The California Coven Project

by Bob Stickgold

  Maggie smiled. “Actually,” she said, “so far we’re just a figment of your imagination.”

  They had just gotten into the car, and Beckie turned around full in her seat to look at Maggie. “Do you really believe that?” she asked. “Or are you just being nasty?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I certainly didn’t get off on all the parliamentary finagling, and I think it’s a real shame that we can’t even agree enough to stay in the same organization. I get the impression that you’re just as glad that the split came.”

  Beckie thought a moment. “You’re right, and you’re wrong. I am glad that the split came, because it had to come. But I’m not glad that it had to come. It’s the same as the civil rights movement, or the antiwar movement back during the Vietnam days, or the women’s movement. I’m glad that those movements appeared and built the strong opposition to the status quo that they did, because things were wrong and needed change. But that doesn’t mean that I ever wanted women and blacks to be oppressed, or blacks and Vietnamese killed or nuclear power plants blown up.” She paused a minute. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that lots of times people or groups of people, or corporations or nations set up situations where others are unfairly hurt, whether it be subtle discrimination or out-and-out rape, plunder, and murder. And most of the time the rest of us, and even those being oppressed, just sit around and say, oh, isn’t that a pity, it really shouldn’t be like that, and do nothing about it. So, yes, I an, pleased, even delighted, when someone finally stands up and says ‘Enough!’ And that’s what we did tonight.”

  Maggie smiled. “You’re calling me a liberal.”

  “You may be a feisty radical, but you don’t know your literature. Back in the ’60s we studied that stuff.”

  “What are you talking about?” Beckie demanded.

  “‘Combat Liberalism,’ by Mao. Bet you never read it.”

  “Read it?” Beckie asked incredulously. “I’ve never even heard of it!”

  Maggie laughed. “‘Liberalism manifests itself in various ways. Although the person concerned is clearly known to be in the wrong yet because he is an old acquaintance, a fellow townsman, a school friend, a bosom companion, a loved one, an old colleague or a former subordinate, one does not argue with him on the basis of principle but lets things slide in order to maintain peace and friendship. Or one touches lightly upon the matter without finding a thorough solution, so as to maintain harmony all around. As a result, harm is done to the organization as well as to the individual concerned, This is the first type of liberalism.’ There’s more to it, but that’s the most relevant section. I memorized the whole thing back in ’67, and it’s served me well.”

  Beckie looked awestruck. “That’s beautiful! It’s like poetry. Did Mao really write that?”

  “Yep. Around 1935, as I recollect.”

  “I’ve never read anything by him; I thought it was all political rhetoric.” She thought a minute, then added, “You’re right, though, that is exactly what I was saying. So you agree with me?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still not sure. I just have this feeling. . . . Look, let me quote some more. ‘To engage in struggles and disputes against incorrect views, not for the sake of solidarity, progress or improving the work, but for personal attacks, letting off steam, venting personal grievances or seeking revenge. This is another type of liberalism.’ And I guess that’s what I’m worrying about I sensed personal grievances and revenge-seeking in your tone. So I guess I’m not sure which way you’re moving, just what’s motivating you in all this.”

  Beckie thought a moment. “Fair enough. I can see how you might not know which were my real reasons just by looking at my actions in there, but I guess I’m hurt that you don’t know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t do it for those reasons. You certainly don’t have much faith in me!”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” she offered.

  They drove silently down the coast; each lost in her own thoughts. The sky was unusually clear for the start of February, and the moon shone brightly on the ocean as they headed south along the water.

  They were halfway to Santa Cruz before Beckie commented, “You haven’t told me what you had to say tonight.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Not now. Another time.”

  “I’m sorry I got so angry at you, Maggie. I know you were just trying to be honest with me. I shouldn’t have blown up at you. I’m really sorry.”

