CHAPTER 12 Evelyn 
OTTAWA | MAY 9, 1970
The city is plastered with green and black posters. They’ve gone up everywhere: pinned to bulletin boards in steamy coffee shops with mismatched chairs and chipped white mugs; pasted to store windows along Sparks Street and in the ByWard Market boutiques; taped to the backs of bathroom stall doors in the public libraries; stapled to telephone poles along all of Ottawa’s busiest streets.
It’s the first thing Evelyn notices when she emerges from the train station on Saturday morning. She steps into the weak spring sunlight, shifts her backpack to a more comfortable position on her shoulders, and walks toward the nearest telephone pole.
THE WOMEN ARE COMING, the posters declare. Underneath, the subtitle reads, The Abortion Caravan. Evelyn’s stomach does a little backflip. She lets her breath out in an audible sigh, releasing some of the tension in her chest. She can’t recall having felt this excited, nervous, and determined since the day she began medical school. It’s a similar feeling of exhilaration, another protest.
Nine years ago, Evelyn left St. Agnes’s a different woman. After all the trauma, after the crippling sense of helplessness, and lack of control over her own life, she vowed she would never again be in a position where she would have to rely on anyone else or feel as powerless as she had. She wasn’t interested in being a housewife, in starting over as if nothing had happened. She longed for a career that would ensure her independence. After convincing her family this was her only way forward, she applied and was accepted to medical school in Montreal.
She was one of only two women in the program, and things weren’t easy for either her or Marie. But on her very first day, she also met Tom, who sat next to her in their Introduction to Human Anatomy class. He was different from the other men, who viewed Evelyn and Marie with either suspicion, disdain, or uninhibited sexual interest. Tom became not only her best friend, but her roommate, too, along with Marie and one of Tom’s other friends. Despite a ripple of scandalized muttering from those who thought it inappropriate for unmarried women to be living with men, the arrangement worked well for Evelyn. Between having been deemed a “fallen” woman at such a young age and putting up with snide and cruel remarks from her male colleagues, she was past the point of caring much about other people’s muttering, anyway.
But her life changed when Marie came to her room one night to ask her for a favor. She needed an abortion, and she wanted Evelyn to come with her.
“I can’t give all this up,” she told Evelyn, as she paced back and forth along the tattered secondhand bedroom rug. “Not now. I’m here because I want to do something more with my life than my mother did. I can’t go back to being dependent on my parents. I can’t even bear the thought. And I could never give a baby up for adoption. It would ruin me.” She glanced at Evelyn through wet eyelashes. “I hope you don’t think me awful for it.”
Evelyn chewed her lip, then reached out, stopping Marie midstride. “I understand more than you can imagine, Marie.”
After witnessing the procedure from her vantage point at the top of Dr. Henry Morgentaler’s surgical table, where she held Marie’s hand and spoke soothingly, Evelyn became possessed by an idea, which became a dare, and eventually a plan. She called Dr. Morgentaler’s office to set up a meeting the following week, and told him exactly why she wanted to learn how to perform the abortion procedure. For the first time since she had left St. Agnes’s, she spoke openly to a stranger about what had gone on there.
“I never had a say in what happened to me,” she’d told the doctor. “I had no control. And watching you the other day, with Marie—if I had known the kind of pain I would feel, being forced to give up my child like that…” She shook her head. “I loved my daughter. I desperately wanted to keep her, and I wasn’t allowed to. But if things had been different, if I had gotten pregnant today and didn’t want to be, well, an abortion could save a woman from a life sentence of pain, couldn’t it?”
As she spoke the truth that drove her to his office, Dr. Morgentaler watched her from behind the thick glasses perched on his nose. Evelyn looked down at her lap, traced her finger along the scar at her wrist, faded to white now after so many years.
“I lost everything. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. I don’t want other women to have to feel what I feel. I need them to at least have a choice. And I saw that potential when I came in with Marie.”
He was silent for a moment. Evelyn bit down hard on her fear and met his gaze, surprised by the kindness there.
“I understand, Miss Taylor,” he said quietly.
Evelyn felt a prickle at the corners of her eyes. “Forgive me, Dr. Morgentaler. Women aren’t permitted moments of weakness in the medical profession. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, please.” Dr. Morgentaler unlinked his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. “And listen to me carefully, Miss Taylor, because this is very important. Do not mistake your humanity for weakness. It is, unfortunately, a common misconception.”
