Take My Hand(39)

A doctor entered. He had gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He gave me the same look the nurse had, then said, “Do you work on this floor?”

“I’m from the Montgomery Planning Clinic, and these girls are my patients. What have you done?”

“These girls were scheduled for a tubal ligation this morning. The supervisor, Linda Seager, brought them in personally. Perhaps you should check your own records so that you can keep up with your patients better.”

“A tubal ligation?”

“The surgery went well. They can go home in two days.”

“A tubal ligation?”

“You say you’re from the Montgomery Family Planning Clinic?” He had a concerned look on his face, as if he were beginning to think it was possible that I was lying.

“She’s eleven goddamn years old!” Now I was crying, and I could hear a commotion in the hallway. I pressed India’s face into my chest, as if to shield her from him. “And they need pain medication.”

“Get them some—”

“I’m going to find your daddy and let him know what happened, alright? And I’m going to make this right, do you understand me? I’m going to make this right.”

I stumbled out of the room. Down in the lobby, there was a pay phone, and I used it to call Mace at work. I told the supervisor it was an emergency and they let him come to the telephone, but it took a long time. When he finally picked up, I told him what had happened and there was a long silence before he said, “What you saying?” and then the line went dead because my time was up. I dug around in my purse, but I didn’t have any more change.

When I got in the car, I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do next. I could hear a rattling in my chest, like paper crackling. I turned left out of the parking lot, hit the gas pedal. I never saw the other car, though I was told later that there was one, and as I crossed through the intersection all I remember was the impact, the whirl of the car spinning, and my body being tossed around, light as air, like a rag doll.





PART II





TWENTY-ONE





When I say to you that what happened to those girls was the greatest hurt of my life, I am speaking the God’s honest truth. To understand that statement, you have to understand where I came from. When I was growing up Daddy had a good practice, and it afforded us some things. We owned our own house, took vacations. I got my hair done in a real beauty shop, not somebody’s kitchen. Our little family managed to live dignified in undignified times. Daddy shined his shoes every morning. Mama wore earrings. These little acts might seem simple to you, but baby, let me tell you. They held back the storm.

In order to survive the humiliations of Jim Crow life, we sustained one another through laughter, food, music. And to that end, in the clutch of a community’s embrace, Centennial Hill nourished us, and I was protected from the worst of it. It was a place where folks saved the tears for church and left their burdens on the altar.

It seemed unfathomable to me that anything like this would ever happen to someone close to me. Even with all I knew about the cruelty of humans—the beatings, the murders, the disappearances—I had still somehow underestimated people, and the girls had paid a price for that naiveté. No wonder my car got hit. It was a lesson on the laws of physics. There are consequences in life.

“Are you alright?”

A lady helped lower me to the curb. My knees hurt as if they’d been skinned. My car was still in the middle of the street, the entire passenger side dented. I touched my forehead. “Am I bleeding?”

“Well, the glass scratched you up, but you look alright to me. I don’t think you need no ambulance.”

I held on to her. She was wearing a white shirt, though she did not seem to care that I might get it soiled. My palms were pricked and raw.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. When I got here, I found you here on this curb. I never saw another car. I’m sure they’ll find it.”

“I need to go. I have somewhere to go.” I started to rise, but she pushed me back down.

“Which hospital do you work at? Can I call somebody for you?”

“Hospital?” The front of my uniform was brown and mottled with something funky. I must have vomited on myself. “Can you call my daddy?”

“What’s your daddy’s number, baby?”

I told her, and she repeated the numbers softly.

“Okay, I’ll be right back. You sit here and don’t move.”

The minutes dragged on. I shook my head to clear it, sniffed, wiped the back of my hand across my face, and saw that blood was running from my nose. I smoothed my hand down the side of my dress.

The lady came back with a balding man whose forehead shone red in the sun. He kneeled down and tilted my head back gently. “Your nose is bleeding.” He held a tissue to my face.

“I called your daddy,” the lady said. “And I called the police, too. This nice man let me into his house to use the phone.”

They fussed over me though I tried to resist. I needed to call Mace. Or had I already called him? I put my hand to my forehead. A headache was beginning to stir. The man offered to pull my car over to the side of the road, and I relented. A few moments later, he brought my purse and keys to me. I was not sure how much time passed before I heard my daddy’s voice. “I’m a doctor,” he was saying. “Are you feeling pain anywhere, baby?” I shook my head as he insisted he would take me to the hospital himself. The woman said she would wait for the police and give a report.