"Abolition of a woman's right to abortion, when and if she wants it, amounts to compulsory maternity: form of rape by the state." – Edward Abbey
All Bailey Pickett could think about as she drove to the clinic in her red hand-me-down clunker of a Volkswagen was getting it over with. She'd been sent home once before. The doctor had detected a hint of uncertainty in her and told her to "mull it over" until she reached a final decision. She'd taken the advice (it wasn't like she had much of a choice), but all she did at home was pace the floor, gnaw at her fingernails, and wish for the thing to be out of her. Waiting was hell. The longer she waited, the bigger it got.
She'd made her initial appointment with the clinic right after seeing the ever-dreaded positive sign. It was now a week since then, and she was sure. Completely sure.
Cody had been all for it since he wasn't the father. The dates didn't match up. If he had been the one who'd knocked her up, she would have been huge by now. It had happened at London's 21st birthday party. There had been alcohol involved. Bailey was underage but after some intense coaxing by London, she opted to try a little.
She didn't know how much she had exactly—or even what she had—but it didn't take long before she could barely tell which way was up and which was down.
She'd passed out in a room full of people, loud music, pink glitter, steamers, and drunken chatter and had woken up naked in a bedroom, both her head and vagina burning. Intuitively she'd known what had happened, but for some strange reason, she didn't call the police. Nor did she confide in anyone—not for a while, at least. She'd pulled herself off the bed, wobbled into the plush-covered bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, washed her legs, and then had gotten dressed (her clothes had been thrown on the floor) and went back downstairs to the party, where she found everyone either passed out or so hammered they couldn't stand up.
Cody was among the unconscious. She'd sat next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder, and waited patiently, crying softly for him to wake up.
She didn't tell him about the rape until after taking the pregnancy test. And when she told him, she was blunt. She didn't know how else to be. Part of her thought perhaps she should cry and scream, or rant and rave, but she didn't. The energy wasn't in her. All that came out of her was a shaky sigh and a "I was raped at London's party."
Cody was actually more distraught than she was. "Why didn't you tell me before?" he'd asked incredulously.
She had simply shrugged and said, "I don't know. I guess... I guess I didn't want to believe it." It was the truth. Waking up naked on an unfamiliar bed with a stinging vagina had been a very surreal and disorienting experience. It had felt more confusing than anything else.
But Cody didn't understand. He'd paced back and forth in a frenzy, repeating the words "I can't believe this" and "Are you sure you don't know who did it?" And Bailey kept telling him that she didn't, that she had no clue whatsoever.
Eventually, after he'd stopped pacing and had taken a seat at the kitchen table, she told him that her rapist had impregnated her and that she wanted an abortion as soon as possible. He was all for it.
She'd thought of using birth control pills to get the deed done, but didn't like the idea of downing a bunch of drugs. Those things affected other parts of the body. Plus, there was no guarantee that they would kill it. And by the time she'd found out that she was pregnant it was too late for contraceptives. A clinic was the only truly safe method.
She pulled up to a stoplight. It turned yellow, and then red. She slowed to a stop and waited, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, biting her bottom lip, thinking, "Come on, come on, come on..." She was tired of waiting. If she had to wait much longer, she was going to go insane.
A woman crossed the road in front of her car, holding the hand of a toddler. She waved at Bailey. Bailey smiled and waved back.
When the light turned back to green and both the woman and the child were on the other side of the road, Bailey stepped on the gas pedal and drove on.
There were more protesters this time than there were last time. Last time had been a stormy, cloudy day. Today was frigid but sunny.
Bailey felt her stomach twist with nausea and she knew it wasn't because of the embryo. As she pulled into the parking lot, she tried to veer away from the crowd. She parked next to a blue Sedan at the corner of the lot and paused just long enough to take a deep breath, before opening her door, jumping out of her car, and making a run for the clinic.
She was about two feet from the front door when someone grabbed her by the arm and yanked her backwards, nearly forcing her to the ground. The grip tightened. She heard someone shout "Baby killer!" and felt her heart jack-hammer in her chest, thud in her throat. Someone else screamed "Murderer!" and the next thing she knew, a heavy object was being rammed against her head.
She toppled over onto her stomach, crying, blood trickling down the side of her face. A tennis shoe stepped on her hand, people came at her from all sides, condemning her, calling her names and pointing at her. She cowered beneath them, scared, humiliated, wanting nothing but a chance to get away. If this was the price of playing it safe, forget it, she'd use a hanger. She'd swallow a bottle of birth control pills if that's what it took. Anything to avoid this.
Why wasn't anyone helping her? Where were the nurses and doctors? Why weren't they here, shooing these maniacs away? Suddenly she felt betrayed, backstabbed and abandoned. She started sobbing, and tried to curl into a ball. She imagined herself taking a knife to her own throat, or her dad's pistol to her temple, and ending it all. There was no room in this world for pregnant women who didn't want their offspring. It didn't matter what their circumstances were, or what their circumstances could be; it didn't matter what they felt was best, or what their rights were. There was just someone else's belief system, someone else's morals, being shoved into their faces.
Someone else hit her over the head again and she blacked out. She awoke a few seconds later to find herself being hauled into the back seat of a car by what felt like two pairs of hands, but then blacked out a second time.
The last thing that went through her mind was: Hey, this isn't MY car.