by Rick Hautala
“Miss Dobson ...?” a uniformed officer said.
Standing in the shelter of the doorway, he looked up from his plastic-encased clipboard. His voice was distorted by the clear plastic face mask and rainproof hood that covered his head.
Unable to tear her gaze away from the crowd, Sheila simply nodded. The impulse to rush to the policeman for protection was almost overwhelming, but she took a deep, steadying breath and squared her shoulders.
“Yes—” she said, turning toward him.
“If you’ll step right this way please, Miss Dobson.”
The officer stood to one side and reached for the door handle. He was just about to swing the door open when a fist-sized rock sailed over Sheila’s head and shattered the glass. The crowd roared its approval as broken glass showered the steps like hundreds of diamonds. Sheila ducked behind the officer as he spun around and raised his shield and riot-gun. Hemmed in by the crowd, the line of policemen fell back closer to the building. All of them had their shield raised and their riot-guns aimed and ready.
“Don’t take it personally, ma’m,” the officer said. “Most of these assho— Excuse me. Most of these people don’t even know what they’re protesting.”
Sheila nodded, telling herself there wasn’t a tight quaver in the man’s voice.
“I think they just ain’t got anything better to do on a shitty— I mean, a lousy night like this. You know?”
“Really?” Sheila replied. “I’d think they’d just as soon stay home to get out of this horrible rain, if nothing else.”
She glanced up at the night sky, which glowed with an eerie green haze of pollutants and neon light. Rainwater beaded on her face mask, sizzling as it ran down the front of her rubber raincoat.
“Actually, I doubt if many of ‘em even have a home, ma’m,” the officer said, narrowing his gaze as he looked at her steadily. Sheila squirmed, feeling as though it was written on her forehead in bright red letters that she, too, was one of the thousands of homeless people in the inner city. Even through the lights reflecting off his face mask, Sheila could read in his expression the thought that was most likely echoing in his mind—
You’re so young, so pretty ... What a pity that you’ve decided to do something like this!
But wasn’t it obvious that she didn’t care anymore?
Why else would she be coming here?
Like a lot of the people out there in the crowd and most of the homeless people she knew, she was long past either caring or hoping that her life could improve.
She could have easily entered the building through the gaping hole in the glass door, but the officer unlocked the door, snapped the door latch, and held it open for her.
“You can leave your protective gear in the receptacle to your right,” he said mechanically. “Doctor Scott’s office is straight down the hall. The last door on the left.”
Sheila made momentary eye contact with him and smiled briefly, then lowered her gaze as she stepped into the brightly lit corridor. As soon as she was inside the building and the door closed behind her, another roar of outrage burst from the crowd outside. Several voices rose louder, and then a shrill scream filled the night, followed by a short, thumping burst of gunfire.
After shucking off her coat and face mask, Sheila deposited them in the glass-lined barrel beside the door. Then, taking a shuddering breath, she started down the hall, past the row of nervous-looking armed guards.
2
The fluorescent lights were bright and instantly brought tears to her eyes. She willed herself not to think about what might be happening outside and reminded herself that the crowd wasn’t there to protest her personally. It was just that she hadn’t been ready to face such open, violent hostility. The doctor she had spoken with briefly at the Public Health Clinic yesterday had warned her about the Right-to-Lifers who gathered around the Pro-Choice Clinic day and night to jeer and threaten anyone who entered. She knew she should have foreseen this when he had insisted on a police escort for her to the Clinic, but the most demanding thought tumbling around inside her head was, How can these people say they respect life and want to protect it when they act like such animals themselves?
Her footsteps faltered as she moved down the corridor, her heels clicking like quick hatchet chops on the linoleum. The harsh white lighting and the stinging antiseptic smell frightened her even more than the hot acid rain or the angry mob outside. She tried not to think about what she was doing but—obviously—she couldn’t stop. The single clearest thought she had was that the situation that had led to the tiny life growing like a cancer inside her had to be terminated—
Now!
