Chapter 16 Jab, Cross, Uppercut
On Saturday, the protesters are extra awful, and coated with Asmodeus’s oily magic.
It’s as if, having heard about the fire, they think we’re more vulnerable.
Just one push away from folding. I see at least one coach bus arrive, full of protesters, signs, and other shit.
Someone is setting up what looks like a TV monitor by plugging a bunch of power cords into a car.
That car is definitely going to catch on fire, but they certainly won’t hear it from me.
I see Steve, holding a sign but looking quite downcast. When I catch his eye, he squares his shoulders and approaches me.
I backtrack, then remember that I have magic and just survived a fire.
“I was very sorry to hear about what happened,” he calls out. “Someone could have been hurt. I want you to know I don’t support that.”
Part of me wants to burst out laughing. It was literally his people who did it! But I guess it is nice that one of the antis here today doesn’t want us to die.
“Thanks,” I offer. Then a patient walks over and our weird little truce is forgotten.
I get the first few patients inside with no problem, until a mother and young daughter round the corner.
At first I think they’re going to the shopping complex down the street, since the daughter looks eleven or twelve and usually the parents of older children come in on schooldays.
They’re both looking at the protester gauntlet with apprehension.
Then I realize that the kid’s bulky jacket is trying to hide a pregnancy.
Unfortunately, I notice this at about the same time the protesters do, and they start screaming and jeering in an insane cacophony.
The mother tries to curl herself around the kid, and I sprint up to them.
“Come on,” I say. “We need to move.”
But the girl is rooted to the spot, staring at the ground. The mother tugs her arm.
“Don’t force your baby to destroy a precious gift from god,” one woman says, her voice sickly sweet. “What mama wants her child to have an increased risk of suicide and cancer? You’re going to be a wonderful grandma.”
The mother’s hand curls into a fist. “My baby is twelve,” she hisses. “Get out of her face.”
“You must be so scared and emotional,” the woman says. The other protesters are still shouting about hell and the devil, but clearly she’s been elected to play good cop. “I know I would be. But this is a gift, and you’ve got to make the right choice—”
The mother puts her hands over her daughter’s ears. “Her cousin raped her,” she says. “So shut the fuck up.”
“Girls this age are so adventurous,” the woman says. “They make up all sorts of stories. But god wouldn’t gift her a baby if it had been rape. Women’s bodies are designed to carry life, after all. It’s the consequence of her actions—”
I don’t actually hear the rest of the sociopath’s word salad, because I notice a subtle shift in the mother’s eyes and launch forward just in time to catch her fist in my hand. Going to jail for assault is not what she needs. My eyes water from the hit, and the mother gasps.
“Let go of me!”
The protester grabs my arm, a mean smile on her face. “Let go of her.”
“You don’t want to fight,” I say, and both of them snort. “Let me go and leave her alone!” I shout, and power surges through me. I release the mother’s hand and shake off the protester; both stare at me blankly.
Clearly Muya’s training worked. I barely tried, and my power did as I asked. But the situation is volatile and there’s no time to reflect. I focus on the girl.
“Want to get inside?” I ask, offering my hand.
“It’s okay if you need time, but it’s less loud in there.
” The girl seems to unclench slightly. I cannot begin to imagine what she’s going through.
“Let’s just take one step. Every step will get quieter, okay?
Just one step.” And she does it. This is how I bribe myself out of my stupors sometimes, but this girl isn’t lazy, just overwhelmed.
“Amazing work! It’s so loud out here, sometimes I forget that I can walk away, too.
One more step, yeah?” The girl takes steps forward.
I’m aware that her mother is moving with us, cussing out the protesters along the way, but my focus is on the girl. “Okay, one more.”
All of a sudden, the girl sprints forward, knocking into a protester and continuing until she’s all the way inside the clinic. Her mom and I run after her, and I feel overwhelming relief.
“She just joined track and field,” her mother says, sniffling, and I see she’s begun to cry. I don’t blame her. “Don’t worry, I reported it to the police. But she’s still going to suffer more than him.” Before I can respond, she’s entered the clinic to find her daughter.
I think of Chandini, and strength. I just launched myself into a fight, something I’d never normally do. I turn back to the street.
Halfway through my shift, I see a likely patient coming toward me.
I’m about to ask if they want to be walked inside, when I make sudden, jolting eye contact with Muya, who is standing across the street.
