Girls Will Be Girls

Trigger Warning: Abortion, SA, Language

Blue and red lights silhouetted those of us standing in the waiting room of the ER. Innocent patients and families watched, mesmerized by the authority pouring into the sliding glass doors. Anyone with a guilty conscience stood by, trance like, blood running cold through their veins. My blood was icy, crystalline pints bounding through my chest making it ache. I steadied myself against the registration counter.

“This way officers,” I murmured. I badged into the back of the ER. I thought about hiding my badge - turning it around, letting my hair flow over it, but it was no use. Mandatory reporting lines are recorded. My voice is permanently on a database somewhere stating my name, profession, and crime I’m reporting.

The four officers follow briskly behind me. I silently pray they don’t see the sweat bleeding through my scrubs, or my flushed neck. I try to radiate compliance, duty. Fix your face, I think as we approach the room. I have to seem disgusted. I have to act… as if this is the most detestable act a woman could commit.

“This is it, room 16.” I gesture to the room, giving them control. Giving her away.

“Thank you, nurse. We’ll take it from here.” No eye contact. No semblance of respect. That’s been long gone. They enter the room, close it behind them, and I head to the bathroom as calmly as I can bare, pushing back the sobs creeping up my throat.

The door shuts and I engage the lock. All of my weight and the weight of the world, our world, the world of anyone without a Y chromosome, leans back against the cold, gray door. I slide down it, sobbing, face in my hands. I didn’t have a choice.

“What the fuck did you do?!” my sister, Genevive, screams when I get home.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I say through my teeth.

“Of course you did! We all have choices! You called them. Emilee’s been charged with murder! She’s sitting in that radical makeshift containment camp outside of the city. We’ll never see her again.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” The tears return. I thought I had run out of tears. “She came into the ER in the middle of my shift. She was admitted to a room and they assigned her to me. I didn’t recognize the name at first. I go in and, Gen, there was blood everywhere. It was like a horror movie. She was screaming my name, screaming for me to help her. Begging, Gen. She kept saying, ‘I know you can help me. Please, Emmy, please.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “You’re the one who turned her away last night.”

Gen rolls her eyes, but I see the tears welling up in them. “I didn’t have a choice either. She drove here! She broke all of our rules! We have a protocol. Walk through the woods. After dark. Use the door in the garage. Knock three times, plus four. Bring no one and nothing with you. That’s how it works, and she did none of those things.”

“They had to sedate her just to get her to calm down. She used a coat hanger, Gen. A fucking coat hanger.”

“God help us all,” Gen whispers, staring into nothing.

“I had to. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a radical. If I hadn’t called the line, I could be in a camp right now. You would too! It’s over once they search the house. We’d be hanged by the end of business day tomorrow and you know it.” I’m not happy about my choice, but it was the only option. We have to say here to help those who need it. Sacrificing Emilee, albeit awful and sickening, was the only right thing. If only she would have come to us the right way…

After half a Xanax bar and an expired bag of candy (I only save those for special occasions, usually those nights of self-loathing), I finally am able to sleep.

Knock Knock Knock

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

My eyes fly open, heart pounding, same response as usual. It doesn’t get easier. Each visitor is a chance to get caught. Every visitor is a risk, but a risk we take. I hear Gen’s footsteps in the hall. I light the lantern on my bedside and slip on my houseshoes. The city blackouts started weeks ago, so we utilize my blackout curtains from my old nightshift days in the bedrooms and our “office” where we do the hard work. We don’t want any neighbors thinking we’re awake. We don’t want to raise any red flags.

This one’s young. Sixteen, seventeen? I’m at the door, right behind Gen, who’s still in her nightgown.

“Anyone with you?” She shakes her head.

“Any cell phone on you?” Another shake, her blonde hair falls from behind her ear. Some cell phones are still out there. Those that are still functioning are being monitored. They’re always listening. Always tracking.

“How’d you get here?”

“I walked from three miles down the road. My grandparents live there. I cut into the woods as soon as I could. No one saw me.” Despite the low lights, the cuts on her pale legs from the brambles show that her words are truthful. Gen steps back and opens the door.

I lead her to our office. Our room of sin, choice, power, freedom and pain. I make sure the curtains are in place before lighting the candles in the room. We’ve done this a thousand times, but it still feels… ritualistic. In some sense, yes it’s wrong, but what they’re doing is worse. No more women should die because of an unborn child.

The young one sits on the futon against the far wall of the room. It’s made up with clean sheets, a washable pad underneath, just in case. Gen comes in and sits next to her. I stand in the doorway. Sometimes I stay for our… consultations. Sometimes I make tea and wait anxiously until it’s over, just staying awake in case I’m needed.

“What do you need?” Gen says, softly but all business.

“My name is-”

“Nuh uh. No names. The less we know about each other the better. What do you need? I need no stories or explanations.”

“It’s early… but I’m late. And I just… I can’t. My teacher, he…” Her sweet, innocent face contorts into a silent sob.

“Nope, no explanations. I care about you. I care about your choice. I don’t care about why. I can’t pick and choose. I’m just glad you came here instead of throwing yourself down the stairs or doing something that’ll kill ya.”

I glance to the wall by the bookcase. This room is beyond illegal. The books alone would result in arrest. The shelves that line the wall are full of all types of things I don’t understand. That’s Gen’s job. Lots of jars with herbs. Lots of things I don’t understand. Sometimes it’s tea. Sometimes it’s herbal pessaries. We don’t cut. And we don’t do anything at all if it’s too far along. I have a small collection of pills - morning after pill, birth control, some narcotics. Most of it will be expiring soon. I stocked up when I felt the change in the air. When I saw the news stories, the videos on social media, the foundation of our country and life as we know it crumbling.

“Put the kettle on, please.” Gen scooches closer, puts her wrinkled hand on the hand of this little girl. She begins to tell her what to expect, speaking low as if someone will hear us.

I fumble to get the butane burner out from under the sink. We use it sparingly and only at night, when we aren’t allowed to use electricity. I fill up the kettle and sit it on the burner. I find a clean mug, setting it aside. I wonder when they will take my job. Take my car. Take my money. Take our home. When that day comes, we’re sure to be found out. It’s just Gen and me, how wild it is to not have husbands and children. I’m sure the day is coming that we will be weeded out, as an example of not contributing.

For now, I get to be a nurse. That was a hard position to fill, on the whole. You want women not to work? You want hospitals full of men? Most of them can’t stomach it. Most patients don’t like it. You want your mother to care for you when you’re sick, not your uncle. So for now, the hospital is still full of women. Gen was let go early on, as she was “just a receptionist.” We have AI, after all. Why does a human need to answer phones and read emails?

The tea kettle whistles, startling me out of my thoughts. I pour the mug full and carefully walk it down the hall. I rap on the door, but who else could it be?

“Thank you, sis,” Gen says, taking the mug from me. She’s already got the herbs ready. The girl is now wrapped in a blanket on the futon, holding a pillow.

We all stop in our tracks at the sound of the siren. Gen’s eyes grow big. I can almost see the blood drain from her face. The girl starts to whimper, stifling the sobs. I stand perfectly still, waiting. Listening. The sirens grow closer, louder. We all stop breathing, waiting on them to pull into the driveway and take us all away, but they keep going. We can see the blue and red slipping around the curtains, then they fade. The wailing grows softer, further. We all take a breath.

Gen takes the mug in her hand, offers it to our visitor. “You sure you’re ready?”