  “Well, now we’re both sorry.” Maggie drove on in Silence, all the joy and excitement drained from her body. There was no energy left to argue. Well, she thought, here we are, being liberal with each other. And she quoted to herself, “To be aware of one’s own mistakes yet make no attempt to rectify them, this is the eleventh type.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE next morning, Maggie slept late. She awoke with a start, fearing that something was dreadfully wrong. The clock showed ten o’clock. She hadn’t slept that late since . . . Suddenly she knew what was wrong.

  Leaping from her bed, she hurried down the hall to Ann’s room. There hadn’t been a sound from her all morning. For months, she had lived in dread of that morning. Reaching Ann’s room, she nearly collided with Carol, who was silently backing out.

  “Shh!” Carol whispered. “You’ll wake her up.” She pulled the door shut and motioned for Maggie to follow her. Together, they headed toward the kitchen.

  “Is she all right, Carol?”

  “Yes, yes. She’s just sleeping!” Carol closed the kitchen door. “Now,” she asked, in a normal tone of voice, “what was all that about?” Not waiting for an answer, she opened the refrigerator. “We’re out of milk.” Closing the door, she added, “In fact, we seem to be out of most everything. Have you gone shopping lately?”

  Maggie sat down at the table. “No, I haven’t. I guess I’ve been spending a lot of time with Ann lately, and not getting around to much else. I guess I can get out this afternoon. Or,” she pointed out, “you could go get some stuff yourself.”

  Carol pouted. “But I can’t take the car. How could I get anything?”

  “What’s wrong with your bike? You’ve got those fancy Kirtland paniers, you might as well use them for once.”

  “But you said you could go this afternoon.”

  Maggie sighed. “And I will. But you know, you’re fifteen years old, and you don’t have a lot of responsibilities around the house.”

  “What do you mean? I’ve got lots of responsibilities.”

  “Not now,” Maggie insisted. “I can’t take an argument now. We can talk about it another time, okay?”

  “Okay. But I do have responsibilities.”

  “Not now!” Maggie turned and looked at the closed kitchen door. “How did Ann seem last night?”

  “Actually, she seemed really good. She was a bit irritable, but almost like she wasn’t sick, and wanted to do other things. She made me walk her to the bathroom before bed, even though I argued. She said you’ve been doing that too. Have you?”

  Maggie nodded. “Since Wednesday, I think.”

  “Is she getting better?” Carol asked.

  Maggie turned to look at Carol. “Why do you ask?”

  Carol shrugged. “Well, she’s getting up now, and she hasn’t since she came back from the hospital Her grouchiness reminds me of how she used to be, before she got sick, and—well, when I went in there this morning, she was just sleeping there, so normally, it reminded me of when I was just a little kid, how I used to go in before she woke up and just watch her sleep.” She stopped, confused. “Isn’t she?”

  Maggie let out a deep breath, “I don’t know if she is. I mean, in some ways, yes, she obviously is. She’s feeling a lot better, and the pain is largely gone, and it looks, like she’s starting to sleep a lot better at night, but I don’t, know if there’s been any real progress, in terms of the cancer disappearing.” She paused a second, and then added, “We’ll know more on Tuesday.”

  “Wh
y Tuesday?”

  “Because I’m taking her up to Stanford Tuesday for some tests.”

  “How come? I thought she was done with all her tests.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Because we think, Ann and I think, that maybe she is getting better.”

  “Really? You mean cured?”

  “I mean maybe better,” Maggie cautioned. “And we’re just going for tests. Until we get the results, we won’t even know that she isn’t getting worse.” She reached across the table and took Carol’s hand. “Don’t get your hopes up yet. I don’t think the odds are very good.”

  “But you must think she’s getting better,” Carol insisted. “Otherwise you wouldn’t take her all the way up to Stanford. You do think she’s getting better, don’t you?”

  Maggie could see how much Carol wanted to believe that Ann’s recovery was possible. “Darling, to be honest with you, I don’t know whether I believe it or not. I don’t want to get my hopes up too high without the test results, and I don’t think you should, either.” She had tears in her eyes, and got up and turned toward the sink. She could hear Carol walk up behind her. Turning, she put her arms around Carol. “I just don’t want you to get hurt if it turns out that were wrong,” she whispered.

