Take My Hand(38)

“Miss Civil, what you doing here?” Mrs. Williams opened the door wearing the new eyeglasses I’d bought her. The apartment smelled salty, like there was fatback on the stove. It seemed like every time I visited the woman was cooking, especially when she’d just gotten her food stamps. On the block there was a bus stop that took her straight to the A&P.

“I’m just stopping by to tell India she got into the school. Ooh, your new eyeglasses look good on you. Can you see better now?” I tried to peek around her broad figure.

“The glasses is fine. But ain’t you with the girls? They been gone since early this morning.”

“The girls? Gone where?”

“Child, the nurse come and took them to the hospital. I figure you was with them.”

“The hospital? For what? Are they sick?”

“No, they went for they shots.”

“Shots?” My knees started to tremble. “You mean they went to the clinic?”

“No, they say they was taking them to the hospital.”

“To the hospital for shots?”

“That’s what they say. Least, I believe that’s what the woman say. I ain’t for sure.”

“What woman?”

“The white lady. I know she said Professional Hospital.”

“The white lady? Professional Hospital?”

“Yes, the white lady with big red hair. I believe I met her once before, but I can’t remember correctly.”

I rubbed my eye. Mrs. Seager had been to the apartment. And she’d taken them to Professional. That was the white hospital. It didn’t make sense.

Mrs. Williams opened the door wider and I stepped inside. I closed the door behind me but held on to the knob. I touched my shoulder to the tip of my ear.

“Mrs. Williams,” I said slowly, “did you sign anything?”

“I sure did. I put my mark clear as day on the paper she brung me.”

I opened the door and ran down the stairs, trying to get to my car as fast as I could. There were no signed papers in the file for the Depo shots, so it was possible Mrs. Seager had just given her something to sign regarding those. It was possible. It was possible.

I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers cramped. Once I arrived at Professional, I hurried through the main doors, my nurse’s uniform giving me enough of an air of authority that no one looked askance. I stopped at the desk.

“I’m looking for India and Erica Williams. They came in with Mrs. Linda Seager a while ago, from the—”

“You work here?”

I shook my head. “No, ma’am, I’m from the Montgomery Family Planning Clinic.”

She pointed to a thick binder on the desk. “Sign in.”

I scribbled my name as she thumbed through a large book. “Here they are. They’re in post-surgery on the fourth floor. The room number is—”

The elevator bell dinged and I slipped past the person waiting for it. When I got off on the fourth floor, I realized I hadn’t waited long enough to hear the room number, and now I regretted it. The floor was relatively quiet, but I thought I could make out the faint sound of someone moaning. I turned down the east corridor. It sounded like India’s faintly unintelligible sounds. At the last door, a chart stuck out of a clear plastic folder, and I saw the name Williams. I picked it up and flipped through the pages, reading quickly.

Dear God. I pushed the door open.

The two sisters were lying on beds opposite each other, India curled into a fetal position, her head between her knees, Erica holding a hand out toward her sister. When I entered, Erica turned to me, a panicked look in her eyes.

“Miss Civil!” She reached out her arms.

“Erica.” I went to her and smoothed her hair back. Her forehead was cold and wet.

“Miss Civil. Oh, I hurt so bad.”

“What you say?” I lifted the covers. Blood-soaked bandages were wrapped around her abdomen.

“They done something to us, Miss Civil. I thought we was coming for shots. But they done something to us. They say we can’t have no babies.”

Heat rose up behind my eyes, and the room fell away. I held Erica in my arms, the sound of India moaning behind me, her voice thick, a raw sound. The room smelled of blood and urine and disinfectant.

Erica started to cry. “I was doing everything you told me to do.”

“Shhh, shhh.” I rubbed her forehead with my hand. “Hush, baby. Don’t talk.” I turned around and tried to take hold of India. She was holding on to her legs tightly, her eyes squeezed shut. “Come on, sweetheart. Let loose. Let loose.”

Now, you know how some white folks feel about Black bodies. They think we can tolerate pain better than them . . . Some of them even thought syphilis couldn’t kill us. I picked up a cord on the side of the bed and pressed the buzzer over and over. A few minutes later, a nurse stuck her head in the door.

“Have these patients been given something for their pain?”

She looked at my cap, which, though it didn’t look that different from hers, was falling halfway off my head. Both of my knee-highs were down around my ankles.

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

“Call the goddamn doctor!” I yelled, and she escaped through the door.

India let go of her legs and went limp, her cries easing into whimpers. I did not need to look under her bandage. I knew there would be an incision running down the front of her abdomen past her navel. I had learned about laparoscopies in nursing school.