Page 11 of Counting Backwards

“She didn’t exactly say the doctor did it without her consent,” I said as the waiter walked away. “Maybe it was just a complicated medical issue that was difficult for a layperson to understand.” I felt myself losing confidence in my words even as I spoke them. I actually couldn’t recall exactly how Isobel had phrased it. Had she mentioned agreeing to undergo the procedure? “Or maybe she just didn’t want to get into her personal medical details with me. A stranger. I was only there to help with her immigration status, not her hot flashes.”

Gram pursed her lips, and I got the distinct impression that she was trying to prevent herself from saying something else.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

She inhaled deeply, like she was gearing up to reveal something. But then she hesitated again, and her shoulders slumped. “Let’s just talk a little more about what you think you should do,” she said.

“I should keep trying to get the woman’s removal order canceled because that’s what she has retained me to do. She doesn’t want to get deported to a country that’s really never been her home. Maybe we’re creating another issue where none exists.”

Gram cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows shooting up. “If you really think that, then why did you even mention it to me?” she asked.

When I didn’t answer, she reached across the table and took my hand. “Do something for me,” she said. “There’s a Supreme Court case from the 1920s.” She reached into her purse for a pen, tore off a corner of her paper place mat, and scribbled down the name. “Take a look at it.”

“Oh, come on,” I started, my tone laced with frustration as I took the paper and glanced down at it. It wasn’t unusual for my grandmother to refer me to an article or book when trying to make a point. All that time spent working in libraries had left its mark. I hated going on research jaunts whenever Gram wanted to teach me one lesson or another, but I’d learned long ago that protesting was futile.

“It’s one that your great-grandfather would have wanted you to read,” she added as she held my gaze. It was no surprise she was bringing him up. I could hear about my dapper, intrepid, generous grandpa Harry only so many times without developing a bit of hero worship, and she knew it. “It’s easy enough to find,” Gram told me. “Just read it. Then we’ll talk.”

A waiter reappeared to fill our water glasses again, and when he finished, Gram changed the subject.

***

Three days later, I was still anxious about Hydeford. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the 1920s case Gram mentioned had struck at the very heart of what bothered me about Isobel’s situation. The short case opinion from the Supreme Court had hit me like blunt force to the chest. The horrifying opinion had been written by Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., who’d always been described in my law classes as a hero of jurisprudence, a humanitarian, and a visionary. Adding to my shock was the fact that long-venerated justices William Howard Taft and Louis Brandeis also signed the opinion of the Court. After I finished reading the case a third time, when I still simply couldn’t digest what I’d seen, I’d Googled the plaintiff, Carrie Buck.

As I reached for my cell phone to try calling Gram again, Tate came barging into my office.

“Why haven’t you left yet?” she asked.

Tabitha Clifford, who preferred to be called Tate, was a paralegal at Dillney, Forsythe & Lowe. Seven years earlier, Tate happened to be the only witness when I wiped out in the hallway on my very first day at the firm. I could still remember the mortification that coursed through me when my patent leather heel snagged on a piece of carpet and I went tumbling, spilling my iced latte all over myself in the process. Tate was just passing by with a cart full of Redweld folders. After helping me back to my feet, she pulled off her own cardigan to cover the stain spreading across my white blouse. As I joked about literally taking the shirt off her back, I knew I’d found a friend.

“I’m just finishing up,” I said, looking up from my computer to see that Tate had pulled her pin-straight blond hair into a complicated twist and was wearing fresh, glossy red lipstick. The sky outside had begun to darken, and my empty stomach was getting impatient for dinner.

“Big plans?” I asked as three emails appeared in my inbox in quick succession, all of them from Dustin Ortiz. Rather than deal with whatever aggravating material was within those messages, I twisted my body so the computer was no longer in my line of sight and returned my full attention to Tate.

“Just that guy from my bridge class.” She shrugged, and then her eyes fell to the open folder on my desk. “The deportation case?” she asked. “I thought that one was supposed to be pretty open and shut.”

“Yeah.” I also glanced down at the folder before looking back at Tate. “It was supposed to be. The woman was arrested for marijuana possession a month before it was legalized in New York. It was her first offense, and only a small amount with no intent to distribute.”

“If it’s legal now, why’s she still in custody?”

“It’s still a federal crime. And anyway, once she was arrested, she became known to ICE. Since she was present in the countrywithout authorization, they kept her. The good news is she’s got no prior record. She has family here, a daughter who’s a citizen. I think I should be able to get the removal canceled.”

“Then why are your shoulders all droopy like you’ve already lost the case?” Tate asked.

Before I could respond, my cell phone started buzzing on my desk. I saw Vance’s name flashing on the screen, but I didn’t reach for the phone.

“Don’t you want to get that?” Tate asked, her eyes darting down to the caller ID.

“We’re not... No.” I shook my head.

She lowered her pale eyebrows with a look of sympathy. “Take the call, Jess,” she said, turning to leave. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Tate knew all about the explosive argument I’d had with Vance two nights before, right after my period had arrived.

Again, he’d acted like I was blowing everything out of proportion. He reminded me that we hadn’t been trying all that long, which technically may have been true—but longing so intensely for something that wasn’t materializing made each month feel like an eternity. There were so many fertility treatments we had yet to try, he’d said, and then he’d reminded me that if fertility care didn’t work out, we could adopt. At the mention of adoption, I’d gone ballistic. I wasn’t proud of how I’d behaved, but the cavalier way in which he’d thrown around that word,adoption, made me feel like he didn’t know me at all. I knew it was all the same to him as long as our kids were raised Jewish, filling new seats in the family’s pew at High Holiday services and belting out songs at the annual Passover Seder. But passing down his great-grandmother’s hallowed recipe for noodle kugel simply didn’t feel like enough. To me, the whole point of having children was to bring pieces of our history back to life, to have more biological relatives keeping us company.I wasn’t willing to consider adoption until we had tried absolutely everything else. Was it so wrong to be honest about it?

On the fourth ring, I reached for the phone and slid my finger across the screen to answer.

“Hi,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “I’m just about to leave.”

“I made us a reservation at Sushi Seventy,” he said, referencing our favorite neighborhood restaurant. His tone was gentle, laced with something hopeful. I pictured him sitting in his office two blocks south of the Plaza Hotel across from Central Park, his collar likely loosened by this time of day, showing off his wide neck. He was probably fidgeting with something as usual, a pen or a coffee mug. “I did some research today,” he said, lowering his voice so the colleagues in his open-plan office wouldn’t overhear, “about fertility options and medical interventions. And I got the name of the doctor Doug and Maria used. The guy doesn’t usually see people until they’ve been trying for closer to a year, but I sweet-talked the receptionist.”