Evelyn sniffed. “You could say I’m feeling quite human about the whole thing, then.”
“The best physicians do, Miss Taylor. And your experience will allow you to offer a uniquely valuable level of compassion to your patients. Cultivate that. Cherish it. The terror you obviously experienced has brought you here to my office today, with this incredibly courageous request. You would not be here otherwise, now, would you?”
Evelyn couldn’t argue. “So, will you teach me?”
“It would be my honor, Miss Taylor.”
Evelyn’s heart leaped in her chest. “Thank you, Dr. Morgentaler.”
The doctor surveyed her for a moment. “Before you make this decision, let me ask you something. Do you have any loved ones close to you?”
“No. Not really,” Evelyn replied, clearing the faces that floated into her mind. “Just my roommates, and a brother in Toronto. He’s a doctor, too, his wife is a nurse. Why do you ask?”
“I ask because this window behind my head is made of bulletproof glass.”
His words sucked the air from the room and a shivering silence descended. Evelyn’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to the window. Leaves on the maple tree beyond it swayed innocently in the breeze.
When the doctor spoke again, his tone was carefully measured. “Providing abortions is, as you must know, illegal in this country, Miss Taylor, except under the strictest of circumstances. I assume you have familiarized yourself with them?”
Evelyn nodded. “Only if continuation of the pregnancy would endanger the life or health of the woman.”
“Indeed. And the parameters of what constitutes ‘health’ are further determined by a biased and ludicrously broken system made up entirely of men. Thus, to fill the need, there are underground networks operating across Canada and the United States, and overseas as well. It is a calling, not a vocation, Miss Taylor. And it is a calling you can only answer at enormous personal risk. It is both morally and spiritually challenging. You must understand that the cost is high.”
Evelyn took a long, deep breath. “Dr. Morgentaler, they can’t take anything away from me that I haven’t already lost. I assure you.”
He paused, a sad smile on his face, then offered for her to come observe the three patients he had booked for that afternoon.
“I’m sorry, sir, did you say three procedures?” she asked him, incredulous.
“Yes.”
“How… how many do you do in a week?”
“Ten to fifteen, usually.”
Evelyn was stunned. “There’s that much of a need?”
Dr. Morgentaler folded his hands together on his desk. His shoulders slumped imperceptibly.
“As long as the male sex continues to exist,” he said, “there will always be a need, Miss Taylor.”
Out on the sunny Ottawa street, Evelyn shakes her head to clear the weighty thoughts of the past. Today is about the future. She tears the Abortion Caravan poster off the telephone pole, folds it, and tucks it into the front pocket of her jeans, turning her feet in the direction of Parliament Hill.
She hails a taxi and throws herself into the back seat. “Confederation Park, please.”
As the taxi crosses through a bustling intersection, Evelyn fishes the poster out of her pocket and lays it flat on her lap.
THE WOMEN ARE COMING, indeed. Several of them had set off from Vancouver several weeks ago, stopping in smaller towns and cities along the way to hold rallies, collect more troops, and stir up media coverage. Women’s liberation is hot news, after all.
This protest is overdue and necessary. The radical feminists who started the abortion caravan in Vancouver say something needs to be done on a bigger scale. “A radical overhaul of the system,” one woman shouted into the camera on last night’s news. Her long blond hair flew around her face in the spring wind as she shouted, her eyes bright with anger and exhilaration. Evelyn thought she looked like a superhero. “The state needs to recognize women’s rights to their own bodies,” the woman said, “and make sure all women can exercise those rights regardless of their race or income.”
Evelyn had watched the woman from her usual spot on the living room couch, felt her face flush with excitement in the glow of the television screen.
“You’re going to go, aren’t you?” Tom asked her in his melodious, English-accented voice from the other end of the couch. Evelyn glanced at him before returning her eyes to the screen. “Well, yes. I think I have to.”
Tom was silent for a moment. “You could be risking your career, Eve. There will be arrests. This part might not be your fight, you know. You do enough.”
The news anchor moved on to the next story and Evelyn had no excuse other than to turn to her best friend, whose eyes were filled with concern. She and Tom had moved into their own apartment, just the two of them, the previous year.
