Take My Hand(41)

When I saw Mace standing in front of the window at the end of the hallway, my first impression was that he looked weak, as if when he stepped away from the window he might crumple. As I approached him, I couldn’t form my lips to say anything.

“You they goddamn nurse.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the words roared in my ears.

“I went to your apartment this afternoon to tell India that she had made it into the school. Your mama told me they’d been taken to the hospital. I came here. I was too late. They had already been to surgery. I got them some pain medicine. Then I got into a car accident. I came straight back here.” My words ran together.

“Can they change it back?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know what I mean, goddamnit. Can they undo it? Will my girls be able to go back to the way they was?”

“No, no, I don’t believe so. I think . . . I mean, the chart said the tubes were cauterized, which means they were burned. No . . . I’m sorry, Mace. It’s permanent.”

“Why did you let them people do this to my girls, Civil? Why?” His mouth hung slightly open.

“I didn’t know. I swear to God, Mace. All I did was take them off the shots and then she—”

“Wait, what you saying? They wasn’t getting the shots no more? I thought that’s where they was going this morning? To get shots.”

“You were there this morning?”

“Where you think I was?”

“Did you sign the papers?”

I took the chart out of the holder. Sure enough, the consent papers were on the clipboard. There was his mark, and his mother’s. And the signature of a witness: Valeria Brinson. Val.

“I’m sorry, Mace.”

He turned his back to me.

“I’ll stay here with them tonight. I’ll stay with them until they come home. And after they go home, I’ll help. I’ll help get them well,” I said.

“But that’s the thing, ain’t it. They ain’t going never be well, is they.” He pressed his forehead against the window. And it was his back that hurt the most. His back filled out his shirt like a wall.

Mace wouldn’t look at me, so I entered the girls’ room. They were both sleeping. I looked down at the paper on the clipboard in my hand. At least they had been given something for the pain and could rest. I opened a dresser drawer and took out clean, folded gowns. When the girls woke up, I would give them a wash-up. The room smelled sour, and I knew they had not been cleaned properly. I’d wash them up and put them in fresh gowns. Then I would feed them, by hand if I had to. After I had my abortion, Miss Pope had done it for me, and I would do the same for them. I sat down in the chair and closed my eyes. My left shoulder felt tender, and when I touched my forehead I found the unmistakable beginning of a lump.

Maybe it was for the best. India had speech problems. It would have been difficult for her to care for a baby. The family was poor, with little prospects. Bringing a baby into that life would have been a tragedy. No sooner than these thoughts formed in my mind, I hated myself for them. I hated myself then, and I hate myself now. Just remembering that day makes me hot with shame. We’d thought we were doing something useful for society, but this is where that so-called good deed had gotten us. Right smack into a nightmare.





TWENTY-TWO





The main wood-paneled room of the Ralsey office suite contained two secretary desks, a waiting area with a dark leather sofa and armchair, and rows of green filing cabinets along the wall. Spider plants hung from hooks in the ceiling. Sunlight streamed through a large window.

In Mrs. Ralsey’s private office, two cacti perched on the corner of the desk. A six-foot ficus tree nearly blocked the window. Mrs. Ralsey sat at her desk taking notes—a lot of notes—but I couldn’t make out her handwriting. Her husband waited beside her, arms folded across his chest. Daddy had refused the seat they offered him. He leaned against the wall next to Alicia. Ty was right beside me, his chair pulled up so close to mine I could hear him breathing.

“Did Mrs. Seager know you switched them from the shots to the birth control pills?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“And after you switched them, did the girls complain about the pills to you? Were they taking them regularly?”

“Actually . . . I never gave them the pills. Why did they need to take pills?”

“But you wrote in the chart that they were taking them?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you tell the Williamses what you had done?”

“No, ma’am. I wish I had.”

Mrs. Ralsey scribbled again on her pad, then stopped, dangling the pen from her fingers.

“Do you believe Mrs. Seager regularly read their chart?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alicia chimed in. “She keeps all the charts in her office.”

“We’ll be right back.” She and her husband maneuvered around us and stepped out of the room.

It didn’t make sense. Did Mrs. Seager sterilize them because she didn’t think the pill was an effective way to keep the girls from getting pregnant? Did she know they weren’t taking the pill at all? I was still a little foggy from the car accident, so I had trouble figuring it out.