THE CLINIC I’VE BOOKED MY abortion at in the hopes of avoiding local scrutiny requires me to be four weeks’ pregnant when I show up for the procedure. This means I have to spend another week in purgatory, waiting for my body to catch up with the rest of the world. It’s rapidly becoming my least favourite thing. Well, that and the feeling I have every morning when I wake up and remember what’s happened to me in the first place.
So I start running after school. I don’t wear my practice uniform or any Palermo Heights gear. And I’m glad it’s cool enough now that sleeves and tights aren’t unreasonable. As the four weeks wind down, I run all over Palermo’s streets, but I feel like I’m running in place; waiting for my body to catch up and the light to change.
—
When I ask Reverend Rob not to pray for me, I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing or what I expect. It doesn’t seem to faze him.
“You don’t think it will help?” he asks. His tone is completely nonjudgmental. I am very impressed.
“Oh, I’m sure it does,” I say in a rush. “But—and I’m not sure if this will make sense—but I can’t deal with being a public figure of pity. If you ask them to pray, they’ll pray, and they’ll keep remembering. I’d like to be able to walk down Main Street and look people in the eye. And I don’t think that’s going to happen as long as they’re being reminded every week.”
“I understand,” he says. “I did mention you in our prayer requests these past few weeks, but I’ll stop.” He pauses and watches me. His face is still calm. “And you had another question, yes? What’s the other favour?”
“I’m hoping you will pray for me,” I say. “I’m not sure what for. Holding it together, I guess? Or maybe falling apart at the right time?”
“I’ll leave the specifics to God, and pray for your peace of mind,” he says.
That seems fair. “In the interest of full disclosure, and because I don’t think people should intentionally misrepresent themselves to God, I’m having an abortion.” Saying it out loud gets weirdly easier and more difficult every time I do it. “If that changes anything.”
He says nothing for a long time, appreciating that there’s really nothing he can say. He can’t say “Yes, good for you,” because that’s not nice. He can’t say “No, don’t do that,” because that wouldn’t be nice either. There’s simply nothing nice about it. He hasn’t stopped looking at me, though, which is more than I can say for most people. His face is empty of both judgement and pity. Lots of compassion, of course, but that I can cope with. Also, it’s kind of what he gets paid for.
“It doesn’t change a thing,” he says.
I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Could you pray for my parents too?” I add. “They’re also in the middle of this and not sure what to do.”
“Of course,” he says. “And for Polly and for the police officers who are working on your case.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re going out of town for the abortion?” he asks. He doesn’t flinch or hesitate on the word.
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I could do it here. At the hospital I’d have to have my parents’ permission, but they would give it. I just want to do it somewhere where I might not be so subject to rumours. I’m not ashamed, I just . . .”
“You just want your business back,” he says. “As you should. It’s between you and God, and whomever else you choose to be involved. My door is, at least metaphorically, always open. If someone starts throwing around stupid words like ‘It’s a gift,’ or ‘It’s in God’s plan,’ you come right here, and I’ll find you ten ways in which it isn’t.”
I wonder how I’ve known Reverend Rob all my life and never realized he was a superhero. I keep bringing out the best in people, it seems. Officer Plummer, Tig, Dion, heck, even Polly. It’s very annoying. A stupid silver lining whose cloud I never wanted to see in the first place. I hope it’s not supposed to make me feel better. Honestly, sometimes it’s all I can do not to turn into a ball of rage about it. I liked it better when I built people up by cheering for them. That way is predictable and good exercise and fun. This way costs too much, and there’s nothing in it for me. I miss the days when I was someone that people could ignore or discount, and still feel good about themselves.
“It’s getting dark,” the reverend says. “Your parents will be worried.” He manages to say it like he would say it to any other kid out past sunset. He manages to treat me like I’m still normal. Maybe this is the way I can be normal now. I have that list of people who treat me the way I want to be treated. Maybe it’s time to edit my life accordingly.
“I was out for a run,” I say.
“I never would have guessed that,” he says with a completely straight face, taking in my running gear and messy hair. “Do you want a ride?”
“No, I’ll just run home,” I say. “But maybe you could call them and tell them I’m on my way?”
“They’ll probably appreciate that,” he agrees, and opens his Rolodex. “Remember, Hermione, anytime. Not just Sundays at nine thirty.”
“I know,” I say. “And thank you, again.”
I run all the way home, but for the first time since I started, it doesn’t feel like I’m trying to escape something. It feels like I just love to run.