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The car speeds across the George Washington Bridge. Celia sits in the back with her sister. Josie’s friend Maisie is driving. The pace of it all has her reeling. Wasn’t it only a day or so ago that she told Josie? Now she’s being ferried to New Jersey to have an illegal procedure. She’s never before done anything illegal. Either have the baby or become a criminal. Those are her choices. If family knew where she was headed, they’d be horrified. Is she horrified too? What does it matter? Probing her feelings isn’t going to change the outcome of the journey.

Maisie found the doctor and made the appointment, and she’s grateful. Then Maisie arrived at her place early today to pick her up and to reassure her that all would go well. A lonely heart needs friends, she thinks. Now, though, no one tries to make conversation, which is fine. She wants only to have the procedure over and done with, then a day of recovery and then back to work. With Quince at the Point and Miles not around, Sam is the only one she had to lie to. He believes she’s having a small growth removed, and he’s staying at Maria’s.

They park in the driveway of a big house with a spacious, well-tended lawn on a quiet street with only a few other well-turned-out houses. A footpath leads to the front door, where Celia marks the moment as she always does when something irrevocable is about to happen. Three steps up and they’re inside. It’s not a waiting room. It’s a living room, with a shiny piano, prints on the wall, a couch, and silky flowers in a vase. Suddenly, she wants to turn around, go home, try and solve the problem another way. She’s a good problem solver, always has been. She . . .

Josie takes her hand, tugs her gently through a long hallway to another, smaller room.

The doctor looks old, maybe in his seventies. He says nothing to welcome her. He’s in shirt-sleeves. He has square, spatula-like fingers. Where’s his white jacket? What about sterility, bandages, heart monitors? What if there are side effects? What if her heart fails or she hemorrhages; how can that be dealt with? In the center of the room is a high flat table with stirrups, and beside it a small side table covered in a white cloth. Two nearby floor lamps are lit, but the room is dim, the window shade down.

He gives her a paper robe to leave open at the front, asks her to undress behind a two-panel screen.

The doctor helps her onto the table and then places her feet in the stirrups. She’s cold.

“Move down as far as you can,” the doctor instructs. Her legs are already so far apart each knee touches the edge of the table. It’s uncomfortable. Her teeth are chattering, her body trembling; she’s afraid of what’s about to happen. But can’t make herself ask the doctor for a shot, a blanket. She’s a good girl who’s been a bad girl and now must pay for it without complaint.

“Josie?” she whispers. “I want to be asleep for this.”

Josie grips her hand.

“It won’t be long, and without anesthesia you’ll feel a hundred percent better afterward,” the doctor advises.

Clearly, he wants her out of his home as soon as the abortion is done. Can she blame him? But what if she screams. What then?

“I’m nauseated,” she whispers. “I might need to vomit.”

“You’ll be fine,” the doctor intones, no doubt having said these words too many times to feel like they matter. But she won’t be fine. Something colder than ice is inside spreading her vagina beyond what’s bearable. Who would choose to go through this unless they had to? She moans, and it sounds like the feeble call of a sick bird.

Promising that she’ll rest, she insists that Josie go home. That Sam will be having dinner at his friend’s house, and, yes, she’ll phone Josie if there are any untoward side effects. Glad to see her sister out the door, she pours herself a glass of wine and lies on the couch, her mind dizzy with too many thoughts. How can she be sure she’s no longer pregnant? Not a good question. She knows what it takes to give birth, yet the abortion lasted no more than thirty minutes. There’s some bleeding and cramping, but after three births it doesn’t feel serious. At work, the women often share gory stories about how to get rid of an early pregnancy, though abortion isn’t mentioned. Then again, abortion isn’t cheap. Hers cost a few hundred dollars that she borrowed from the rent money. How to make that up is something she still needs to work out.

Closing her eyes, she thinks: It’s done. She’ll make herself forget the whole ordeal . . . except she can’t; it’s hers to remember. It wasn’t a seedy room, a filthy house, or a waiting area filled with the tension of women. Rather, it was efficient, which can feel more terrifying: a thirty-minute illegitimate procedure with no one to smooth the way in or out of the event. And—

The phone rings.

“Hello.”

“Hi, it’s Maisie. Wanted to know how you’re doing. Do you need anything? Food? Company? A book? I could drop over.”

“How sweet. But no, I’m resting. I don’t need anything.”

“How’s your body doing? I mean, are you in pain or—”

“Just very tired.”

“That’s usual.”

“You know that because . . .”

“I’ve friends who have gone through abortions. No procedure is great, but what makes an abortion feel more awful is that it’s secret and treated as something illicit.”

“Yes. It did feel sneaky, even dirty, though the house was clean. A hospital would’ve made it feel more valid.”

“You have my number?”

“I do. Maisie, thanks for everything.”

Maisie’s words rescued her, from what she’s no longer sure.