A couple of months into their friendship, Tom had been open with her about his sexuality to ensure she didn’t get the wrong idea about his intentions. But for Evelyn, their relationship was a perfect scenario. She could talk to Tom on a level in a professional capacity, and he understood the demands of their work on her time and mental and emotional energy. They simply enjoyed each other’s company. It was straightforward and comfortable. Evelyn was looking for companionship, not romance. Someone to sit and read with when the snow is falling outside, or talk to over coffee on lazy Sunday mornings while she works on a crossword from the newspaper.
Tom knows what she does, but he’s the only one. Since training with Dr. Morgentaler five years ago, Evelyn has been secretly performing abortions for university girls who find themselves in trouble. She has appointments one night a week in addition to her shifts at a family practice.
“I know, Tom. But don’t you think it would be a bit hypocritical of me to not support the women who are publicly fighting to make it legal? They’re risking just as much as I am.”
“Are they? A fine for protesting and a prison sentence are two very different outcomes.”
They both fell silent as the tension settled between them on the couch.
First thing this morning, Evelyn still headed to the train station, leaving an envelope of cash and a note for Tom saying he should use it to bail her out of jail, if necessary. But she really hopes it won’t be necessary.
Evelyn reaches into her purse and pulls out the piece of paper she scribbled the information down on last night. The organizers put the word out to their networks that they would all meet on the lawn outside the House of Commons on Saturday afternoon to protest and try to speak to their elected officials, then plan their next move.
A few minutes later, the taxi pulls up along the south side of the park. Evelyn pays the fare and hops out onto the sidewalk. She heads up Elgin Street, past the brand-new National Arts Centre and the War Memorial. The spectacular castle-like silhouette of the Château Laurier looms large beside her, casting its shadow over the street as she makes her way to the sprawling lawn outside Parliament Hill.
She hears the hum of noise emanating from the assembly before the crowd comes fully into view. There are hundreds of women, and some men. The slogan FREE ABORTION ON DEMAND! is scribbled in permanent marker on most of the placards she sees, along with some other, more militant demands like SMASH CAPITALISM!
Evelyn weaves her way through the crowd, the heat of all the excited bodies pressing in on her. But it’s not oppressive; it’s a good heat, like warm rain. She catches snippets of conversation, politically charged, angry voices raised, women laughing and smiling at one another. A chant rises up, starting from the center and working its way outward like ripples on a lake: “Every child a wanted child! Every mother a willing mother!” Evelyn is jostled as a woman knocks into her, apologizes, then shoves one of the placards into Evelyn’s hands with a grin before returning to the chant.
Evelyn stops at a random spot, staking out her place in the scrum. The woman standing next to her smiles broadly and extends her right hand. Every single finger, including her thumb, is adorned with a chunky silver ring. “Welcome!” she shouts over the din. “I’m Paula.”
“Evelyn.”
They shake.
“Nice to meet you, Evelyn. Where you from?”
“Toronto originally. I’m in Montreal now, just finished medical school.”
“Holy shit, wow! A doctor, eh?”
Evelyn smiles. “Yeah.”
“What do you do? What kind of medicine?”
“Family medicine, and some gynecology.”
“So is it like PAP tests and stuff, or, you know, gyno.” Her eyebrows pop up and down suggestively.
Evelyn hesitates.
“It’s safe here, you know,” Paula says.
But Evelyn isn’t sure she’ll ever feel safe about this. She casts around for a change of subject. “So, what’s the plan here?”
“We’re waiting to see whether any of the fucking politicians are going to come out and talk to us, hear our demands,” Paula says. “But it’s seeming less and less likely. We’ve been here for hours now. I think they’re afraid of us.”
Evelyn continues to chat with Paula as the assembled protesters shout and chatter under the afternoon sun. When the breeze starts to cool and it’s clear that no politicians are coming to speak with them, the crowd starts to thin out. Evelyn, thrilled but slightly disappointed, decides she better go find herself a hotel room for the night. She turns to say goodbye to Paula, but the woman grabs her arm.
“Hey, Evelyn, are you sticking around for a bit?”
“I hadn’t planned on it. It kind of seems like things are over now. I think I got here too late. Everyone’s leav—”
“Oh, things are far from over,” Paula says. “They’ve only just begun.”
Evelyn chuckles. “Now, why am I not surprised to hear you say that?”
