Looking for Jane (54)

Len tried calling her three times this week, looking for a “date.” Susan loyally came up with various excuses for why Nancy couldn’t come to the phone, but Nancy thinks she’s starting to suspect she might be pregnant. Twice this week she asked how Nancy is feeling, and Nancy’s sure she stopped outside the bathroom door on Wednesday morning, listening in as Nancy hurled her guts out into the toilet.

In a coat she borrowed from Susan, a heavy, scratchy grey wool mackintosh that falls past her knees, Nancy weaves her way through the crisscrossing paths and skeletal bare trees of Queen’s Park. A couple of blocks later, she turns down Yonge Street, past the dazzling red, white, and yellow neon lights of Sam the Record Man that look as though they’d be more at home in Las Vegas than Toronto. She pulls back the sleeve of the coat to check her watch. It’s only a quarter after seven. She slows her pace.

It’s Saturday night, which means all the students and other carefree young people are out for dinner and drinks, dodging into basement bars for artsy poetry readings and billiards. The Leafs are playing Buffalo, and Susan invited Nancy to the game; her boyfriend’s family has season tickets. Normally, Nancy would have jumped at the offer. But Susan had also hinted heavily that it was intended to be a double date with one of her boyfriend’s fraternity brothers.

“You need to upgrade from that idiot Len, Nancy,” Susan said, eyeing her friend shrewdly as she handed over her old grey coat.

“I know,” Nancy replied. “That’s what I’m heading out to do, actually.”

“Mm. Special date?”

Nancy nodded, avoiding Susan’s eyes. “Something like that, yeah.”

She’s swimming upstream now against a current of blue hockey jerseys and umbrellas all flooding toward the Gardens as she turns left onto Shuter Street and past Massey Hall. She passes underneath a streetlamp, the light reflecting in the damp pavement. Suddenly she’s eighteen again, waiting for Clara underneath the lamp outside Ossington Station. A chill creeps up her neck at the thought.

This will be different, she reminds herself. This is a real doctor who knows what she’s doing.

Nancy is so engrossed in the memories of that night as she winds her way toward Seaton Street that she overshoots the address. By the time she looks up, she’s at number 103. Doubling back, she scans the line of houses for the right number until she arrives at the front gate.

This is it. There’s nothing else for it. She checks her watch again.

7:29.

Nancy pauses on the sidewalk, hiking the collar of the coat with its unfamiliar smell farther up her neck. She stuffs her gloved hands deep into the pockets.

After a moment’s consideration, Nancy nods in agreement with herself and reaches over the low iron gate to release the latch. She steps through, then guides it carefully shut behind her with a deafening creak.

Seaton is a quiet street, several blocks over now from the bustle of Yonge. She glances over her shoulder. The street is deserted. But when she turns back toward the house, Nancy sees movement on a porch several doors down. There’s an older man outside, shoveling slush off his steps. He turns toward Nancy, leans on the shovel for support. She can’t see his features in the dark, but the fact that she’s about to—once again—do something illegal hits her more forcefully than she’d like.

But you have to do this, she tells herself. She’s built this up in her mind as the keystone of her future. The abortion is the first step to setting herself back on track. After that, she hopes, everything else will fall into place. And surely there’s no way this stranger would know why she’s here. She could just be a friend visiting Dr. Taylor for drinks on a Saturday night.

Forcing herself to ignore the man, Nancy walks up the path and scales the three steps to the wooden porch. A small brass plaque at eye level beside the mailbox reads: DR. E. TAYLOR, MD—FAMILY PHYSICIAN.

Nancy removes the glove from her right hand and knocks loudly. There is no window, but a peephole instead. With a jolt in her stomach, she realizes she has, out of sheer habit, knocked her usual four quick raps.

Shit.

She hastily whips her fist up and knocks another three, loudly.

Shit shit shit.

She strains her ears toward the door. After only a beat, there’s a rustling behind the wood. Nancy centres her face in the peephole so they can see her clearly. The speck of light visible inside is snuffed out. A moment later, the door opens by a few inches. A Black woman with a pleasant face pokes her head into the gap.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Nancy. I have a seven-thirty appointment. Are you Dr. Taylor?”

“Hi, Nancy, we’ve been expecting you. I’m Alice,” the woman says, stepping back to allow Nancy to pass over the threshold.

She’s much shorter than Nancy, with curly brown hair and eyes that have seen enough to slightly dull the light behind them.

“There wasn’t anyone out on the street, was there?” Alice asks. “No one saw you come in?”

“Actually, yes. An older man, a few doors down. He was shoveling his steps and he saw me.”

Alice’s brow knits. “A few doors down which way?”

Nancy indicates to her left.

“Ah, okay,” Alice says, relaxing. “That’s probably just Chester. He’s a good neighbour, total sweetheart. He was Dr. Taylor’s first ever patient, actually.”