Tonight!
Before she could think and fret about it any longer.
She was nauseated by the thought of seeing another human being—her child—being born into a world of misery like this. If she had even a slender hope that the world might eventually get better, she might consider carrying her baby to term, but not now ... not with the world going to hell the way it was.
“Miss ... uh, Miss Dobson?”
The voice caught her unawares, making her jump, startled, as she looked up. Lost in her own thoughts, she had arrived at the end of the corridor. An elderly man with thin wisps of white hair was looking at her from behind a desk stacked high with papers and folders. His eyeglasses reflected the bars of light overhead as he pushed himself to his feet and came around the desk to greet her.
Not knowing what to do, Sheila fumbled inside her tunic for the legal forms the doctor had told her she would have to present. She hadn’t read through them, as she had promised. She hadn’t been able to. In the eighteen miserable years she had spent on the streets, what use had she ever found for reading? It would never have kept her warm at night or gotten her a hot meal or stopped all those lonely, desperate, disease-ridden men from having their way with her in the back alleys. She knew what an “abortion” was, even if she didn’t know the exact details of the procedure, and that was all she needed to know. The doctor at the prenatal clinic had tried to counsel her, telling her over and over again how precious life was. He had tried so hard, in fact, he had started sounding a little like one of those Right-to-Life protesters outside. But she had cut him off, insisting that she knew exactly what she was doing, and nothing was going to make her change her mind.
“Look, I don’t need a sermon, all right?” she had told the doctor before scrawling her mark on the necessary legal forms. “I’m happy just knowing there will be one less miserable soul on this pathetic excuse of a planet.”
He had finally agreed with her and, after witnessing her signature, had sent her on her way after making her promise she would at least read through the papers so she would know what she was getting into.
But, of course, she hadn’t.
She hadn’t even asked around to find someone who could have read them to her, and now—here she was, ready to follow through on her decision.
“I’m Doctor Scott,” the elderly man said, extending a frail-looking hand, which Sheila took and shook gently. His hand was the first warm, dry thing she had felt in days, and the touch instantly brought tears to her eyes.
No! she told herself. I’m not getting emotional! It’s the bright lights that are doing that!
“There, there,” Doctor Scott said, gently patting the back of her hand. Sheila felt an impulse to reach out and hug him, but she pushed it back and squared her shoulders before handing him the legal papers.
“Yes ... yes ... everything appears to be in order,” he said softly, nodding as he rifled through the pages. He walked back into his office, slipped the forms into the top envelope on his desk, and then rejoined her in the hall.
“Would you like to take a moment or two for some coffee or juice? Or perhaps you’d like a cigarette or something?”
“No,” Sheila said, biting her lower lip and shaking her head.
“If you’d like, you know, we have several ministers of various religious denominations on call who ar
e willing to counsel you if you’d like to—”
“You mean like the fool leading the chant outside?” she said, cutting him off sharply. She shook her head. “No thanks!” She studied Doctor Scott a moment, then added, “You know, I can see it in your eyes. You want to talk me out of this, too. Don’t you? You really want to get me to reconsider my choice. But believe me, I know what I’m doing. I’ve made up my mind, and that’s that. I ain’t gonna change it, so let’s just get it done with. All right?”
“Sure, sure,” Doctor Scott said, smiling wanly. He hesitated for a moment as if he were about to say more, but then he nodded. Taking her by the arm, he directed her across the hall to the closed door opposite his office.
3
Sheila almost fainted when he pushed open the door to reveal the operating room and the vast array of medical equipment. She started to say something but stopped herself when Doctor Scott gently directed her over to the center of the room where there was a large, padded chair surrounded by banks of monitors and other medical equipment. She had no idea what any of this stuff was for.
“You can undress behind the screen there. Put this on,” Doctor Scott said, handing her a thin cotton hospital gown that opened in the back.