  Chapter Eleven

  OVER the weekend, Ann’s condition remained stable. The pain became something of the past, and her strength increased. Sunday evening, she came out to the kitchen to join Carol and Maggie for dinner. On Monday, Maggie returned to work, finding it hard to concentrate on anything except Ann and Tuesday’s tests. But walking into the clinic was like walking into a hurricane.

  Everywhere, people were arguing in loud voices, and Beckie stood in a corner talking on the phone, gesturing wildly with her free hand. Maggie cornered Kathy Perez. “What in God’s name is going on?” she demanded.

  Kathy turned to see who it was. “Maggie, we’ve been attacked!”

  “What?”

  “The A.M.A. They Issued a statement this morning condemning midwives who refuse to use fetal monitors.”

  Maggie looked at her watch. It wasn’t even nine o’clock. “But when did this happen?”

  “A couple of hours ago,” Kathy said “They released the statement from their New York office about three hours ago, at nine their time. The computer was set to go ding-a-ling if a news story came over that’s about midwives. Lisa found the release on the console when she came in. It seems they’re going to start an accreditation fight with us.”

  “But that’s crazy,” Maggie said. “No one’s refusing to use fetal monitors. All that we said was that we wouldn’t use them as a routine procedure. Lots of obstetricians have the same policy.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s the line we’ll take in defending ourselves, but there’s no question but we’re on the defensive.” She looked at the clock on the wall. It read exactly nine o’clock. “Look, I can’t talk to you right now, I said I’d try to get in touch with the women we signed up at the meeting last Friday, to make sure they know about what happened, and can come to the meeting tonight. I heard Beckie say she wanted a statement for the group to endorse tonight. Talk to you later.” Kathy headed back to her desk, glanced at a sheet of paper, and picked up the phone.

  Maggie stood there, dumbfounded. Finally, she headed down the hall toward her office. All the others were empty. This place has gone crazy, she thought to herself. She turned and walked back toward the main office. As she reached the vacant reception desk, a woman in her late twenties entered through the front door. “Hi, Fran,” Maggie said. “Here to see Beckie?”

  The woman, close to eight months pregnant, nodded. “I have a nine o’clock with her. I guess I’m a few minutes late.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. You go to her office; I’ll tell her you’re here.” Maggie then stormed into the main office, and shouted above the general din. “If anyone cares, there are people around here who still think this is a birth center. Beckie, if you’re interested, a patient is waiting in your office.” Voices dropped, people checked their watches, and slowly filed out of the room. Finally, Maggie headed down to her office, too, She had no appointments until half-past, and had planned to spend the time reading medical journals. But she found herself too frazzled to concentrate. Frustrated, she canceled the request, and the journal disappeared from the screen. She leaned back in her chair, trying to relax. It had to come, she told herself. We became midwives because we couldn’t stand the medical profession’s turning obstetrics into a medical procedure with no room for the mother in it. We came here for political reasons, and I shouldn’t get mad at Beckie when the politics finally become obvious. She rocked gently in her chair. We wanted to revolutionize childbirth practices, and we naively thought we could just quietly go about our ways. She smiled, remembering Ho Chi Minh’s poem “Revolution Is Not a Cocktail Party.” They had a fight ahead of themselves, and it was as important as all the health care that they gave their patients, because the fight would determine the direction of obstetrics for the next decade. She remembered quoting Mao to Beckie, and smiled. They’re a new crop of revolutionaries, she thought, unschooled and untested.

  * * *

  At noon, Beckie visited Maggie’s office. “Free for lunch?”

  “Sure,” Maggie agreed. She replaced a file disk in its jacket, checked her afternoon schedule, and slid back her chair. “I’m only free till one, so we’ll have to move fast.” Slipping on a coat, she followed Beckie out the door. They walked in silence awhile, before Maggie finally said, “I guess it’s just as well that the crunch came now. We’re probably about as ready for it as we ever could be.”