Paula leans in toward Evelyn like a gossipy teenager. “My friend Cathy there is one of the organizers.” She indicates a tall woman with a long brown ponytail that falls nearly to her waist. She’s built like a marsh reed, but her face is fierce. “They brought a coffin in on the caravan, strapped to the roof of the car, you know, like a symbol for all our sisters who have died from back-alley abortions!” She tilts her head back and throws the words up into the sky.
They’re a shocking bunch, these women. But then, that’s really the whole point, isn’t it? To shock the patriarchy into change.
“Yeah, I, uh, saw it on the news,” Evelyn says.
“They used it to hold all their backpacks. Kind of clever, right? But now they want to deliver it right to Trudeau’s front door. His abortion law is so restrictive, it might as well not even exist. A whole panel of men have to decide whether a woman deserves to be allowed to abort? I mean, fuck that, right? Fuck that!” She bellows into the heavens again.
There’s a smattering of applause from the two dozen or so women remaining on the lawn.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Evelyn says. “There aren’t exactly a lot of safe options.”
She hitches her purse up onto her shoulder, readjusts her jacket. She hasn’t had so much as an infection happen in the procedures she’s performed so far, and she’s damn proud of that fact. It’s one of the reasons she does what she does, to help prevent deaths from botched abortions. Those stories are still in the news on a regular basis, but the laws refuse to catch up to the grim reality.
“That’s an understatement, Eve,” Paula says darkly. “And that’s exactly why we want to go do this special little delivery. They say Trudeau isn’t even in town today, and that’s why he wouldn’t meet with us. But fancy him coming home from wherever the hell he is to find a giant black coffin waiting for him on his stoop.”
The image of the coffin stirs something deep inside Evelyn. “I want to come, too. I want to help.”
Paula claps her on the shoulder. “I knew I liked you, Eve. Let’s get this show on the road.”
The Prime Minister’s house is only a five-minute drive from the Parliament buildings. Evelyn’s grateful it isn’t any longer, given that she’s squished in the back seat of the car with three other women. Paula’s hip bones dig into hers on one side, while the hard plastic of the car door presses uncomfortably on the other.
The women are all talking excitedly most of the way there, but a hush falls over the car in front of 24 Sussex Drive. Not surprisingly, a security gate with two guards blocks them from continuing up the gravel drive to the front doors.
“Figured we wouldn’t be able to actually drop it on his doorstep, but we can leave it here, at least.” Paula nudges Evelyn in the ribs. “Open the door.”
Evelyn extracts herself from the car, Paula on her heel as the other women pile out of the vehicle, too.
“Thought we might be seeing you ladies!” one of the security guards calls. “We got a heads-up that you might try to pay the Prime Minster a visit, but I’m afraid he’s not at home.”
“But we have a gift for him!” Paula shouts, indicating the black coffin strapped to the roof of the car. “Let us up to the door to deliver it properly, would you?”
“Most certainly not, ma’am.”
“Thought it was worth asking.”
“M-hm. You can be on your way now.”
“Not just yet, my friend.”
Paula and two of the other women are already unstrapping the coffin from the car.
“I’d really rather you not do that,” the guard calls to them.
“Too late!”
“Ma’am…”
Evelyn sees the other officer take out his radio. He’s muttering into it, facing back toward the manor. Backup will be coming, and she’d really rather not be arrested if they can avoid it.
“Paula, we should go,” Evelyn says.
But the women have the coffin in hand now, and Evelyn instinctively lunges forward to pick up the sagging foot of it as they carry it together, like pallbearers, their faces downcast, shouldering the weight of all the dead women’s bodies it represents. They lay it down just feet from the guards, who swallow and stare at it with pinched mouths as though they’ve truly just been delivered a corpse.
The women stand for a long moment as the golden late afternoon sun warms their faces and a breeze rustles the leaves on the Prime Minister’s lawn.
“This is for Mildred,” the driver of their car, Cathy, finally says, a tear shimmering on her cheek. She turns and heads to the car, her long brown hair trailing behind her.
A pause.
“For my sister,” another says, then follows her comrade. Each of the women steps forward in turn, naming their lost loved one.
“For my sister.”
“Roberta.”
“For my best friend.”
