impossible S shape. I flinch, and he looks normal again.
“I understand you must be concerned about men appearing at your door, since you’re a young woman living alone. Have I done something to offend you?” he asks.
“I really can’t help you,” I say again. “Perhaps you can try the next building over?” I’m wondering if I can shut the door in his face, but I don’t want him to try to break in.
I have no idea how sturdy this door actually is, and I don’t want to find out.
And something in my mind is ringing alarm bells, screaming, Run, escape, this isn’t right. This isn’t normal.
At last, the man’s face produces a snarl, with teeth that are pointed and red-brown, like those of a just-sated wolf. Have I lost it? “Please reconsider, Ms. Kulkarni. My employer has much to offer you.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I say. But I can see in his eyes he knows there’s nobody I can call. The Chicago police aren’t likely to be helpful, if they ever show up. He can stall me as long as he wants. “Goodbye, Mr. Olsen,” I say firmly.
He reaches into his back pocket, and I’m convinced he’s about to shoot me.
He pulls out something black, irregularly shaped, and I dive out of the way, slamming the door shut.
I round the short hallway into my living room and collapse against the wall, arms covering my head.
Outside, there’s a persistent beeping noise, but no gunshot.
No explosion. My heart is hammering, even as I berate myself.
Imprinted on my eyelids, I see the shape of the man in my doorway.
Eight feet tall, with bloody tusks and horns, a long neck, and a pointed tail.
“I’m sorry,” the man calls. “I understand your reluctance. I can leave a business card for you to call me. I would love to arrange a time to speak further. I am so very interested in your opinion.” I can’t bring myself to move or respond.
“I’m not going to leave until I know we have an understanding, sweetheart.
” I reach for my phone. I know one of our volunteers lives near me.
It would be so unprofessional, but… what choice do I have?
From outside, the man says, “Good evening! May I speak with you for a moment?”
There’s a low murmur of voices. Did Nadiyah see what was happening and send Faruq up?
I don’t realize that I’m standing until I’m already creeping toward the door.
The voices are quiet, the timbre of people trying to whisper but failing, so it’s hard to tell who the second person is, but it doesn’t sound like either of my downstairs neighbors.
I press myself to the door and hear Aai say, in accented but perfect English, “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I hear footsteps retreating, and then Aai knocks on my door, right against my ear. “Nisha? Are you okay? Open up!”
I manage to undo the chain with shaking hands and yank open the door. It’s only been a week since I saw my mom, but I throw myself into her arms.
“Who was that?” Aai asks.
“A protester, I guess? They’ve followed other people before.” Now that I think about it, though, he never brought up the clinic. “Did he look… normal?”
“As normal as any man can, but this is why you need to buy a security system,” she says, and I laugh. “Say Om. You need to calm down.”
“I’m fine,” I say. I’m a little terse, and Aai pulls away to glare at me. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and exhale a long “Om.”
“That was so sad,” she says. “Again.”
I do it twice more before she nods in satisfaction.
“You didn’t forget, did you?” she asks. “We need to go to the Bhats, but you smell. Take a shower, fast. Go, go!”