I drove into town to do my two office jobs. Bathrooms to clean and desks to dust and carpets to vacuum and trash cans to empty. I examined the garbage bags closely before I tossed them into the dumpster behind the insurance company. They were thick and sturdy, and it seemed like such a shame to waste them on flimsy items like paper, pencil shavings, and styrofoam coffee cups. And I noticed, for the first time, how my fingerprints stood out against the black plastic surface.

   Brian was eating bacon and eggs when I got back home. I held my breath to block out the smell and headed straight for the bathroom. I scrubbed the bleach from my hands, then examined my hair in the mirror; pulled it back, wound it into a tight bun, and secured it with extra pins. Gave it a liberal dose of hair spray so no strands could escape. I gave my cosmetics bag a quick glance, but decided against putting on any makeup. I’d have to look at my reflection too closely for that; I’d have to look at my eyes.

   Rachel was downstairs and ready to go by the time I staggered back into the kitchen. She took one look at me and actually shuddered. “You look like hell, Tess.”

   “Thanks.”

   “Why’d you put your hair up like that? Seriously, you look--”

   I sighed. “Do you want me to take you or not?”

   Before she could answer, Brian stood up and announced, “I’m taking you, Rach.”

   “Uh, no you’re not.”

   “Tess isn’t up to this. I didn’t schedule any work for today so I could--”

   “I told you...no.”

   I grabbed hold of his hand and said, “I’m fine, Brian.”

   “Tess--”

   “It’s alright. Really.”

   He didn’t believe me. Neither did I. But there wasn’t anything we could do about it. I grabbed my purse from the counter, looked inside to make sure I’d remembered to pack a book for the waiting room. Then I gave him a kiss, pushed Rachel out the door, and we drove away.

   It took twenty minutes to get from the house to the interstate and we still had an hour to go until we’d reach Portland. It was only quarter after eight, and the end of the day was nowhere in sight.

   “So,” Rachel said, finally breaking the silence, “how come you don’t go to church anymore? I mean, you believe in God. Right?”

   A thousand and one other possible topics for conversation, and she wanted to talk about God. While I was driving her to get an abortion.

   “Yes, I believe in God. I just…I don’t feel close to him in church.”

   “Really? Why’s that?”

   I shrugged, even though I knew exactly why. I knew because I’d felt that way since I was a little girl, sitting in my church clothes, listening to the Mass. Trying to feel His presence. Struggling to feel His love. But there was nothing there. Nothing but words I didn’t completely understand and scary statues. And then, one beautiful Sunday Spring morning when I was nine years old, something occurred to me. Something I never told anyone else.

   He’s not really in here. God doesn’t live inside a building, and that’s all a church is; just a building filled with lots of words. A beautiful building, except for the scary statues, and beautiful words, some of them; but there isn’t anything real in here.

   And from that moment on, every Sunday I would imagine that He was waiting for me outside the church. That He was peeking in the windows, a little impatiently, waiting for the priest to finish saying the words. Waiting until I could come home and change into my play clothes. And in my mind He was with me as I played in the meadows and the forest near my house. Running with me through the wildflowers and climbing the tall, tall trees and rolling down the steep hill in the thick, green grass. And when I read Anne of Green Gables a year later I knew I’d been right all along. Because Anne said that if she really wanted to talk to God, a real, true prayer, then she’d have to go outside to do it. She’d need to surround herself with God’s creation, with His beauty; drink it in and let it fill her up. And then she could look heavenward and just feel a prayer.

   I couldn’t say that to Rachel, of course, so I turned the tables on her. “Didn’t your parents ever take you guys to church?”

   “Nope. Brian said once that everyone in my father’s family was all too busy worshiping at the alter of Jack Daniels to worry about God.” Neither of us laughed, because it wasn’t funny. “My mom’s parents went to the church that gave Zeke such a hard time. But my mom never went after she got pregnant with Brian, and she never made us go.”

   “Do they live around here?” Brian had never mentioned his grandparents before.

   “Not anymore. They’re dead.”

   “Oh. I’m sorry.”

   “Don’t be. I never met ‘em. Brian either.”

   “Did they die before you guys were born?”

   “Nope, they just didn’t wanna have anything to do with my mother. She was a sinner, so they cast her out.”

   “A sinner?”

   “Yeah. You know. Fornication. That’s a sin.”

   “Ah.”

