Choice

By Hilary Orbach

In the early 1990s in America, anti-abortion sentiments led to increasing violence toward clinics and the caregivers who bravely defied public opposition. In this novel, three people with their own compelling backgrounds are drawn into the struggle.

Phil, an idealistic young doctor committed to womens reproductive choice, thinks hes ready for anything when he opens his clinic in eastern New York State.

Jenna, another doctor in their residency, with an unwanted pregnancy in her own family, finds her commitment to choice merged with an unspoken love.

Adele struggles to support Phils choice of work, but with growing resentment longs for calm and safety around the birth of her own child.

In the midst of escalating threats and protests, the world of the clinic is upended when a young patients problem and an eager staff members empathy lead inexorably to a startling act of violence. As Phil, Jenna and Adele confront the tragedy, the grief and despair left in its wake threaten both the clinic and their relationships. Each finds personal choices to make, driven by desire, loyalty, and lossuntil another act of violence changes the direction of each life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491758885

Hilary Orbach

Hilary Orbach is a graduate of the University of Chicago and has held a Fiction Fellowship at Stanford University. She is author of the collection Transgressions and Other Stories (2013) and has published fiction and poetry in Seventeen, Redbook, The Chicago Review, The Nebraska Review (First Prize in Fiction, 2003), Crucible, and The Atlanta Review. She is a psychotherapist and lives in New York City.

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Copyright © 2015 Hilary Orbach.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-5887-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-5889-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-5888-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015900980

iUniverse rev. date: 5/14/2015

Contents

Part 1

Jenna

1

2

3

4

Phil

1

2

Jenna

1

2

3

4

5

6

Adele

Phil

1

2

Jenna

Part 2

Phil

1

2

Adele

1

2

Jenna

1

2

Part 3

Adele

1

2

3

4

5

6

Lauren

1

2

3

4

5

Jenna

1

2

Adele

1

2

3

4

Jenna

1

2

3

4

Phil

1

2

Adele

Jenna

Part 4

Phil

1

2

3

Jenna

1

2

Phil

Adele

Jenna

1

2

Adele

1

2

3

Jenna

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

This book is a fiction set in the midst of the political struggle around abortion and women’s reproductive choice, and the violence against abortion clinics and staff that was fueled by that struggle in the early 1990s. The characters, locations, and events presented in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, names, events, or situations is coincidental and unintended, and any reference to actual incidents is for fictional purposes only.

Some events in this novel were referenced, and some altered, in the author’s short story Assault, published in the collection Transgressions and Other Stories in 2013. Another story in the same collection, Innocents, presents characters and a situation more fully developed in the novel.

for Jack

and for our families

Part 1

25701.png

Jenna

January 1992

1

I can still see him as he was then, bursting into the café near the hospital, full of vitality, eager for whatever came next. Jenna, look who’s here, said Aline. It was midway through our last year of the residency, and the Boston winter still had us in its grip. We all sat huddled at a round table, a few of us wearing, under our jackets, scrubs for a later shift or one just finished. The group of us shared a sprawling old house that year, but we had decided on a rare lunch out for a celebration. The room was warm, the light from the wall sconces golden, Vivaldi filling the air. We were glad to be crowded together on a day that had turned outrageously cold. Every few minutes the door was flung open, and whoever entered had to struggle to close it against the snowy wind. Phil came in on a blast of frigid air, his face ruddy, a sprinkle of sleet caught in his dark-blond hair and on the long scarf wrapped carelessly around his neck.

Hey, man, Ari called out. We were gonna send out the St. Bernards.

Phil glanced at him, grinning. No saints for me, thanks. He was tall and trim, dressed in layers of fleece and a waterproof poncho. Undaunted by the weather, he’d been running along the Charles River, something he did every morning when he wasn’t on call. He sat down and reached for a menu, pulling off his gloves while we watched him. People always paid attention to Phil.

Gloves today, said Aline. It must be really bad out there on the waterfront. She was a short, russet-haired woman with a Spanish accent and a strong, no-nonsense voice.

Yeah, you’ve got too soft for the frostbite brigade? said Ari, his jester’s eyes sparkling in his dark face. Beside him, Darja, who’d come to Boston from India three years before, sat quietly, close to his side, smiling, her lustrous black hair in a long braid down her back. I caught myself watching them and glanced away, toward Phil, who gave me a brief nod. Beside him, Chris Dixon sat hunched over a cup of coffee, glancing up with his slow smile, his craggy face almost haggard in this light. I watched Phil reach out for the carafe on the table, his hands long-fingered and deft as a musician’s. Skillful hands.

