The Women’s Health Clinic on Chicago’s North Side is as nondescript as a building can be. Jammed in between a currency exchange and a taco stand, the clinic has an exterior made of flat yellow brick, with no windows and only a blue sign by the door indicating the services provided inside. Marie Perry pulled up in front of the clinic at just after 11:00 a.m. She ignored a small knot of protesters across the street and walked straight into the facility. I parked at a McDonald’s, got a coffee, and took a seat by a window that offered a good view of the action.
The folks out front weren’t interested in Marie. She was a little too old to be a target. The next woman who arrived, however, was a different matter. She got off the number 50 bus at Armitage and Damen and walked across the intersection toward the clinic. The woman was in her early twenties, wearing jeans and a light blue hoodie pulled up over her head. Three people detached themselves from the group and met her almost directly in front of the Mickey D’s. The one doing the talking was a middle-aged man, slight with ginger hair and a gentle, unlined face. He was wearing a tan jacket with a priest’s collar poking out underneath. On either side of him stood two women. One appeared to be in her forties and wore a long-sleeved white shirt with CHOOSE LIFE spelled out in black letters across the front. The other looked like someone’s grandmother. She carried a stack of documents in her arms and had a set of rosary beads wrapped between knotted fingers. The group moved slowly down the block, the young woman in the center, the activists orbiting, the procession looking like some strange sort of interconnected solar system. At one point, the woman made a move to cross over to the clinic, but the pull of the group was too strong. Gradually they shuffled her toward the entrance of the McDonald’s. Then they were inside, taking a booth maybe fifteen feet from where I sat. The priest held the dominant position, directly across from the woman. The others spread out on either side. The priest kept his voice low, eyes fixed on his target.
“Here are copies of just a fraction of the medical malpractice suits filed against the clinic.” The priest was feeding documents across the table. The young woman poked her head out from under the hoodie and gave the paperwork a sniff.
“We’re concerned about your safety, Elena, as much as your child’s,” the priest continued. “There’s another clinic less than two miles from here. It’s a pregnancy and wellness center. Clean. Professional. Caring. They’ll give you all the information you need. More important, you, and your baby, will be safe.” The priest ducked his head, desperate to make eye contact. To no avail. He touched the arm of one of his helpers. “Marian can give you a ride over. She’ll wait while you see a doctor, then give you a lift back.”
Elena looked up. “Don’t I need an appointment?”
The three smiled as one. “We can get you in this morning,” the priest said. “No waiting.” He began to nudge his way out of the booth. I got up and walked over.
“What’s the rush, Father?”
The priest’s mouth puffed open a touch; his eyes blinked rapidly. “Can I help you?”
“I’m not sure.” I grabbed a chair, turned it around backward, and sat in it. “Our friend here has got a decision to make. And she should have the chance to make it herself, don’t you think?”
I could feel Elena’s gaze flicking back and forth, watching me, watching the priest.
“Absolutely,” the priest said. “And the best decision, the right decision, is one that’s well informed.”
“Agreed.” I picked up a copy of one of the lawsuits. “I see you gave her some information on the clinic across the street.”
“It’s a dangerous, dirty place,” the grandmother said, then put a hand over her mouth and flushed.
I nodded. “Best though if Elena makes the call. What do you think, Elena?”
All eyes turned to the young woman. And the child she carried in her womb. Elena slipped off the hoodie and straightened up in the booth. She was Hispanic and younger than I’d thought. No more than fifteen or sixteen. For what it was worth, she was also breathtakingly beautiful.
“Maybe you could just leave me the address of the wellness center?” Elena flashed a row of perfect white teeth at the protesters. “I could give them a call and stop by.”
“This is about the health of you and your child,” the priest said gently. “Do you really want to wait?”
“I want to think about things. If that’s all right?”
The priest covered the young woman’s hands with his. He knew when a fish had spit the hook and didn’t waste his time trying to recast. “Of course, of course. Thanks for your time, Elena…”
“Ramirez.”
“Ramirez. Please call us if you have questions.” With a silent glance at me, the priest slipped a card into Elena’s hand and left. His two helpers followed him out the door and across the street.
