CHAPTER THIRTEEN

         Thursday morning, St. Pat’s Day, Phil followed Macie to work. He walked her to the door and waited until she was safely inside. Then he crawled back into his compact and drove off, leaving her feeling deserted. Her mind jumped between fears and facts as she pulled the vacuum back and forth across the clinic floor. She was wrapping the cord around the machine, putting it away, when the phone rang.

         “May I speak to Mrs. Stone?” The voice was raspy and soft, as though its owner had laryngitis.

          “This is she. May I help you?”

          “Help yourself, Mrs. Stone. Get a new job. Your old one won’t be around much longer.” There was a click and a buzz as the line went dead.

Macie shuddered and sank to the couch. Was that the woman with the red car? She couldn’t tell if the voice was feminine. And why threaten her? She didn’t own the clinic, she just worked here.

***

           Abraham found a dent on the dart fender as he walked past it to enter the clinic’s rear door. He stooped to brush at it where the blue paint tore away from the wound. He licked his finger and wet the edges of the scrape, then patted the car’s metal shoulder. Probably some kid in a fancy schmantzy SUV his rich papa bought him. Abraham hoped the vehicle fared worse than his Dart. When he tried to pull his handkerchief out to wipe his hand, he remembered the flowers clutched in his white knuckled fist. The were crushed, and limp-stemmed.

            He stuck his key in the back door and it opened, letting out the smell of fresh coffee. Ah, he could use a cup. As soon as he fixed the green carnations he held. What fool thought of St. Patrick’s Day, he wondered. There wasn’t any Moses’s Day, was there? Or any Jacob’s Day, either. He pulled out a pair of bandage scissors from a bin on the shelf and clipped the stems off an inch below the flowers. Then he carried the mangled blooms to the clinic front.

              “Good morning, Macie. I see you’ve already made the coffee.”

“Well, I didn’t have any at home, so I thought…what have you got there, Dr. Sorkin?”

              “My mug. I smelled…oh, you mean the flowers. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, Macie.” He handed her the wilting carnations on their stumpy stems.

              “Why, thank you, doctor.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a paper with several long pins stuck through it, took one and fastened a bloom to her lapel. He watched her, then turned away to the coffee pot.

              “My car was wrecked yesterday,” he said, pouring coffee into his chipped mug.

            “You weren’t hurt?”

             “No. I wasn’t even there when it happened. Probably some juvenile delinquent in a fancy schmantzy car his parents bought him.”

             “Dr. Sorkin...”

             “Yes?”

              “There was a call, just before you came in. It sounded like a threat against the clinic.”

              “What did he say, this caller?”

             “Well. It could’ve been a woman. I’m not sure. The voice was disguised. But it said I should find another job because this one wouldn’t be here much longer.”

             Abraham sucked in his breath. “You think it’s the crazies from the demonstration? They shot a doctor in New Jersey. In front of his grandchildren, they shot him dead. What’s wrong with these people? What have we done to them?”

           “Dr. Sorkin, do you ever have any doubts?”

           “About?”

            “Abortions. Do you ever wonder if we’re doing the right thing?”

            “And why should I wonder? A woman chooses not to have a baby. The baby is better off.”

            “But do we have the right to make that choice?”

            “The woman makes the choice. We only preserve her life. Back when you were a little girl, women sometimes went to street doctors who left them bleeding, who used dirty instruments. Young girls died from infections. Doing nothing about that is the wrong thing. What’s going on with you, Macie? Years, you work for me and never say a word about this. Why now?”

            Macie swallowed hard. A sour-tasting liquid rose in her throat, stinging it. “I’m pregnant.”

            Abraham gasped. “A baby. Congratulations, my dear. How exciting for you.”

          “Why is it different for me? Why is it wonderful for me, and the other women…”

           “You want this child, yes? Then that is your answer, Macie. You and your Phillip will give the child a good home.”

            “But these other babies…”

            “You’ve seen them. Not babies yet. Tissue. Just tissue.”

            “And the older ones? The ones who’ve already developed into fetuses? What about them?”

            “Macie, why these questions?”

            “What about the older fetuses, doctor?”