  Beckie’s eyebrows rose, “Is that a change in position?” she asked.

  Maggie smiled. “Maybe. You know us oldies, it takes awhile to get us going, but once we’re started, we’ve got lots of staying power.”

  Beckie laughed. “So tell me, what do you really think?”

  “I think you were right on Friday. It is an important fight. It’s going to affect the whole field of obstetrics.”

  Beckie nodded. “Obstetrics isn’t the only area of medicine where people are tired of being treated like specimens. I think that’s part of the reason that the A.M.A. responded so violently. They’ve kept pretty firm control over things and they don’t want anyone else getting a finger in the pie.” They had reached the restaurant, and turned in. It was several minutes before they resumed their conversation.

  “You know,” Maggie said, “If we look at this as a major political struggle to change the medical profession, rather than a struggle to retain our accreditation, then we probably shouldn’t be thinking in terms of fighting it on our own. There’re lots of groups involved in fights over medical and health-care issues and we should probably contact them, too.”

  Beckie nodded. “You’re probably right, although there isn’t any ‘we’ yet. As you pointed out on Friday, so far this group is just a figment, of my imagination.”

  Maggie disagreed. “That’s all changed. The group now has a real existence based solely on the A.M.A.’s attack, I know it’s a negative definition, but you wait. References will be made to ‘that group of women who walked out at the C.M.A. meeting in February.’ Which, of course, is why you instinctively realized the need to organize quickly—its important to set up a positive identity to work from, to have the public define you in a positive way, not just as ‘the people the A.M.A. is opposing,’ or ‘the group that disagrees with the AMA.’ It’s also the reason that you saw the importance of the group’s name.”

  Beckie turned to her in amazement. “You sound like an old pro at this.”

  Maggie laughed. “When you were in knee socks, my dear, I was trashing college campuses. But I’m older now, and short-term changes seem less worth fighting for.”

  “But we’re not talking about short-term changes,” Beckie insisted.

  “And I’m not refusing to join in the fray, either.”

  They ate quickly, the lunch hour all too short, and
finally headed back toward the clinic. “Do you want me to drive tonight?’ Beckie asked.

  Maggie frowned. “You probably should plan on it; I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.”

  “What? I thought—”

  “No, I do want to come tonight, it’s not that. It’s just that—well, Ann’s going to have a hard evening tonight, and I feel an obligation to spend it with her.”

  “Is she . . . is it getting real rough?”

  “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that.” Maggie paused a moment. “It’s just that she’s going up to Stanford for some tests tomorrow, and she’s going to be all worried about them, tonight.”

  Beckie nodded, sympathetically. “What are the tests for?”

  Again, Maggie paused before answering. She badly wanted to tell Beckie the whole story, but it was already a few minutes before one. “Just routine tests, to see how things are going.”

  Beckie sensed Maggie’s unwillingness to talk, but let it drop. “Well, I’ll hope for the best.” As they entered the building, Beckie asked, “Okay if I stop by tomorrow evening? I’ll want to talk over the meeting with you.”

  Maggie thought a second. “Call first, okay? it’ll depend in part on how Ann’s feeling—the tests and all.”

  Beckie smiled. “Sure. I’ll call you then.” She turned, and headed toward her office.

  * * *

  Maggie was just finishing her last patient’s chart when Beckie stormed into her office. “That does it!” Beckie exploded, “we have to win this fight!” Maggie looked up from the chart.

  “I just got this call from Flatters, up at Stanford,” Beckie explained. “Doreen Cohen lost her kid.”

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday. She was in her seventh month, but just barely. Flatters said it was born dead.”

  “Any idea what brought it on?” Maggie asked.

  “Oh yeah, quite clear. Drugs.”

  “Drugs?” Maggie looked surprised. “Doreen didn’t strike me as the type—”