The Abortionist's Daughter (12 page)

Then, as she unlocked her car door, she happened to glance up. Across the street, on the flat rooftop of a small shopping area, a man stood watching her. A worker, she told herself. A roof repairman. But as she got into her car and buckled her seatbelt, the feeling of unease continued to grow. He was just standing there, not doing anything, watching her—and she was sure of it, even from a distance. She thought of a movie she had seen recently, two snipers on two different rooftops, radioing to each other just before one of them fired the shot. As she headed out into traffic, he was still watching her, and by the time she got home, she was so shaken that she poured herself a drink instead of lighting the usual joint, and went into her study and drew the shades.

She never saw the man on the roof again, but from that night on, every single time she left the office she found herself scanning buildings, windows, rooftops—anything that could serve as a stakeout point. The possibility haunted her. She’d been sloppy about wearing her vest, but she began to wear it religiously, and not just to work but to the grocery store and movies as well—even in summer, when the temperature was ninety degrees at nine in the morning. She installed blinds on the windows in the solarium. She got an unlisted phone number. She wondered if Megan and Frank were at risk, and whether as a mother and a wife she owed it to them to stop doing abortions, to protect them.

And so by the age of forty-seven, with her husband at the height of his career and her daughter just off to college, Diana Duprey couldn’t remember what it was like to feel safe anymore. She was thinking of hiring a bodyguard, even getting a handgun. She was thinking of moving far, far away. She couldn’t fall asleep without a Xanax.

This was not how she had expected to be living her life, at the age of forty-seven.

—————

Sending her one child off to college was nowhere near as traumatic as Diana had feared. That fall, with Megan at the university, she kept waiting for the empty-nest feeling to kick in, but it never did. Instead, she suddenly found herself with time on her hands—time to swim not just in the morning but in the evening as well; time to clean out a few closets; time to think about that book she wanted to write about Ben.

It had been ten years since her son had died, but it could have been yesterday—not so much because of any raw grief, but because sometimes he could still seem so alive, so present. They’d long ago dismantled his room, but some nights she could still smell the lotion she used for his eczema, could still hear Megan cranking the jack-in-the-box for him, or Ben himself trying to sing along with Raffi. She could picture Ben lying on his sheepskin, feet in the air; she could smell the vaporizer, could hear it bubbling gently as a backdrop to his constant rattly breathing in the night.

Diana knew there were some unresolved issues with Frank about Ben, but she’d avoided them over the years by focusing instead on her work and on raising Megan. Yet with Megan off at school now, she felt she and Frank needed to finally tackle some of those issues. They certainly had the time—although as the fall wore on and Frank didn’t suddenly change his work habits, she wondered sometimes if he was interested. Frank seemed to have a lot of extra work for a man whose wife was home alone every night. But Diana reminded herself that after twenty years of crabbing at each other about kids and money, they probably shouldn’t expect to just fall into each other’s arms on a moment’s notice and at the same time open up about wounds that hadn’t healed right. That, indeed, was a lot to expect.

Things were quiet at the clinic that fall, which is to say that there’d been no bomb threats for a couple of months, and the last demonstration, the one where they spread fresh tar all over the sidewalk, had faded from the press’s memory. The legislature had nothing on its agenda, and a kind of monotony had crept in, the kind that you think will set you up for a long, peaceful life but in fact only puts you more on edge.

It was around this time—late October—that Diana got a call from Steven O’Connell. “You have a phone call,” Dixie began, and from the sound of her voice (full of dread, as though she had a bad diagnosis to convey), Diana assumed it was Bill Branson calling her again. That guy! Several times a week he called her to talk about Megan: was she happy at the university, did she like her roommate, was she dating anyone, did she think she’d stay pre-med, did she come home much, how often, and did she ever talk about him? Diana was getting tired of it, but Bill seemed so vulnerable that she figured she better talk to him because the last thing she wanted was one of Megan’s boyfriends going suicidal on her. She answered his questions as best she could, but always emphasized that she and Megan had made an agreement that they would treat Megan’s college experience as though it were happening a thousand miles away, to which end Diana was not supposed to drop in at the dorm, and Megan was not supposed to bring her laundry home every week.