Sheila shivered as she walked behind the screen and after hurriedly undressing, slipped on the thin gown. It did nothing to cut the chill in the room. She smoothed the cloth down over her swollen abdomen, which stuck straight out, carrying high. “Megs,” one of her friends on the street, told her that meant it was a boy, but Silver John said it meant the opposite. She thought she looked like she had swallowed a watermelon seed that had miraculously grown to be huge inside her. Her teeth were chattering when she came out from behind the screen. Hugging her arms across her breasts, she walked up to the chair.
“Please. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” Doctor Scott nodded toward the chair as he busied himself arranging some of the equipment. “I’ll only be a moment.”
He went to the sink and started scrubbing his hands with disinfectant soap while Sheila took a seat in the chair. She winced as she settled her bare butt onto the cold, padded cushion. The gown flapped open on the sides when she slipped her feet into the leather stirrups of the footrests. There were also straps on the arms of the chair, but she crossed her arms to keep away from them. She hoped the doctor wasn’t going to use them on her. She didn’t like being restrained.
There was a wide gap in the front of the seat that made it look like a large toilet seat. An electric current of fear passed through her, and she found herself wishing that she had talked a least a little bit more with the doctor at the prenatal clinic before making this decision. Not knowing exactly what to expect next made her stomach tighten with tension.
“I’m sorry, but I have to secure your arms, too,” Doctor Scott said mildly.
“Do you really have to?” Sheila’s voice cracked with nervousness.
“’Fraid so,” Doctor Scott said as he tore open the Velcro fasteners of the padded straps. Sheila winced as she placed her arms inside the restraints. The doctor pulled them snugly shut, but not so tight that they hurt. Then he secured the belts on the footrests over her bare feet. An icy ripple of nervousness spread up from her stomach to her chest, making it difficult to breathe, but as if to convince herself that she was doing the right thing, Sheila looked down at her swollen stomach and sneered.
“Say good-bye to a life of misery,” she whispered.
“There ... You’re all set,” Doctor Scott said as if he hadn’t heard her comment. “Now, the first thing I have to do is give you an injection to relax you.”
He produced a hypodermic needle, held it up to the light, and then pulled up the left sleeve of the hospital gown. After daubing Sheila’s skin with alcohol, he slid the needle into the exposed vein. For a instant, there was a sharp sting like an insect bite. Then a warm flooding sensation spread underneath her skin. A few seconds later, a wave of soft dizziness swept over her. The lights in the room went softly out of focus.
“It’s not too late now, is it—?” she asked, hearing the tension in her voice.
“You mean to change your mind?” Doctor Scott said, frowning with concern. “Not as long as I haven’t given you the second injection. We can still—”
“No, I mean for me to be doing this,” Sheila said groggily. “Tin-pan Man, a friend of mine, told me that—you know—that an abortion’s kinda dangerous ... especially when the pregnancy is this far along.”
“Oh, most certainly not,” Doctor Scott said with a sympathetic smile. “Actually, we prefer to wait until the third trimester. It makes it all that much easier.”
“Easier?”
Sheila was confused. Maybe it was the drug, and she hadn’t heard him correctly.
Doctor Scott grabbed some electrode leads and, after smearing them with a thick, clear jelly, lifted the edge of her gown and taped them to her swollen abdomen. He adjusted the array of dials until he was satisfied, then walked behind the chair, out of sight. Sheila heard a clatter of glass and a high-pitched squeaking sound as he rolled a cart over beside the chair. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large bottle, that was filled with a clear yet heavy-looking liquid. It reminded her of the fruit syrup in the desserts they serve at the soup kitchen. Several metal bars stuck out from the top lid and were connected by wires to the machinery.
“Whaz’ that?” Sheila asked, surprised by the thick drag of her voice.
“All part of the preparations,” Doctor Scott said. “You don’t have to concern yourself with it.” He covered one of her hands with both of his, squeezing itdesperately. “Tell me. How are you feeling?”