What’re you having, Jenna? Aline asked. How about chicken soup? You want feeding up. She had a way of tilting her head, a stray lock of hennaed hair drifting along her cheek. Her interest in my well-being felt too close, like a heavy comforter.

I’ll have the mulligatawny, I said as the waitress drew near. It was on the board as a special.

Ah, you like Indian food! exclaimed Darja. But they won’t do it right here, she added, her smile fading.

Well, it has an Irish name, anyway, I said. They should manage that all right.

And after all, you’re an Irish girl, right? Phil flashed me what seemed a private grin.

An Irish beauty, added Aline, squeezing my hand. I pulled it away and made an ironic face at what must have been a joke, not bothering to make the correction: Irish Italian—almost a contradiction in terms. If I had beauty, I kept it well under wraps. I dressed like an early feminist in loose, mannish garments, no makeup, my cloud of black hair pulled back in a bun. My straight brows turned my gaze into a dark, almost accusing stare that sometimes I encountered in the mirror. I moved slightly away from Aline, reaching again for the menu.

And for the main dish, I told the waitress … maybe an omelet. The spinach omelet. That’s it. What’s everyone else having? I wanted to deflect their attention.

Two eggs over easy, bacon on the side, said Chris. He had been sitting in silence. He was then, as now, a rare, secret person who listened more than he spoke, quick to offer his full attention and his slow smile. I sat back, glancing at the door as people came in or left. I was getting over a cold, and my throat was still sore. At one side of the room a large, arched opening led to an adjacent bookstore. Near the door, ceiling lights pooled down on tables of new books. When we’d ordered, Phil got up and circled the tables, picking up one book or another, seemingly at random, reading the jacket or leafing through a few pages, then laying it down.

Come on, Hunter, don’t stray from your medical studies, Ari called to him.

Everything feeds my knowledge of human life, Phil said, grinning, sitting down to his soup. He caught my eye, winked, but didn’t linger. Listen, he said, looking around at the group, there’s a meeting tonight about getting abortion training back into the residency program.

His voice, turned serious, opened up a space. Ari frowned and looked down into his soup bowl. That’s a special interest. Plenty of OBs won’t want it.

Chris spoke up. It should be an interest for all of us. I looked at him, surprised.

You only say that because you’re on board with it. Docs who want it can go outside the program, the way Phil did. Ari’s voice was gruff. His face looked puffy from fatigue. He must have been on call last night.

Phil nodded. No, Chris is right. It’s an issue of whether doctors and med schools get pushed around by a bunch of zealots.

So? Ari spread his hands, palms up. He reached for the coffee pot and refilled his cup. "Like I’ve said, I came here to study medicine and learn how to take care of people, maybe help them make babies. I didn’t come to be anyone’s target. I’m more than willing to leave that to others." He rubbed his hands over his chin with its shady growth of beard.

What if it’s part of taking care of people? My own voice, husky from the cold, still came out louder than I intended. Aline turned and looked at me.

Phil leaned in my direction. Yes, it is. Damn right. So I think we all ought to go to this meeting. It’s a new organization. They need support.

Ari laughed. "I need support. I’ve been on call three nights this week, and I’m off this weekend. First weekend we’re both off, me and my lady love, for … how long?" He turned to Darja.

Too long, she said. But …

I’ll go, said Chris. Where is it?

Aline turned to me. What do you think? she asked. Her accent made her voice sound harsh. I think it’s a disgrace, what these people are doing.

Which people?

These ‘right-to-life.’ Forcing their views on others.

Yes.

But still …

The food was brought to the table, steaming and colorful. We leaned toward it as if we’d been hungry for a long time.

And how about some more coffee? Ari said.

So who else is coming? Phil persisted.

Ari laughed. I swear, man, you never give up. You’re just aching to get us all out there in the trenches.

I’ll go, I said. I’m not on call until midnight.

Me too, said Aline. I’m off tonight.

I’m in, said Chris.

At the end of the meal, the waitress brought a chocolate cake with thirty candles. Ari and Chris had arranged it. It was Phil’s birthday.

