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“Was it those assholes outside?”
“I don’t know. I hope not, but”—her expression grim, she shakes her head—“I’m so sick of chasing them off the lawn. They keep knocking down the sign marking the eighteen-foot border line, and then they claim they don’t know where the patient’s six-foot buffer zone begins.”
“When they’ve got a speaker and a microphone, that protection becomes meaningless anyway.”
She leans against the wall, hugging a stack of charts to her chest. “Honestly, I think the groups muttering prayers passive-aggressively are creepier.”
“Especially when they bus in kids from the religious schools.” I shudder. “Indoctrinating them early.”
“Anyway, maybe the cancellation was for another reason.” She pushes off the wall and heads toward her office, calling over her shoulder, “In any case, your next patient isn’t here yet, so you’ve got about twenty minutes.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be in the break room if you need me.” Since I’m running on fumes—having driven directly from a twenty-four-hour shift in the OB ward at the hospital—a cup of coffee is just what the doctor ordered.
Unfortunately, the break room faces the lawn where the protesters gather. Apparently, there’s a core group that shows up every day to harass patients, even though we only do abortions two days a week. A CRNA like me is only needed for ETOPs—elective termination of pregnancies—since the clinic doesn’t do any other procedures requiring anesthesia, so whenever I take a break to grab a coffee or on the rare occasions I have time to sit down to eat lunch, self-righteous anger is on full display.
Some days, I close the blinds so I don’t have to watch, but today, after I pour a coffee and add the cream and sugar my waistline doesn’t really need, I’m drawn to the window. Like when you can’t stop yourself from rubbernecking at an accident on the highway, my eyes scan the faces in the crowd.
The man in a suit, mic in hand, his brow shiny with sweat despite the cold, hair greased back, shouting about sin as if he’s never made a mistake in his life.
The huddle clutching rosaries, praying silently and passive-aggressively.
And the red-faced men—why are there so many men? Men, who can get a woman pregnant and never have to face the facts—with their signs featuring gory images that have nothing to do with the truth.
Just as I step closer to the window, the sun breaks through the clouds, glinting off of the silver paint of a car pulling up to the curb, and a roar goes up from the crowd. A slim figure wearing a reflective vest bearing the words “Clinic Volunteer Escort” jogs over to help someone get out of the car. Protesters swarm the two women, and their chants gather momentum, visible in the white puffs of condensation as hot breath meets cold air, souring the milky, sweet coffee hitting my gut.
Rationally, I know that my skills are needed inside, but the sight of that young volunteer putting herself between the crowd and the patient rouses the protector in me. Has me straining to leave the warmth and security of the clinic behind. To trade the antiseptic scents and fluorescent lights for the sharp, cold air and bright sunlight of a Boston winter day.
When the two women turn to face the front of the building, my world tilts. As quickly as if I’d been delivered a massive hit of the drugs in my arsenal, my heart and my breath stop. Every bit of my attention is riveted to the woman escorting the patient. Voices raised in condemnation continue to assault the pair, but all I can see is that pale face framed by soot-black hair, a stride powered by fierce pride, and a chin lifted in defiance.
I need to meet this woman more than I’ve ever needed anything.
The patient she’s escorting still needs to check in, so I have about five minutes before I should get back to business. Without consciously making the decision, I set my own coffee cup down, fill another, agonize for a second or two about what to add, and then book it to the side door without even putting on a coat.
Luck is with me because I round the corner just as she closes the front door behind the patient. She shoves her hands inside her coat pockets and bounces on the balls of her feet, frowning in the direction of the parking lot.
I clear my throat when I’m within a few feet of her, but she still whips around to face me, obviously startled.
I raise my free hand in supplication. “Not a protester. Promise.”
She looks me up and down before releasing a sigh of relief. “The scrubs are a good sign that I can trust you.”
I lift the steaming cup. “I, uh, brought you coffee.”
Her eyes widen, and a smile stretches from ear to ear, practically disappearing under the edges of her wool hat. “You are a god.”
Despite the frigid temperature, my cheeks heat as I hand her the cup and pull creamers and sugar packets from my pocket. “I didn’t know what you’d want in it, so I brought this stuff too.”
She shakes her head. “I take it black, but honestly, right now I’d drink anything that’s warm.”
“You know you can come inside anytime.” I scan the green space in front of the clinic. “Are you alone out here?”
She shrugs. “I guess the other person didn’t show.”
“And you’re new?”
“Yup.”
“Early start on a New Year’s resolution?”