            “If the woman’s life is in danger from the pregnancy, if the baby’s body and that of its mother are enemies, then the baby would not live without his mother anyway. If it’s one or the other, we must save the one who has the best chance of living.”

            “And if the mother just chooses not to have the child?”

            “The guilt is not mine, Macie. I don’t make the choice.”

            “And the… the tissue we sell?”

            The hair stood up on the back of Abraham’s neck.

            “How do you know from selling?”

            “I see. I see the money you give to the women. That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

            “The tissue is used for research, Macie. The babies are already dead.”

            “But they’re dead because we kill them.”

            “They’re cells, Macie. They can become anything. Even another fetus with the tissues it needs to grow in the womb.”

            “Cloning.”

            Abraham nodded. “Cloning. But not people, Macie. We have discovered a way to develop whole new organs outside of the body. Think. Think what this means to a five-year-old who needs a new heart. Who will die before one becomes available from a transplant list.”

            “But can’t the cells come from umbilical cord blood?”

            “They’re not the same. Not as good. The earlier we get them, the better. ”

            “And this makes the abortions more right? Because we can use the dead children to help live ones?”

            “Macie, I don’t understand. What’s happened to make you question like this?” Abraham sat down, suddenly weary. “Anyway, you shouldn’t worry. It’s over, this research. This project. I’m through, and we won’t speak of it again.”

            ”I’ve been thinking about the protesters.”

            Abraham sucked in his bottom lip and shook his head.

            “No. Wait, Dr. Sorkin. If what we’re doing really is wrong…And another thing: The people who picketed the clinic, who killed the little girl in Thornton, are fanatics. It’s life and death to them. I just want to understand. I want to know if they’ll try to kill us.”

            Macie sat on the small waiting room couch. She was shivering. “Doctor, it’s after nine. Where’s Maxine?”

            Abraham looked at his watch. Nine- thirty. The old girl was never late. Not like this, anyway. She always caught the early bus to make sure. She’d walk if she had to, she’d at least phone.

            He didn’t want to call the police. The things he did, they weren’t so wrong. But the other men, if someone found out about the other men, how they’d used him again…He remembered the rebbe’s curse. He saw, in his mind, the spittle making a dark spot on the wooden floor of the barracks. Kapo. But, if they’d done something to Maxine…

            “Try her house,” he said, pointing to the desk phone.

            Macie punched in Maxine’s number. After several seconds, she hung up.

            “No answer.”

            ‘Did you let it ring? She’s not a spring chicken, you know. It could take her a long time.”

            “There was no answer.”

            The clinic phone rang for the first time since Abraham arrived. They caught their breaths.

            “Well, answer,” said Abraham after three rings.

            “What if it’s them again?”

            Abraham frowned and nodded at the phone. Macie picked it up and sighed. Her eyes teared.

            “Just a moment, Mrs. Sharp. I’ll see what we have on a Thursday.” She leafed through the appointment book, penciled in a name and hung up.

            “I suppose we’ll have to call….” Abraham’s statement dropped into air as the glass door flew open and Maxine exploded into the building.

            “Hon, I’m sorry I’m late, but you won’t believe what happened to me.” Maxine looked at Macie.

            “I was just going out the door and the phone rang. So I ran back in to get it and I dropped my purse. Well, you know that red nail polish I’ve been trying. It spilled all over the carpet and I had to clean it up. Then, the cat walked right through it and across the kitchen floor, so I had to corral her. She scratched the livin’ daylights out of me and I ended up soaking my hand in Epsom salts before I could leave. Phew! I hope we have some cancellations today. I’m bushed.”

            Abraham felt tears coming. Macie began to laugh. Maxine joined in, but after two minutes, when the hysteria hadn’t abated, she stopped and faced Macie with an questioning gaze.

            “Hon, are you all right?”

            “I am now.” Mace caught her breath.

            Abraham appraised his older nurse through a fog of tears that still clouded his eyes. Maxine’s teased red hair was windblown, bushing out from her head like a fuzzy hat. Mascara and mauve shadow blended in rings around her eyes. Clumped cat hair, in blobs of crimson nail polish, stuck to her starched white uniform. Hanging from a thread on her chest, a huge green button proclaimed: “I May Not Be Irish, But I Can Jig With The Best Of Them.”  