My stomach sinks. Has he learned something new since our last meeting?
He looks relaxed, strolling among the protesters as though he belongs there.
I wrench myself away to focus on the approaching figure, and hustle toward them as fast as I can.
A protester darts forward, crossing the street and stepping onto our curb.
The patient flinches backward, stumbling on the uneven pavement, just as the protester in pursuit collapses, twitching.
I lose sight of Muya but turn my attention to the patient.
“I thought he was trying to rush me!” the patient says, hands over their mouth.
“Let’s get you inside,” I say.
They nod, and we move toward the building’s entrance.
As soon as the door has closed behind them, I sprint back toward the protester, despite my better judgment.
The rest of the antis are standing around him, but I’m pretty sure not one person has called 911.
I’ve seen people fake seizures before, in an effort to show patients the effects of our “wickedness,” but as I look down at him, something feels very wrong.
I get on my knees and see saliva dribbling out of his mouth.
Only the whites of his eyes are visible.
We’re not supposed to engage, but I make the call.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
I glance up and see Muya jogging away, giving me a jaunty wave over his shoulder. I remember, belatedly, that Apasmara is associated with ignorance and epilepsy.
“Hello?” the operator asks, and I manage to stammer the clinic’s address. I check the man’s wrist for an emergency bracelet of some sort, at the operator’s request, and someone shoves me away.
“Get your murderous hands off him!” a man shouts in my face.
“Sir, I’m trying to help. He’s having a medical emergency.”
“God is working a miracle through him!” Anti-choice and anti-science often go hand in hand.
“Are you there? Ma’am? Are you all right? An ambulance is on its way. I see you’re near a health clinic. Is he a patient?”
“He’s a protester,” I say. “It’s an abortion clinic. I work for the clinic—”
Whatever I’m going to say next is interrupted by the screech of tires. A car brakes just before hitting the crowd of protesters, who jump back on instinct, leaving me alone with the seizing man and the two protesters closest to us. Aaron jumps out of the car, his eyes wild and trained on me.
“Aaron, help him!” I gasp. “There’s a doctor here now,” I say into the phone.
Aaron seems to realize what’s happening and leaps into action.
“Wait…” a voice says. “That’s an abortion doctor!”
The operator asks me if I want to stay on the phone until the ambulance arrives, but it’s clear nothing more can be done, so I say no and hang up.
Then I stand and put myself between Aaron and the protesters.
The man opposite me is skinny, tall, and filled with pent-up rage I can tell is moments from exploding.
“This is assault!” the woman next to him screeches. She’s pulled out her phone to record us saving a man’s life.
“How soon is the ambulance coming?” Aaron asks. He sounds very calm, but I can tell he is worried.
“It’s on its way,” I say. “The nearest station isn’t far.”
“There isn’t much I can do,” he says. “He needs a hospital.”
As if on cue, a siren becomes audible, rapidly getting louder. The skinny man lunges forward—why, I don’t know—and I step sideways so that he collides with me. We both stumble, and the distraction keeps him from mowing down Aaron. Two paramedics are already rushing toward us.
“That murder doctor is killing this man!” the woman shouts. A swarm of protesters approach from the other side of the road.
“Maybe it was a vaccine!” another anti calls out.
“Is anybody related to this man?” one paramedic asks, as the other crouches down to speak to Aaron and set up a stretcher. Nobody comes forward. “Please step away and let us do our job.”
The protesters don’t listen, and I realize the person speaking is a Black woman. When her white colleague asks “folks” to disperse, it suddenly happens. She glances back at me and we share a look. Then she helps load the protester into the ambulance.
Before the antis can turn back on us, Aaron and I retreat to the entrance of the clinic.
“What was that?” we both demand at the same time.
“He just… collapsed and started twitching,” I say. “Obviously, they weren’t going to do anything about it. Good thing you were late to work.”
“Seriously?” Aaron asks, annoyance seeping into his voice. “I do rounds at the hospital, then come here for procedures. I was right on time.”
“Shouldn’t you have gone with the ambulance?”
“I really didn’t provide any medical care, so—”
The door swings open, revealing Diane and Dr. Levy.
“What the hell was that?” Dr. Levy demands.
Just then, I see a woman turn onto the clinic’s street. She has a frightened but determined look on her face that I have found often distinguishes our patients.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. There’s no way I can find the words to explain.