Make a wish! a few voices cried. Phil closed his eyes. I watched him, harboring my own secret wish. He opened his eyes and blew out the candles.

So what was your wish? Aline called out in her rasping voice.

Phil winked at her, shaking his head.

Darja spoke up. You mustn’t tell, or it won’t come true.

It was still only the beginning of our lives.

2

That night we all met outside the ER and rode to the meeting together in Phil’s car, but as we stepped into the building I stopped to use one of the phones. There’d been a call from Lucy that afternoon, and she’d sounded upset, but I hadn’t had time to talk. What now? My teenage sister was always having a crisis. The others had already gone in, but Phil hung back with me as I stood listening to the ring. Then the phone was picked up, and I heard Lucy crying so hard I could barely understand her.

Calm down, Luce, I said. Take deep breaths … That’s better. Now, what is it? She must have picked up the phone in her bedroom, probably with her back against the door, since I could hear Slate beating on the wood and yelling, and our mother’s frantic remonstrance in the background. Slater, Isabel cried. She used his full name like that whenever he went out of control. Slater, stop!

The rush of adrenaline fired my whole body. I’ll be right there, I said into the phone. Luce? Just stay where you are. But Slate would break the door down, probably, the way he sounded. Call the police if you need to, I added, raising my voice, but Lucy had already hung up. I broke into a sweat, my heart racing.

I thought you were off, Phil said. What’s wrong?

It’s my sister. I’ve got to go. I turned to run back out of the building, realizing only at the door that I didn’t have my car.

Phil caught up with me. I’ll take you.

He sped along like an ambulance driver, out of the campus and through the dark blocks leading to Storrow Drive, then along the curving highway. What’s going on? he asked as we drove.

It’s … I shook my head, unable to shape any sensible words. I left her. I left Lucy in that house. Call any time, I’d said, ready to advise from my safe distance. My sister’s in trouble, I told Phil, and he looked at me but didn’t ask any more. Then we were in Dorchester, pulling up in front of my parents’ place. It was a small house, wearing the signs of neglect and the destruction of even the most modest hopes. I glanced at Phil, wondering if he was up to this. He followed me up the cracked walk edged with dirty snow, and we stood together outside the door while I fumbled for my key, then rang the bell.

My mother answered. Isabel. Bella, as my dad used to call her, adding some mock-Italian endearment. I used to love hearing him call her that, but it was long in the past. I was eight years old when he died.

It’s quiet now, she said. Her low, rich voice was shaking. With her graying hair in disarray, a robe drawn around her narrow body, her usual mask of makeup missing, my mother looked like an old woman. She stood wavering, as if only anxiety kept her upright, and stared at Phil with her dark, deeply shadowed eyes.

Don’t mind me, Ma’am, he said. I’m just here to help out. Isabel stepped back, and we crowded into the small living room with its clutter of newspapers, half-drained coffee cups, overflowing ashtrays, wine glasses, pill bottles, and whatever other stray objects had landed on her end table. The look of the room flooded me with shame, as if I had never lived there and taken it for granted.

Lucy sat huddled on the sofa, crying still, but more quietly. Her hair, dark like mine but cut short, stood up around her head as if in fright. Her sharp-boned face looked bruised beneath one eye, and her lower lip was bleeding; she was pressing a tissue against it. I went to her, knelt down, and took her hands. She was wearing a sweater over a thin pink nightshirt, torn at the neck. I put my hand up to the bruise. You need ice on this. I pulled the tissue away from her lip as gently as I could. The bruise was superficial, yet I winced at the way it looked.

Slate came from the kitchen, carrying a beer. He was a tense, solidly built man with blunt features and a scar from a boyhood accident down one side of his face. He still had a look some people would think of as handsome. He leaned to one side, filling the doorway. Your sister’s pregnant, he announced. The little slut.

Nice word for your own daughter, I snapped. But then, glancing at Phil, I bit back my fury. This was the last thing I wanted, to put my family on display to him, to anyone. Luce, get your coat, I said. You’ll come with me. With us. I turned to Phil for assent.

Yes, she’ll come with us for now." He spoke with an air of natural authority, as if he were delivering a treatment plan.

Oh, so you think you can handle the little bitch, you and your fancy boyfriend? Following an old dance step, Slate took a step toward me, and in spite of myself, I flinched. But Phil stepped forward too and stood between us. He was not as broad but taller than Slate, who paused, wavering, his skin flushed under a thin veil of sweat. He’s ill, I realized. Or probably just drunk.