             Macie gulped a couple of giggles but the effort seemed too great. The frenzy began anew.

            Abraham shook his head, clucked his tongue. “Crazies on the outside, crazies in the office. What’s a man to do?”

            “I have no idea what you mean. Everything is under control out here. We are professionals, isn‘t that so, Macie?”

            Abraham eyed the frazzled Maxine, shook his head again, and pulled his mouth into an exaggerated frown. “Remind me to check your estrogen level, Maxine.” He winked at Macie, filled his coffee mug and went back into his office, closing the door behind him.

***

            Maxine stiffened. “Well, that old so-and-so. He’s no young blade himself. Check my estrogen levels, my foot.”

            “He was kidding, Maxine.” Macie pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her eyes. “Anyway, I don’t think we have anyone scheduled until 10:30. We were supposed to have that accountant here to go over the books with us, remember? But he called Tuesday and cancelled. So you have time to powder your nose, or. . . whatever you want to powder.” Macie stifled another giggle, forced herself to focus on her paperwork, sorting out the insurance claims that could be filed.

            Concentrating on her job was impossible. The threatening call played over and over in her mind. Above the raspy voice, Dr. Sorkin’s words jostled, vying for room in her crowded thoughts.

            “The guilt is not mine. I don’t make the choice.”

            At ten-fifteen, Merna Crowder arrived, her daughter in tow. Bethany was pale and her eyes seemed unfocused. Gone were the tears. Macie could only describe the girl’s appearance as defeated. Her hair pulled back in a rubber band, wearing no makeup, her face was expressionless…no, lifeless.

            Mrs. Crowder sat on the edge of a chair and crossed her legs. “I hope the doctor is on schedule. We’ve waited a week. Our time is valuable, too.”

            “The clinic closing was unavoidable. Dr. Sorkin is still not up to full days. He’s making an exception for Bethany. If you were that worried, you could have gone to another doctor—”

            “And waste all that time again, with the tests and the forms? I think not.”

            “We would have been glad to share the results of the tests…under the conditions.” Macie watched Myrna Crowder maneuver herself into a waiting room chair. It seemed that she was trying to avoid touching anything. Being contaminated. You just don’t like her, Macie told

herself. Be pleasant.

            Maxine stood next to Mrs. Crowder, a dust cloth and can of Pledge in hand. Macie slowly realized what the older nurse had in mind. She leaned forward, intending to stop Maxine, but it was too late.

            “Excuse me, ”Maxine said, bending over the end table. She pointed the can and sprayed from a foot away. The wax went everywhere, leaving wet spots on the chair arm and on Mrs. Crowder’s rose suede blazer. Maxine rubbed the liquid into the tabletop then dabbed with her rag at the spots on the coat.

            “Oh, boy. I’m so sorry. I just don’t think sometimes. Here, let me—”

            “You did that on purpose. . . Will you stop?” Merna Crowder leapt to her feet. “You’ll ruin my jacket.”

            “Gee, I’m sorry. I was just trying to get some housekeeping out of the way before we get busy around here. I’ll pay to have your coat cleaned, if you want.”

            “No. That won’t be necessary. Just get the doctor, please. We really don’t have time for this.”

            Maxine turned away from the irate woman and Macie could see her eyes twinkling.

            “You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered as Maxine reached the desk. “Weren’t you the one so worried about law suits when I took Bethany back to school?”

            Maxine snapped the dust rag against the desk top. “That was then.” She returned the rag and can to their places in the bathroom cabinet. “Don’t worry, honey,” Maxine said when she took her place at the computer again. “I thought this one out. She won’t sue us because then her important friends would find out her kid was pregnant.”

            Macie shook her head and smiled as she went back to get Dr. Sorkin and to warn him about Mrs. Crowder’s mood.

            He came to the front, a stethoscope hanging from the pocket of his lab coat. “Mrs. Crowder, I believe. I didn’t get to meet you the last time you were here. I apologize for the inconvenience of rescheduling. But I did get acquainted with your beautiful daughter. Bethany, how are you this morning? Are you ready to go back, or would you like a few more minutes?”

            Bethany didn’t respond.

            “Well, Bethany?” Mrs. Crowder prodded. She faced Abraham and cocked her head, staring at the bruises on his face.