   She gave me a fake smile and changed the subject. She’d tried watching Gone With The Wind after we got home from the Burke’s, but had to turn it off about halfway through. Because any movie where a woman took more than two hours to figure out if she wanted to be with a whining, sniveling wimp or a dark, dangerous renegade wasn’t worth bothering with. When I told her that Scarlett had chosen the renegade, but that by then it was Too Late, Rachel smiled and said, Good for him. I told her that I hated most movies that were made from books, because they usually screwed up the story. And she said that it was probably because studios know that most people need the Hollywood Version of things; because it makes them feel better.

   And on it went. Harmless, meaningless, inane chatter that was supposed to take our minds off of where we were headed and what was going to happen once we got there. But we got there, of course, and were both forced to think about it, forced to deal with it. I helped her fill out paperwork and sat in the waiting room while she had her counseling. While she debated for the final time whether or not she really wanted to go through with it. There were other women waiting, too, and some men who were there for support, but I didn’t look at any of them. I just read the book I’d brought with me. It was a crime thriller. All about vengeance and punishment. And then it was time.

   The Room was white. Stark white. And it made me long for the Pepto Bismol Pink that had offended me months earlier in Kim’s maternity ward. I turned away while Rachel changed into her thin, chilly robe, looked out the window at Portland Maine. It was Black Friday. Early bird specials for early Christmas shoppers. Streets and parking lots that were packed with cars. Stores that were packed with angry customers in crowded aisles, fighting over the latest Must Have Toy. This year, like most years, it was some stupid stuffed animal that, when properly stuffed with too many batteries-not-included, spit out three different phrases. It was outrageously priced and in high demand because supplies were short. Supplies were short because the manufacturer had kept production low. That way they could create a high demand and charge outrageous prices.

   Ho ho ho.

   Rachel cleared her throat and let me know she was done changing. She was sitting on the padded table with the white paper sheet. Waiting. Determined. Nervous. I wanted to ask, Are you sure? Are you really sure? But a doctor or nurse or both had already asked her that and she had said yep or yes or maybe even hell yeah. Because there we were. Waiting.

   Finally, the nurse. Friendly. Smiling. She was wearing scrubs that were Dusty Rose. She asked kindly about our Thanksgiving as she took Rachel’s blood pressure and pulse and did all the other preliminary garbage. Then the door opened again, and in walked The Doctor.

   She was friendly, too. Motherly. Earth mother, actually; a true Granola with proudly graying brown hair and no make up. She told us her name but I didn’t pay attention to it. In my mind she’d always just be The Doctor. She looked at Rachel’s chart, scribbled something down and nodded to herself. Then she looked up. Asked Rachel if she had any questions.

   She did. Just one and it surprised me. Because although The Doctor misunderstood her at first, I knew, right away, exactly what is was she meant.

   “Is it gonna hurt?”

   “I’ll be giving you a few injections, to numb your cervix. That will sting just a little, almost like a pinch. But it will help with the--”

   Injections. Needles. She winced. And it was a relief for me to see that she really did hate them. “I know. They told me that already. I mean...is this gonna hurt the baby?”

   For a few moments there was nothing but silence, except in my mind. Because what I heard there was a scared, lonely voice that said:

   The doctor cleared her throat and said. “No. Not at all.”

   And then she told us about nerve centers and weeks of gestation. Explained that there was no fetal pain before twenty-six weeks. That was a fact. And I looked at her, looked to her. Because she was The Doctor. The One Who Knows. And I searched her eyes, suddenly panicked. Because there was something that I needed to know.

   Is this bullshit? Something you tell women to make them feel better? To ease their conscience? To ease yours? Because how is that possible? How the fuck, how the bloody goddamn hell can you even know that? What tests can you run to figure that out? What kind of scientific proof could you possibly have that could possibly fucking tell you that Rachel’s baby, or fetus, or embryo--that the mass of cells inside of her--won’t feel a thing?

   But she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at Rachel. Calm. Confident. Competent. Which is exactly what she should have been doing. What I should be doing. So I did it. I held Rachel’s hand and she looked at me. Determined, still, but scared. I looked right back at her, looked her right in the eyes. And I said it.

   “She’s right, Rach. They’ve done tests and stuff. So they know.”

   She gave me a weak smile, nodded, then lay down on the table. She looked up at the ceiling so I did, too. It was a drop ceiling, a grid. Big white squares with yellowish water stains here and there that looked just like piss. The Doctor and Dusty Pink Nurse talked to each other in low voices, about whatever it is that doctors and nurses talk about. And then it was time.