“How you doing?” I said.
Now that we were alone, Elena had retreated back into her shell. “I’m fine.”
“My name’s Kelly.”
“Funny name for a guy.”
“First name’s Michael. Did you like what those folks had to say?”
She shrugged and studied the priest’s card.
“It’s called the Chicago Method,” I said.
“What?”
“The approach they were using to keep you from having an abortion. It’s called the Chicago Method.”
“They have methods?”
“Everyone’s got methods, Elena.” I noticed a spark had returned to her eyes and kept talking. “The Chicago Method was developed by the Pro-Life Action League back in the eighties. It’s a low-key, low-pressure approach. Notice they didn’t show you any pictures of babies or even mention the word ‘abortion.’ The idea is to give you some information on the malpractice lawsuits and the health dangers of the clinic itself. Then offer an alternative.”
“The wellness center?”
“Yes. And the wellness center might be a great place. But it also doesn’t perform abortions. They leave that part out.”
“So they were lying to me?”
I shook my head. “Not really. They were just giving you some facts. And skipping over some others. My guess is they’re not bad people. They also can’t make the choice for you. But I think you probably already knew that.”
“How do you know so much?”
“You mean whose side am I on? I guess I like the underdog. That’d be you.”
“I’m eight weeks along.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I don’t want to show. That’s why I wear all of this.” She held up her hands, stuffed once again inside the front pockets of the hoodie.
“You concerned someone’s gonna find out?”
“I’ve just got to decide.”
“Have you been to the clinic before?”
“I stopped by last week. Today was going to be my second visit. I guess I’m getting closer.”
“What are you afraid of, Elena?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Now who’s lying?”
Her eyes were brown, flawed with flecks of green. Her thick hair shone, even under the flat, fast-food light.
“Are you afraid of the father?” I said.
She shook her head.
“Your family?”
She pulled out a wadded-up piece of paper and pushed it across the table. I unfolded the paper carefully. It was a police report dated four years ago. I started to read. Elena cut to the chase.
“My oldest sister, Lourdes, got pregnant when she was my age. My father took out a gun in our kitchen and stuck it under her chin. My mother watched from the doorway. I watched behind my mother. Just before he pulled the trigger, he moved the gun an inch so it blew a hole in the ceiling. My sister collapsed…”
Elena’s voice skipped a beat. I waited.
“My father stood over Lourdes with the gun. He put it to her head and told her she was a puta. Told her she should pray it’s not her brains on the ceiling. Lourdes began to say her Hail Marys, but she was crying and shaking and couldn’t get them right. I remember she looked at me, and I felt ashamed so I left. The police came later.” Elena nodded at the paper in my hands. “When I woke up the next morning, my sister was gone. I haven’t seen her since. And I swore I’d never get myself that way. Not like Lourdes.” She wrapped her arms around her midsection. “Yet here I am.”
“What’s your father’s name?” I said.
“Rafael. Rafael Ramirez.”
“Where did he get the gun?”
“He’s a cop.”
I skimmed the report. The investigating officer had concluded there was insufficient evidence to arrest anyone and characterized the shooting as an “accidental discharge of a weapon.”
“Can I keep this?” I said, holding up the report.
“If I can get it back.”
I took out my card and gave it to her. “How long until you have to make a decision?”
“Another month. After that, it gets dangerous.”
“Think about what you want to do. What you want to do. Not a priest with lawsuits or old ladies with signs. Not some guy like me. Not your old man with a gun. You think about it and you decide. ’Cuz no one has to live with it but you. Okay?”
She nodded.
“Good. Call me when you know what you want, and I’ll try to make sure it happens. Meanwhile, if it’s all right with you, I might have a talk with your father.”
“I told you he’s a cop.”
“I know how to talk to cops. I used to be one. How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Three sisters, including Lourdes.”
“My e-mail’s on the card. Send me her social security number, and I’ll see if I can track her down. Cool?”
The card disappeared into one of her pockets, and Elena smiled. Impossibly beautiful. Impossibly young. Impossibly old.