Sheila shrugged but found the effort to be too much. The light in the room was growing dim and blurry around the edges, shattering into shifting blue splinters. Every sound she or the doctor made was oddly magnified. Her breathing sounded ragged and irritating, like someone was crumpling tissue paper close to her ear.
“If you’re absolutely certain that you want to continue ...” Doctor Scott said.
Sheila nodded but then barely reacted when he took another hypodermic needle from the cabinet, filled it with a clear liquid from a vial, and then slipped it into her arm.
She didn’t feel anything this time, but within seconds, a strange, dull leadenness embraced her body. She knew it was futile to try, but if she had, she was positive she wouldn’t have been able to raise even her pinky finger. Her lower jaw felt like it was made of iron when she said, “This ... won’t ... hurt ... now ... will ... it?”
Doctor Scott smiled reassuringly and said, “Oh, not at all. The immediate pain is over. There’s a sedative in the first injection I gave you.”
He walked over to the intercom beside the door, pressed the red button, and said into the speaker, “Nurse Becker. Please report to O.R. 22.” Then he went to one of the cabinets, pulled open a drawer, and withdrew a scalpel. After peeling off the protective plastic covering, he held it up, turning it back and forth in his hand so the blade caught the light. The reflection hurt her eyes like a sudden flashes of lightning. Her throat felt like it was packed with sand when she asked, “What’s ... that ... for?”
Doctor Scott looked at her, his bushy eyebrows rising with concern.
“Why, to cut the baby out, of course,” he said.
His voice seemed to be coming from the far end of a long echoing tube. It took several seconds for the meaning of what he’d said to penetrate Sheila’s mind. Realization dawned slowly, rolling over her like the deep growl of distant thunder.
“Didn’t they review the entire procedure with you at the clinic?” Doctor Scott asked.
Sheila wasn’t sure if her head moved or not, but she tried hard to shake it back and forth in denial.
“I—well, you see, that first shot I gave you was to relax you, for the operation,” he said. “The second needle was the suicide solution.”
“Su ... i ... cide?”
“Yes ... Of course,” Doctor S
cott said. “All that’s left to do now, once Nurse Becker gets here, is to make an incision in your uterus to take out your baby.”
My … baby …?
A rush of sadness filled Sheila even as a dull stirring of panic spread through her as she stared up into the doctor’s glistening eyes. She tried to lick her lips so she could speak, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make a sound.
“You don’t have to worry,” Doctor Scott went on, his voice now a deep, soothing buzz. “You’re way past feeling much of anything now. Once we remove your baby and get him—It’s a boy, right?”
Sheila grunted but wasn’t sure she made a sound.
“Once we get him into the incubator,” Doctor Scott continued, “we’ll administer the third and final shot. That’s the lethal one.”
“Le ... thal ...?”
“Yes. So you can die, assured that your baby will continue to develop and be maintained by the best life support systems available until he is ready to be ‘born.’ Then I assure you, we’ll find him a suitable family.” He glanced at a chart on the table beside him and smiled. “We’ll carry your son to full-term and see that he’s adopted.”
When he was finished speaking, Doctor Scott shrugged helplessly and shook his head.
“But ... I ...” Sheila found it almost impossible to speak. “I ... don’t ...”
“There, there. Just relax,” Doctor Scott said, leaning close and staring at her. His face was an exaggerated mask of concern.
From her point of view, Sheila thought he looked like a deranged demon, not a doctor, but she attributed it to the drugs. Her eyes widened, the light stinging them.
“Do you mean to tell me you actually thought we were going to destroy your fetus?”
Doctor Scott’s expression shifted to one of deepening concern.
“When you first came in here, I asked if you knew what you were getting into. Don’t tell me you don’t know about the changes the government regulations made in the abortion laws. It’s been on the holovid news every night.”