   Stirrups. Ultrasound. The screen was pointed mercifully away from Rachel. Even if it hadn’t been she wouldn’t have seen it, because she didn’t shift her gaze, not once. Still looked straight up and I wondered if she was counting tiles. Or maybe counting the tiny little holes in the tiles. What were those holes? Were they there just for looks? Ventilation? Air bubbles that formed when the factory cooked the tiles? What the hell were those tiles made from, anyway? Styrofoam? Plastic?

   It didn’t matter, and now I had to listen to The Doctor again. She was saying something about sedation. Demerol for pain and Valium to help her relax. Rachel nodded. She was all for that. Until The Doctor mentioned the dangers of giving it to her if she’d consumed any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty four hours. And that’s when she had to tell us.

   She’d taken Something last night. Right before she’d hopped into my bed.

   “Just so I could sleep, Tess. Just so I--”

   I put my hand up. “It’s alright, Rach.”

   I said it even though it wasn’t alright. It was as far away from alright as we could get. But it was a done thing and right now I couldn’t do anything about it. Right now she needed to settle down and not worry about Condemnation and Judgment and Consequences. There would be enough of that later. But when it came it wouldn’t be from me, and it wouldn’t be about the Something that had helped her drift off to sleep. It would be even worse. It would be Rachel judging Rachel. I knew it. I could see it in her eyes. Already.

   So I gave her a small smile that I hoped looked reassuring and we listened to The Doctor once again. Because she wanted to explain each step as it was happening. There was the speculum, and that’s never fun, and antiseptic, which is one of the foulest stenches known to man. Then Rachel clamped her eyes shut, asked, begged, please, please, please don’t tell me about the needle. Just do it. And she squeezed my hand tightly, tighter and tighter still, until I thought my fingers might just fall off from a lack of circulation. Finally she relaxed her grip a little, letting me know the evil needle was gone. But she didn’t let go of my hand.

   Dilators. I didn’t know what those were, what they did, what they meant. I didn’t want to know. Didn’t look. I looked right at Rachel and she look right at me, with wide, scared eyes. Van Dyke brown. And that’s when I wondered, even though I didn’t want to wonder:

   It didn’t matter, because The Doctor was doing it. A vacuum. It sounded--almost--like mine. The one I used every day. And that’s when I wondered...even though I...couldn’t wonder...

   Oh...my God.

   But I couldn’t think about that, even if I wanted to, which I didn’t, because right now--right now--Rachel was hurting. For real. In every single, horrible, god-awful way a person could hurt. A hurt I could actually see and feel and smell. And that’s the pain I had to think about, to worry about. So I gave her another smile and squeezed her hand. She was crying. Silently. Looking at me while the tears streamed down her cheeks and I had to do something, but what could I do? Nothing. Except...

   I leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “It’s alright. You’re doing the right thing.”

   I said it even though it wasn’t alright. Not yet. But it would be Someday. I’d make sure of it. And I said it because it was the right thing. For her.

   It felt like the vacuum had been sucking and whining and hissing forever, but it had only been four minutes. Only four and The Doctor had said it would probably take ten. Six more minutes. And I didn’t know if I could take it. If Rachel could. Because her eyes were pleading with me to do something. To make it all go away.

   Then I remembered Kim. Lamaze. Focal point. But it was too late for that, really. Nothing to focus on except the ceiling, and who wants to stare at tiny white holes and piss? And if there was no focal point, then what else could I do?

   “Tess...” Weak; begging. “Please talk to me. Say something. Anything...”

   Anything. Anything that wasn’t about what was actually going on. I searched for a topic but there was nothing inside me. Nothing except the whine and hiss and screech of the vacuum. It was everywhere. It echoed inside my brain and heart and gut and what was left of my soul.

   I took a peek around the room, hoping for inspiration, which was stupid. Nothing but stark white walls and white tiled floor with ugly light grey specks and white ceiling tiles that were stained with piss. I searched anyway and inspiration finally came to me from an odd place. The nurse. She had on a ring. It looked like a ruby.

   So I told Rachel about my broken pin with the missing stone that was probably a fake ruby. Told her about beaux and true love and gifts. Separation and sacrifice. But in my version that separation was only temporary. In my version the pin broke because it fell from the sad girl’s hands as she watched her beau drive away towards New York. Towards work and success and riches. And in my version the lovers were reunited. And they lived happily ever after.

   The Hollywood Version. Because sometimes that’s what we need.

   She listened but didn’t smile, grateful through her clenched teeth, and I finished right before The Doctor did. It was quiet once again, except inside of me. Because that’s where the vacuum was still shrieking. And it probably always would be.

   We had to wait another hour before they let me take her home. Gave her three prescriptions to be filled, which we did before we left town. Because she didn’t want to get them at the drug store in New Mills. Not where the pharmacist knew her. Had known her mother.