            Abraham touched the purple-green blotch beside his left eye. “An accident, as you can see…”

            Myrna Crowder towered over him in her four-inch heels. She ignored his apology. “Bethany’s ready right now.”

            The woman took her daughter’s arm to pull her up. A wail, a wounded-animal wail, filled the room. The girl clung to the chair, kicking at her mother. She landed several hard blows, all the while screaming and howling. Mrs. Crowder folded to the floor, a look of astonishment on her face and Bethany stood over her, still kicking.

            Maxine grabbed the child’s leg as she poised it to strike again, and the girl fell backward onto the couch. Abraham had retreated into the inner office, and he returned with a syringe. Bethany saw it as he knelt beside her.

            “No.… Please, no.” She turned her head, pleading with Macie. “Don’t let them kill my baby. Please. . . no. . . .” Her voice became calmer as the sedative took effect. “Mrs. Stone, please. Call Mary Conley. My counselor. Please. Tell her I tried. Tell her I couldn’t stop them. Tell her to pray for me. . . please, tell. . . ”

            Abraham and the nurses lifted the girl to her feet. She stood, leaning heavily on Maxine. Macie watched as the two led Bethany through the door into the rear of the clinic.

            “You’re welcome to stay with her through the procedure, “ she told Merna Crowder as the woman struggled to her feet and assessed her wardrobe for damage.

            “No, thank you. I’ll wait here.” She picked up one of the magazines that Bethany had thrown and sat back down, burying her face in the book. Macie couldn’t read her expression. She hoped the mother was frightened for her child, even regretful of the incident. Mrs. Crowder gave no clue.

            Afternoon patients came and went while Bethany Crowder slept in the single bed in one of the two examining rooms. Merna Crowder disappeared for a time, then returned to the waiting room. She alternately talked on the cell phone and flipped impatiently through the clinic magazines. But Macie was relieved she stayed. Finally, toward the end of the day, Bethany tottered out on unstable legs. Maxine supported her and led her to Mrs. Crowder. As her mother helped her put on her jacket, the child looked toward Macie imploringly.

            “Please, please call Mrs. Conley. Tell her I didn’t have any choice. Tell her they put up a roadblock and the Prodigal couldn’t go home.” Bethany was crying. Merna Crowder left briefly and returned, parking their white Lexus at the front door. Maxine helped her load the weak child into the front seat and fastened her seat belt.

            “She’ll be okay now.” Mrs. Crowder seemed to soften. “Please call us with her check-up date.” She got into the driver’s seat, and the Lexus disappeared down the street.

            “Who is Mary Conley?” Macie stood over Maxine at the desk. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place her. She said it’s her counselor. Do you suppose I should call the school?”

            Maxine sat at the computer keyboard, a blank billing template on the screen. “ I don’t think it sounded like any school counselor. And that thing about the Prodigal. . . Did you understand that? Course, young people sometimes are more sensitive to drugs. It could just have been that sedative talking. Whooee! I never would have believed that little thing could put up such a fight.”

            “Wait, I know. That’s the name typed on the back of these ‘options’ flyers.” Macie picked up one of the pink and blue pamphlets and flipped it to the back.

Mary Conley,

Accredited Counselor, Crisis Pregnancy Resource Center.

8880 Hoyt Street, Arvada, Colorado. 303-490-2355.

             That’s it Maxine. That’s got to be it.” Mace folded the pamphlet and stuck it in the pocket of her scrub pants.

            At 5:30, Macie looked out to see Phil parking at the curb. She pulled on her coat and cloche hat, threw her purse strap over her shoulder and went to the door before he could reach the

building.

            “ Maxine, I have some things I really need to do. I’m going to leave a few minutes early, okay? I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

            Maxine waved her out and Macie closed the door behind her. How would she have explained why her husband was shepherding her home? Phil saw her and got back into his blue Toyota. She saw him watching as she crossed to her Kia and unlocked it. The two drove off together.

            Over and over, in her mind, she heard Bethany’s plaintive whimper. “Please tell her, the Prodigal couldn’t go home.”

           Who was the Prodigal, she wondered. Where was “home”? And why was Bethany so determined to have Mary Conley know?