Take it easy, Phil said. He stood looking steadily at Slate, who finally shook his head and retreated back into the kitchen with a shrug. I started at the sound of his beer bottle smashing into the trash can.

I need my stuff, said Lucy. She pulled her coat and a pair of boots out of the closet and grabbed a few things from her room. Isabel followed the three of us to the front door, and I turned back to take her into a quick embrace. My mother’s body felt thinner, more fragile than when I had last stopped at the house, weeks before.

You’ll be all right? Phil asked her.

Oh, yes. Her voice had a tinge of irony. Where are you taking Lucia? she called after us as we headed down the front walk.

Phil turned back to answer. Don’t worry—we’ll keep her safe for the night. His tone was so sure and steady he could have worked for Children’s Services; somehow I resented his easy competence with my family. Following him out, I looked back and saw Slate watching, outlined against the light from the kitchen, leaning heavily into the doorway. He’s ill, I thought again, and quickly turned away.

Later I had time to wonder how Phil had teamed up with me so readily, how he’d grasped the situation and seen what to do as quickly and clearly as I had myself. It was a take-charge attitude that some new doctors had to work hard to acquire. Then I remembered that before he even entered med school he had worked as a paramedic with an ambulance corps. I shouldn’t take it personally that he’d gone with me to rescue Lucy. Rescue must be his specialty.

3

We brought Lucy to the house where the six of us were living—Aline and I in the two rooms on the ground floor, Phil and the others upstairs. It was an old frat house near the university. In the car, Luce had curled against me in the backseat, shivering, making an occasional whimper of protest. Shh … We’ll warm you up when we get there. I opened my down jacket and pulled her close against my side

There was just time enough when we arrived to make her a cup of tea and tuck her into bed before the first call of the night came in and I had to report to the hospital. A patient in labor was being admitted. I rushed out, barely stopping to thank Phil, who was sitting in the kitchen. I had already said it in the car, though, how I couldn’t have done without him, how I was really grateful to him for coming with me. Somehow, such phrases coming out of my mouth had sounded dry and stilted, even though I was fervently sincere. Now I only laid a hand on his shoulder and said, I owe you one.

He looked up and grinned. One what? I had already turned away. Come for a run with me some morning, he called after me. Have a good night, Dawson. That was what he called me, from that night on, as if what we’d done together had made us comrades.

The woman’s labor took all night. The baby’s head crowned at about six a.m. A boy, her first, and when I laid him on his mother’s breast, the young father, leaning over the delivery table in his gown and mask, tried to hide his extravagant joy. Good luck, I said.

Otherwise, the night had been quiet. I cleaned up, wrote the orders, did my chart notes, and went up to the floor to check on Amy Lewis, yesterday’s crisis, admitted in a problematic labor, and then her baby stillborn after a long, painful struggle. A slight girl with wispy blond hair, she was sleeping, her face half hidden in the pillow. There was no one in the room with her. I went back to the nursing station. I didn’t wake her, I told Katie, the floor nurse. Let me know if she seems despondent when she wakes up. Dr. Allstrom will probably discharge her today, but make sure one of the social work staff comes in first. She might need a psych referral. Right, as if that would fix anything. I sighed, shook my head, and tapped once on the counter. All right, that’s it. See you tonight. I gave a little wave and headed down the long, sterile-looking corridor, went out through the ER, and drove home along the quiet winter streets.

Back at the house I found Lucy sprawled on the bed, half out of the covers, still wearing the sweater and torn nightshirt. The bruise on her face had darkened. Her lip was swollen. She looked like a dissolute child, both younger and older than sixteen. And she was a child, much too young to know who or what she would become. But if she stayed in that house, even without the pregnancy, it was easy enough to predict: she’d keep on running wild with her succession of boyfriends and her reckless need to provoke Slate’s temper. Then, if she didn’t stumble into some worse disaster, her young life would grow narrow and sour like my mother’s, like Isabel’s.

I pushed gently at Lucy, and she stirred and rolled over on her side, making space the way she used to when we shared a bed at home, before John moved out and we got our own rooms. It was somehow comforting to have her near again, the baby of the family—Slate’s and Isabel’s baby, whom I had long since accepted as a sister. I lay