Luckily, Leah misunderstands my question. “What do I think? I think the only reason my mom changed her mind about gay people was because I came out. Otherwise she’d still think it was wrong and a sin and all that.”
“But if she met my parents…If she understood what they do and why it matters…” I trail off. “Women used to die because they couldn’t get safe abortions. That’s how my dad got into this in the first place. When he was a medical student, in the early seventies? He used to see women admitted to hospital with bleeding, infections, all kinds of awful stuff. Some of them had abortions in dirty back-alley-type places. Or they tried to give themselves abortions.”
Leah interrupts. “It doesn’t matter, Franny. Not to my mom. She says life begins at conception and that’s that.” Her blue-green eyes meet mine, wide and honest and steady. “To her, it’s murder. And so it doesn’t matter how you explain it. You can’t justify murder.”
“To her, it’s murder,” I repeat. In my mind, I am hearing the voice on the phone: baby killers.
Leah nods. “Yes. To her, Franny. Not to me.”
I relax ever so slightly. I needed to hear that. “You don’t see it that way?”
She drops her gaze. “I don’t know what I think exactly. I like your parents. I know they’re good people. But the way I was brought up—we were taught it was wrong.”
“You were taught that being queer was wrong too,” I point out.
She sighs. “I know. But abortion? I mean, I wouldn’t judge anyone for doing what they think is right for them. I guess…well, it’s complicated.”
“Complicated. How is it complicated? Women have a right to control their bodies. Abortion is legal. We’re getting death threats because my parents are doctors providing care to women who need it.” My heart is racing. “It seems pretty obvious who the bad guys are.”
“Look, there’s a whole lot of things that aren’t clear to me anymore. This last year…I’ve had to rethink a lot of what I’ve been taught. You know that.” Leah takes both of my hands in hers. “My mom really likes you. And she accepts us being together, which means so much to me. Can we please not wreck everything by telling her about your parents?”
I know she’s right. I just don’t want to accept it.
The stupid thing is, until the phone call tonight, I’d hardly even thought about Leah’s views on abortion, let alone her mother’s.
But if the threats and everything are going to start up all over again, I’d really like to know that my girlfriend is 100 percent on our side.
I squeeze her hands and let out a long, shaky sigh. “Okay. I mean, fine. Why rock the boat, right?”
“Exactly.” She smiles, and the relief on her face is as clear and bright as sunshine. “I love you, Franny Green.”
I close my eyes for a second, holding my breath, trying to hold on to this moment and keep it inside me. Then I open my eyes and she is still there, wide-eyed, waiting.
“I love you too, Leah Gibson,” I say. And then I kiss her, tasting the mint of her lip gloss, and she buries her cool fingers in my short hair and pulls me down beside her on the bed
And that is the end of that conversation—of any conversation—for quite some time.
After Leah leaves, I go online and torture myself for a couple of hours reading articles about bombings at abortion clinics, receptionists and nurses being gunned down in Planned Parenthood offices, doctors shot in their own homes.
Most of the stories are from the States, but some are from as far away as Australia and a surprising number are from Canada too. Like this doctor who was shot by a sniper firing a rifle into his kitchen. The bullet hit an artery, and the doctor would have died if he hadn’t used his bathrobe belt as a tourniquet. After he recovered, he kept on providing abortions. He’d seen what it was like in the sixties, before abortion was legal. He’d worked on hospital wards that were literally overflowing with women suffering complications from illegal abortions. He’d seen women die.
A few years after he was shot, he was attacked again and stabbed. And he still didn’t quit. Two months later, he was back at work.
Not everyone’s been so lucky, if that’s even the right word. I’ve grown up with the stories. I know the names of those who’ve died: Barnett Slepian, John Britton, George Tiller, David Gunn, Shannon Lowney, Lee Ann Nichols…so many brave men and women.
A couple of years ago someone made a website with a list of abortion providers on it. Killers Aborted, it was called. The doctors who’d been murdered were at the top of the page, with their names crossed out. And down at the bottom was a long list of other names—doctors still alive and doing abortions.
Including my parents.
The site’s been taken down, but I still google my parents’ names regularly, just to make sure they’re not on some nut’s hit list.
I type their names into the search bar, but all that comes up is the usual stuff—a handful of hits, mostly articles they’ve published, conferences they’ve spoken at and a ton of links about another Dr. Heather Green, who’s a cosmetic surgeon. Nothing alarming.
Nothing alarming on the Internet, that is. There’s still someone out there, somewhere.
Someone who knows where we live.