Go away, Bill, she thought. Get a life.

The last time they’d talked, Bill had reached a new level of desperation. He talked about transferring to an out-of-state school and getting married (even though there was no girl in the picture). He talked about how healthy he felt now that he was working out five days a week. You wouldn’t believe my physique, he’d said. (Diana opted not to contemplate that.) He told her he’d decided to go into engineering. (The school didn’t have an engineering program.) And then he told her that Megan gave the best head of any girl he’d ever known, and if she wasn’t going to be with him he’d see to it that she wouldn’t be with anybody no he didn’t mean it he just wanted Diana to know how much Megan meant to him he’d never
ever
do anything to hurt her.

I think you need some help, Bill, Diana finally said.

I need Megan.

We’ve all gone through this, Diana said. It happens to everyone.

I can’t live without her.

You can and you will. Bill. Listen to me. You go to Student Health, and you find someone to talk to. You get yourself on medication if you have to. But you forget about Megan.

I can’t.

Yes you can. Are you keeping any pictures?

Yes.

Throw them away. Take her off your speed-dial. Delete her address.

I’m such a jerk.

You’re not a jerk.

I’m a jerk.

No. You’re a kid who’s gone through a bad breakup. Just like everyone else on this planet.

Not her.

What?

I don’t see anyone breaking up with her.

She’s not even seeing anyone.

Yeah, but when she does, I bet he won’t break up with her. I bet she’ll break up with him. She’ll always do the breaking up.

Bill.

Oh god listen to me. I’m such a jerk.

Okay, Diana said. Do you remember what I told you to do?

Yes.

Okay. You go now. Straight over there. They will help you.

I’m such an asshole.

Go.

You’re so wonderful, Bill said. God, I’m sorry to lay all this on you. I’m so sorry.

Go.

All right.

Go.

I’m going.

Try not to call me again.

I won’t.

But call if you absolutely need to, Diana said. I don’t want you sitting up there with no one to talk to. Okay?

Oh god.

Okay?

Fine.

You’re sure now?

I’m fine.

Just about any conversation with Bill left her uneasy, but this one in particular had made her wonder if she ought to tell Frank. Being somewhat familiar with the criminal justice system, she knew she couldn’t get Bill arrested for merely making threats—but this conversation left her so creeped out that she called Megan and warned her to keep her door locked and make sure she always walked with a friend at night. She decided against telling Frank, though. He was so edgy these days, with that Internet porn case his office had been investigating since the beginning of time.

In any event, the smudge of worry about Bill was always there—so that day in October, when Dixie ended up telling her that it was Steven O’Connell on the phone, Diana felt somewhat relieved: at least it wasn’t Bill Branson.

Then, of course, she wondered why on earth Steven O’Connell was calling her.

“Do you want to take the call?” asked Dixie. “I can tell him to call back.”

“No,” said Diana. “Put him through.” For all the things Steven O’Connell said and did, Diana actually did not dislike the man. He was a zealot, yes, but an intellectual zealot, and was known to have steeped himself in heady philosophical literature on both sides of the issue. Ultimately, nothing he read would change his mind, of course, a fact that merely strengthened Diana’s conviction that most people were never going to switch sides on this issue.

“Is this a bad time?” asked Steven.

“It’s always a bad time,” Diana said. “Not only that, but it probably violates the terms of the restraining order. What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Not over the phone.”

“That would
really
violate the restraining order,” said Diana. “I can’t meet with you, Steven.”

“I’ll make an appointment,” he said.

“There’s no exception for appointments. If I see you, I’ll screw things up royally.”

“We could meet in Denver.”

Diana took a sip of the Diet Coke she had for breakfast every day. “The whole state knows us, Steven. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“I’d rather not say, over the phone.”

“So it’s personal.”

Silence.