   By the time we were back on the interstate Rachel was floating on a Vicodin cloud. I expected her to drift off to sleep, but she talked instead. She kept her eyes closed as she did, and what she told me made me want to close my eyes, too. Cover my ears. Crash the car into a guardrail. Anything to make the story stop. Because this time she was too worn out to make idle chatter, too gloomy for Hollywood endings. Instead she told me about Tim.

   He hadn’t just knocked her around. Not just a smack now and then. Not out of anger or revenge because of Brian beating him senseless. Violence and humiliation. That was his thing. It’s what turned him on, and it was the real reason he sold drugs; not just the money. That mattered, of course, and he had it, but it only mattered a little. It was the power of it he loved. Getting young girls hooked; and then taking it away. Leaving them hurting and begging and willing to do anything for just...one more...hit. Please...

   He’d tried it with Rachel, tried to get her hooked, but she really was afraid. She’d lied to me, though, when she said she’d never tried heroin. Just once, Tess. I swear. She let Tim shoot her up with her eyes closed tight and she’d loved it. It was the best feeling in the world, the best she’d ever felt in her whole, miserable fucking life. Ever. And that scared her even more than the needle. Because she knew--knew at that moment--that she really would do anything in the world, anything, to feel like that again. And so she never used it again. Even though he wanted her to. Even though she wanted to. She stuck with what was safe, with her Oxycontin.

   That was fine for him at first, because for awhile it was enough for him just to fuck a young girl. But after awhile the novelty wore off and he needed more. And that’s when it started. He had to hurt her to get it up. To get it off. And he was smart, because he never left a mark where anyone could see it. Never did anything that anyone else could know about. Except for him.

   And except for her.

   Once she understood how it worked she’d scream and screech and pretend that it was worse than it actually was; just so he’d stop. Or so he’d stop sooner. But he knew, and so it just got worse. She wanted to tell him no but she knew he’d do it anyway. Wanted to run away and ask for help but she was embarrassed. Ashamed. And because she was afraid that he’d leave her. That she’d be all alone. And it went on and on and on...

   Until Brian and Jeff got to him. Because once Tim recovered that was the worst ever. Not just for kicks; it was retribution. He tied her up, beat her, then raped her. And that’s when I knocked at her door. I’d saved her from...something. She’d known something worse was coming, but she hadn’t known what. And by that time she didn’t care. She’d just given up. She was just going to let him do whatever it was. She was just too tired to fight...

   I drove along as she told me her story, my heart getting colder and colder as each mile ticked by, but I didn’t speak. She didn’t seem to want me to say anything, seemed to want to just get it all out. And by the time she was done we were a mile from home.

   The lake.

   The leaves were bare and the water was grey and ugly and cold. I stopped anyway so I could say something. Because once we got home, once Brian heard my car, he’d come running right out, and I wouldn’t be able to say a word.

   “I’m so sorry I didn’t get you out of there.”

   “Tess, it’s not your fault.”

   “I should have--”

   “Should have? Should have what? I lied to you. What can I say? I’m good at it.”

   Maybe. But I still should have known something was going on. I should have made her leave him, whether she wanted to or not. I was the grown up, not her, and I should have protected her.

   I cleared my throat. “You really need to stay with us, Rach. For a long time. I know you don’t want to, but you need to anyway.”

   She nodded. Tired. Ready to agree to anything.

   “And don’t tell anyone else what happened today. Not because you should be ashamed, because you shouldn’t be. But because you don’t want it getting back to Tim.”

   “You don’t think he’s gonna figure it out when he sees me not getting fatter?”

   “You let me take care of that. Just...don’t say anything.”

   “I won’t. It’s not like I want the world to know anyway.”

   “I know. And...one more thing Rach.”

   She rolled her eyes. Beyond tired.

   “Rach, don’t ever think you have to put up with any of that shit again. Okay? Because you deserve better than that. You really do. You’re a great person and you’re beautiful and you deserve someone who treats you that way.”

   “Okay.”

   “And don’t ever lie to me again. Especially about Tim. If he shows up or calls or anything like that...you tell me.” I didn’t bother to threaten her with Brian. I didn’t have to, because she knew. “I mean it. You tell me right away. Do you understand?”

   “Yes Mommy.”

   “Shut up.”

   Brian was waiting on the porch steps when we got home.

   It was 3:47.

   “Yeah, but…” He sighed again. “Yeah. Just…be careful. You look a little fuzzy or something. And call me if you’re too tired to keep driving so I can come get you. And…”