Mercy Street(48)

There was no way to explain this to the crowd on the sidewalk. Claudia didn’t even try.

HANNAH R. WAS SEVENTEEN, A TALL, SLENDER GIRL WITH SILKY hair and a flawless complexion, a senior at Pilgrims Country Day School. According to her file, she was six weeks pregnant.

Hannah. The name had become inexplicably popular. To bookish girls of Claudia’s generation, Hannah had been the family housekeeper in the Nancy Drew mysteries. Now, suddenly, Hannahs were everywhere.

“Have a seat,” said Claudia. “First we’re going to talk privately. When we’re finished, Mary will bring in your parent or legal guardian to sign the consent form.

“Everything you tell me today will be kept confidential here at the clinic, unless you tell me someone is hurting you or not taking care of you, or if you are going to hurt yourself or someone else. If you tell me any of those things, I have to tell someone outside the clinic so we can make sure you’re safe.”

She verified that the abortion was Hannah’s own choice, that no one had pressured her to have it. She explained the procedure step by step. Hannah might have some bleeding afterward. Her periods were likely to be irregular for the next couple of months.

Hannah absorbed this silently. She seemed preternaturally calm.

“Any questions?” Claudia asked.

“Not really?” Hannah replied.

Was this a statement or a question? With teenage girls, it was hard to know. They seemed at every juncture to be looking for agreement, consensus, affirmation. To be reassured that they weren’t wrong.

Hannah stared at the box of tissues on Claudia’s desk. “Am I supposed to be crying? Like I’m doing this terrible thing and I should at least be upset about it? But you know what? I’m not.”

“That’s not unusual,” said Claudia. “Every person responds differently.” A year ago she’d have said, Every woman responds differently. The new gender-neutral language still felt awkward in her mouth, but she’d get used to it. It didn’t happen every day, but every once in a while, a transgender patient did fall pregnant. “If I think back on everyone I’ve counseled, the most common reaction is relief.”

“Exactly,” said Hannah. “I mean, it’s just the worst time ever. I’m applying to college?”

Yale and Dartmouth, she said when Claudia asked.

“And Stirling?” Hannah added. “It’s kind of my safety school?”

I went to Stirling, Claudia could have said but didn’t. It was the first rule of counseling: it’s never about you.

“I don’t know how this happened. I mean, I know, but . . .” Hannah hesitated. “I’m like, under a ton of stress? I know that’s no excuse, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Claudia waited for her to say more.

“I feel so stupid. It just kind of—happened? I mean, it was totally my fault.” This time Hannah sounded certain. There was no question in her voice.

Claudia asked about the man involved with the pregnancy.

“We don’t see each other that often. He’s at Georgetown?” Hannah said. “Anyway, he’s been really cool about everything? He even offered to pay for it, which . . .” Her eyes welled.

Claudia slid the tissue box across the desk. “Which isn’t really the point.”

“Exactly.” Hannah swiped at her eyes—impatiently, as if annoyed to find tears there. “This whole experience, I don’t know. I just think maybe he’s not the right person? I mean, are we even going to be together a year from now? Is that even what I want? Anyway,” she said, “I can’t think about that right now? I just want to, you know, get it over with and get on with my life?”

“Fair enough.” Claudia picked up the phone and dialed Mary Fahey’s extension. “We’re ready to sign.”

“My mom’s been so great,” said Hannah. “I thought for sure she was going to freak out? But the second I told her she was like, whatever you want to do. No drama, you know? My dad is another story.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“No!” Hannah looked aghast. “He’s, like, an anxious personality? I feel like he’d totally overreact, and then I’d feel bad, and it would be all about making him feel better? My dad’s awesome,” she added. “But he’s, like, a lot of work.”

The door opened. Hannah’s mother was a tall, lean woman in a thin leather jacket—older than Claudia, though at first glance this was not apparent. She seemed energetic and radiantly healthy, like a woman advertising vitamins or yogurt.

“Julia Ramsey. Nice to see you,” she added smoothly, as though they’d crossed paths at a cocktail party and she couldn’t quite recall whether they’d met before.

She signed the form briskly, without comment. “Thank you so much.” Her eyes went from Claudia to Mary. “Really. All of you. Hannah and I are so grateful for the work you do.”

Claudia watched as Mary led them down the hall. In an hour the procedure would be over, and Hannah’s visit to the clinic would become part of her past. When she thought about it at all, she’d remember a youthful mistake, quickly corrected. In the spring she would graduate from Pilgrims Country Day. Whatever happened next—Yale or Dartmouth, the future unfolding—would stem directly from the choice made on Mercy Street. For Hannah R., every door remained open. Her life was entirely her own.