Looking for Jane (49)
“I didn’t want to have a baby,” Lillian continues. “I couldn’t tell my mom. I’m in school. I want to be a teacher, so I would have had to drop out, and I didn’t want to do that. I told my doctor, and he said he didn’t think my situation would be enough for the abortion committee to approve. Can you believe that?” Lillian shakes her head in disbelief amid dark mutterings from the crowd. “He said even though it was rape, it might not be approved. He had another patient who was in the same situation, and they denied her an abortion because they didn’t believe her. They thought she was just covering for a mistake.” She pauses. “Anyway, all I mean to say is that access is really hard. I ended up just telling my doctor I had a miscarriage, but I don’t think he believed me. There’s a lot of girls like me who just have no other option, and getting help from you all has literally saved my life. I’m not sure I would have kept going otherwise. So, thank you.”
She scurries back to her seat in the front row as applause erupts. Alice sniffs while Evelyn’s finger gravitates, as it often does, toward the scar at her wrist.
She remembers with painful accuracy what it feels like to be pregnant and wish you weren’t. To be in denial, then weeks later find yourself vomiting up your morning toast while the tears run down your face into the toilet. To feel the slight swell of your belly and the pain in your breasts and know that you won’t be able to hide it much longer. To dream of ending it, any way at all. An accidental trip down a flight of stairs, or drinking just enough bleach to not quite kill yourself. Opening up your wrists in a bathtub.
Steam fogging up the bathroom mirror.
The feeling of falling, falling, the scent of roses on the warm air.
Her brother’s voice calling her name.
Evelyn wrenches her mind out of that dark corner of her past, back into the bright lights of the church basement. She rolls her shoulders back, tries to focus.
Holly returns to the pulpit, her eyes shining with admiration and something deeper, a fiery determination that seems to glow. “Thank you, Lillian,” she says. “Thank you for your bravery in sharing your experience with us. It was our honour to help you exercise your right to determine what happens to your own body.”
Evelyn’s heart is racing as though she just ran up several flights of stairs. Holly reminds Evelyn a bit of Paula, her protest friend from the Abortion Caravan. She isn’t as crass, but there’s a fierceness to her entire presence that takes Evelyn back to those days in Ottawa. The steely yet pained expressions on her comrades’ faces when they delivered the coffin to 24 Sussex Drive with the fire of the setting sun in their eyes. Paula screaming her outrage up into the sky because it was too big to be contained in her body. How the air in the House of Commons gallery was charged with the protesters’ daring and resolve.
Evelyn feels that same energy hovering over the heads of the women gathered in this musty church basement tonight. The fight is still very much alive; it’s simply changed its form.
“And that leads me into our big focus tonight,” Holly says, shifting her weight. She’s all business now. “Access. Adequate, on-demand access. As word has caught on about Jane, the demand has outstripped our resources. Lillian just demonstrated to us what we’ve known for a while now: that the abortion law is too restrictive. Women are coming to us instead of even trying to go the legal route because the powers that be want us subjugated. The truth is we desperately need more doctors. We need to be able to provide safe abortions to every single woman who calls Jane. It’s our duty as resourceful, privileged women.
“So, if you have any friends who are sympathetic to the movement and have some time to spare—and are sensible enough to exercise discretion—please approach them. And if you know a doctor who might be willing to join our network, please, please, please”—she leans forward on the pulpit like a preacher—“ask them to reach out to us. It’s a risk, yes, but these women need help.”
“We can help.” Evelyn is on her feet in the back row.
“Yes!” Alice gasps.
Every single face turns in their direction. It’s unnerving, but Evelyn plows on. “My name is Evelyn Taylor. I’m a family physician and my nurse Alice and I”—she motions to Alice to stand—“have been performing abortions for the past several months at my practice, after-hours. I trained under Dr. Morgentaler in Montreal.”
Suddenly Evelyn feels the intensity of all those eyes, the heat rising in her face. Alice gives Evelyn’s hand another squeeze, but Evelyn keeps her eyes on Holly’s. “We can help,” she repeats.
A grin spreads across Holly’s face. Everything in the room is lit up. She nods slowly. “All right, then, Dr. Taylor, Alice. Welcome to the Jane Network.”
CHAPTER 15 Nancy
MARCH 1981
Nancy descends the creaky stairs of the old nursing home, heart fluttering in her chest as she recounts the days in her head. It’s been two weeks. Turning right at the bottom of the staircase, she ducks into the public washroom near the reception desk. The young nun at the desk tosses her a smile, which Nancy returns with tight lips. She figures she may as well check one more time.
Despite the fact that her Grandmama passed several months ago, Nancy has been volunteering at her nursing home, offering much-needed companionship to those few poor souls with no family. Nancy sits by their bedside during those last days, once Death has announced his intent to visit and there is nothing anyone can do to stop his steady march.