“How about your house?” he finally said. “Nobody would have to know. And Frank could be there.”

Diana picked up one of Ben’s many ashtrays that she kept on her desk. This one was shaped like the state of Nebraska, with a big dry chunk taken out of its southwest corner.

“Look, Diana. I don’t carry a gun. I’m not going to blow up your house. I just need to talk to you.”

“And it’s got to be in person?”

“Yes.”

Diana went over and closed her door. This was crazy, and she knew it, but there was something in his voice that told her to go ahead, that what he had to say had to be said face to face.

“Come over tonight,” she told him.

“Will Frank be there? Because I’ll feel more comfortable if Frank is there.”

“He’ll be there.”

“What time?”

“Make it after eight,” Diana said. “Park on another street. And use the back door. I don’t want the whole neighborhood thinking we’re having a fucking affair or something.”

—————

But Frank, as it turned out, had left Diana a message telling her that he’d be in a meeting until after nine. Following her swim—a brief forty minutes, that night—Diana slipped into a pair of loose pants and a tank top and coiled her hair into a big lumpy knot. In the kitchen she fixed herself a sandwich, then settled on the sofa in front of the television, sorting through the mail as she surfed the news programs. Shortly after eight she heard a light rap on the sliding-glass door. She stood up and went to the door and slid it open.

There stood Steven. Tall and gaunt, he gazed down at her with intense brown eyes. His hair was caught up in the folds of his parka hood, and a full beard covered his face and chin. Diana had always thought he looked more like a hip minister from the 1970s than a conservative and fervent anti-abortionist of the new millennium.

“This is one of the most idiotic things I’ve ever done,” she said, “so come in and let’s get it over with.”

“Where’s Frank?”

“He’s working. Forget about it,” she said when she noticed the worried look on his face. “His being here or not being here isn’t going to make a difference. Unless you plan on blowing up the place,” she added. “Ha ha.”

Steven grimly removed his jacket and unwrapped the plaid woolen scarf from his neck and draped it over one of the kitchen stools. With the palm of his hand he brushed the rumpled fabric of his flannel shirt. Then he crossed his arms, looked her in the eye, and smiled.

Inwardly she cringed. Steven O’Connell had a rueful, earnest way of smiling, with his head cocked and his eyebrows raised, as though he both understood and pitied you for your sins. She was reminded that while she didn’t affirmatively
dislike
him, it was a stretch to say that she actually
liked
him. She felt a moment of sorrow for his four children, who had to deal with that smile all the time, breakfast lunch and dinner, had to listen to him talk about the sanctity of life when all they wanted was to scarf down a piece of meat loaf and get back to shooting hoops.

Definitely not the guy you’d invite to your annual barbecue, Diana thought.

“Better tell me pretty quickly why you’re here,” she said flatly.

Steven sat on the edge of the stool at her center island. The smile vanished. It was about his son Scott, he told her. Scott, who was seventeen, had a girlfriend, Rose, whom he’d been dating for over a year.

As soon as he mentioned the word
girlfriend,
Diana knew what was coming.

“And Rose is pregnant,” she said.

Steven glanced down at his hands.

Be smug right now, she warned herself, and you will have some
very
bad karma to contend with. “How far along?”

“Nine weeks. Has she been in to see you?”

Actually, she had; Diana remembered her well, because she had a tiny rosebud tattooed on her hip. Diana had commented on it as she did the pelvic exam, nothing judgmental except she hoped Rose had gone to a reputable place; but the girl had been embarrassed. In any case, at no point had she mentioned that the father of the baby was anyone related to Steven O’Connell.

“That’s confidential information, Steven,” she said.

“Well, here’s what’s not confidential, and that’s that Rose’s parents want her to have an abortion. Just
listen,
” he said as Diana raised her eyebrows. “Rose herself wants to carry the child to term and then give it up for adoption. We’ve agreed to take her into our house, to let her live with us while she goes through the pregnancy. But her parents will have none of it.”

“This is not your decision, Steven,” Diana reminded him.