When She Woke. Hillary Jordan
him? He doesn’t love you, that much is plain. If he did, he would have married you.”
Her mother must have seen something in her face, an unconscious flicker of pain. “He’s already married, isn’t he.”
It wasn’t a question, and Hannah made no answer to it.
Her mother held up a forefinger. “You shall not commit adultery.” A second finger. “You shall not covet your neighbor’s husband.” A third. “You shall not murder.” The little finger. “Honor your father and mother, so that you may—”
Her anger woke Hannah’s own. “Careful, Mama,” she said, “you’ll run out of fingers.” The remark shocked them both. Hannah had never spoken so derisively to her parents, or to anyone for that matter, and for a few seconds she felt better for having done so, stronger and less afraid. But then her mother’s shoulders buckled and the flesh of her face seemed to wither, shrinking inward against the bones, and Hannah understood that her sarcasm had broken something in her mother, some fragile hope she’d clung to that the daughter she once knew and loved was not wholly lost to her.
“Sweet Jesus,” her mother said, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking back and forth in her chair with her eyes closed. “Sweet Lord, help me now.”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Hannah cried. She felt like she was breaking herself, into fragments so small they could never be found, much less pieced together again. “I’m so sorry.”
Her mother looked up, her eyes bewildered. “Why did you do this thing, Hannah? Your father and I would have stood by you and the baby. Did you not know that?”
“I knew,” Hannah said. Her mother would have stormed, and her father would have brooded. They would have rebuked and sermonized and interrogated and wept and prayed, but in the end, they would have accepted the child. Would have loved it.
“Then I don’t understand. Help me to understand, Hannah.”
“Because—” Because I would have been compelled to name Aidan as the father or go to prison for contempt until I did. Because they would have notified the state paternity board, subpoenaed him, had him tested, ordered Ignited Word to garnish his wages for child support. Destroyed his life and his ministry. Because I loved him, more even than our child. And still do.
Hannah would have done anything at that moment to erase the grief from her mother’s face, but she knew that to tell the truth, to speak the syllables of his name, would only hurt her more, by stripping her of her faith in a man she revered. And if she blamed him and decided to reveal their secret … No. Hannah had aborted their child to protect him. She would not betray him now.
She shook her head, once. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.” Stones of her own, falling hard and heavy into the space between them. The wall rose in seconds. She watched it happen, watched her mother’s face close against her. “Please, Mama—”
Samantha Payne stood. “I don’t know you.” She turned and walked to the door. Stopped. Looked back at Hannah. “I have one daughter, and her name is Rebecca.”
ON THE FOURTEENTH DAY, Hannah was sitting against the wall thumbing listlessly through the New Testament when she felt wetness between her legs. She looked down and saw a bright smear of blood on the white floor. Its arrival unleashed a spate of emotions: Relief, because although the abortionist had assured her that her cycles would resume eventually, she hadn’t been able to shake the idea that God would take away her fertility as punishment. Then, swiftly on the heels of that, bitterness. What difference did it make if she was fertile? No decent man would want to marry her now, and even if she found one who did, she couldn’t have a child with him; the implant they gave all Chromes would prevent it. Then, despair. By the time she finished her sentence and the implant was removed, she’d be forty-two, assuming she survived that long. Her youth would be gone, her eggs old, her chances of attracting a man to give her children diminished. And finally, embarrassment, as she remembered the presence of the cameras. She felt herself blushing and just as quickly realized that no one could tell—a small blessing.
She stood up, ignoring the blood on the floor, and went to wash herself off. When she came out of the shower, the panel was open. Inside were a box of tampons, a packet of sterile wipes and a clean tunic. Looking at them, she felt a shame so profound she wanted to die rather than endure another moment of it. When she’d been lying on the table with her legs spread and a stranger’s hand moving inside her womb, she’d thought that there could be nothing worse, nothing. Now, confronted with these everyday items that represented the absolute and irretrievable loss of her dignity, she knew she’d been wrong.
SHE ALMOST HADN’T gone through with it. She’d taken the pregnancy test at just over six weeks, after her second missed period, and then agonized for another month before screwing up the courage to act. She’d asked a girl she worked with, a salesperson at the bridal salon with whom she was friendly, though not friends. Gabrielle was a self-described wild child with a wicked sense of humor and a sailor’s vocabulary that emerged whenever their boss and customers were out of earshot. She had an endless string of boyfriends, often overlapping, and was cheerfully matter-of-fact about her own promiscuity. Her manner had shocked and intimidated Hannah at first, but over time she’d come to appreciate Gabrielle’s confidence and self-possession, how utterly comfortable she was in her own skin. Of everyone Hannah knew, Gabrielle was the only person she felt she could approach with this.
The next time she went to the shop for a fitting, Hannah asked Gabrielle if she would meet her for a coffee after work. They’d never socialized before, and the other girl appraised her with unconcealed surprise and curiosity.
“Sure,” Gabrielle said finally, “but let’s make it a drink.”
They’d met at a bar a few blocks away. Gabrielle ordered a beer, Hannah a ginger ale. Her hand shook as she picked up her glass, and she set it back down again. What if Gabrielle decided to turn her in to the police? What if she told their employer? Hannah couldn’t risk it. She was trying to think of a pretext for her invitation when Gabrielle said, “You in trouble?”
“Not me,” Hannah said. “A friend of mine.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Hannah didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak the words.
Gabrielle looked at the ginger ale, then back at Hannah. “This friend of yours knocked up?”
Hannah nodded, her heart in her mouth.
“And?” Gabrielle said. Watchful, waiting.
“She, she doesn’t want to have it.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I thought you might … know somebody who could help her.”
“And I thought that kind of thing was against your religion.”
“My friend can’t have this baby, Gabrielle. She can’t.” Hannah’s voice broke on the word.
Gabrielle considered her for a long moment. “I might know somebody,” she said. “If she’s sure. She has to be really sure.”
“She is.” And Hannah was, at that moment, completely, agonizingly sure. She couldn’t bring this baby into this situation, this world she and Aidan lived in. She started to cry.
Gabrielle reached across the table and squeezed Hannah’s hand. “It’s gonna be okay.”
There were several somebodies, actually, each a small exercise in terror for Hannah, but eventually she spoke to a woman who gave her an address, careful instructions on what to do when she got there and the name of the man who would do it, Raphael. It was obviously a pseudonym, and Hannah was jarred by its dissonance. Why would an abortionist name himself after the archangel of healing? When she asked whether Raphael was a real doctor, the woman hung up.
The appointment was at seven in the evening in North Dallas. Hannah took the train to Royal Lane, then a bus