Staring at the coffin, Evelyn sees all of their faces: her friends at St. Agnes’s, her baby daughter, the two dozen women she’s provided abortions for, the thousands more she’ll provide between now and her eventual retirement. All the faces that led her to become Dr. Evelyn Taylor. She’s in this now, and she will be forever.
“For all of them,” she adds quietly, squinting into the sun. She walks back to the car with a heavy tread, barely registering the police sirens on the wind.
On Monday, Evelyn finds herself on the suited arm of a male ally of the cause, a man named Allan whom she met only ten minutes ago. They’re waiting in a long line to get into Question Period.
Beards, Paula called the men. Decoys, so no one would notice all the single women entering the galleries in groups, or on their own. “Too many women that interested in Question Period on a single day will raise alarm bells, unfortunately,” she said with a frown.
Paula approaches Evelyn and Allan now, sporting a blue shift dress and looking most unlike the version of Paula that Evelyn spent the weekend with, scouring secondhand shops for dresses and gloves to swap for their jeans and sweaters. They have to look the part of dignified ladies.
“The auto workers’ union got the chains for us,” she says. “Come here, Eve, hold out your bag. Allan, cover us.”
Allan turns his back on the women, feigning interest in the stone carvings in the vaulted ceiling above his head. Paula lifts a length of chain out of her giant handbag and lowers it as slowly as she can into Evelyn’s. The bustle and chatter of the people around them is noisy, but the clinking of the chains is still audible.
“How are we going to get them out of our bags once we’re inside?” Evelyn asks in an undertone. “They’re going to hear us, see us doing it.”
Paula shrugs. “Just do your best. It’s a protest. It won’t be smooth and I’m sure it’ll go sideways at some point. But it’s the media coverage that counts, and if we can get Question Period shut down, so much the better. The point is, it’s a bunch of men in there making decisions on our behalf, so we need to interrupt the decision-making. It’s our turn to have a voice now, Eve. And remember, if you get hauled away by security, don’t give them your name unless they absolutely force you to. We don’t think they have the resources to actually arrest us all, and it would be a bad headline, anyway.” Transfer of the chains complete, she adds, “Thanks, Allan!”
Evelyn’s companion turns back around, winking at Paula. “Dinner tomorrow night, Paula, after I bail you out of jail? I think you still owe me dinner for the last time.”
“I love and appreciate all the bailing you’ll ever do for me, Allan.” Paula winks back at him, then disappears into the crowd to distribute more chains.
Within another half hour, Evelyn and Allan have settled themselves in their seats in the gallery. Evelyn’s instructions are to wait for one of the leaders to stand up and start shouting her protest, at which point they assume several guards will haul her out of the gallery. During the commotion, the other women are supposed to whip out their chains and attach themselves to their chairs or the nearby railings. Then they’ll each shout out in turn until—hopefully—the Speaker shuts down the proceedings.
Evelyn’s heart starts to race as the doors are shut and locked by those very same security guards, each with crossed arms and generic stern faces.
“Bloody hell, this is fun,” Allan mutters beside her with a chuckle.
Evelyn smiles, despite her nervousness. She glances down at the members of Parliament strolling in across the pea-green carpet below. Suits, bald heads, and shoes shinier than mirrors. The men who have never in their lives had to worry about getting pregnant, dying in childbirth, or trying to access an abortion within their own restrictive system. Paula’s right, Evelyn thinks. It is time for their voices to be heard. To show these clueless men what it feels like to have your life disrupted by the actions of others. To feel helpless and afraid and angry and unable to stop what’s happening to you.
Just a few minutes in, a woman on the west side of the gallery stands up and bellows down into the Chamber, shaking her fist. “Free abortion on demand! Women are dying because of your law, Trudeau! Shame on you, sir! Shame on all of you! Free abortion—”
The two guards at the gallery door immediately descend on her as the Prime Minister and all the representatives in the Chamber turn their heads up toward the commotion. The Prime Minister looks back down at his desk and purses his lips, ignoring the woman.
“Evelyn, the chain!” Allan says.
“Damn it!” She was so distracted by the shouting woman that she forgot her cue. “I’ll wait for the next one,” she whispers back, but already feels as though she’s failed. Allan nods.
Almost instantly another woman yells out, this time in the east gallery. “We won’t be silenced, Trudeau! Free abortion on demand! Free—”
The guards, anticipating the disturbance, apprehend the woman, but this time Evelyn is ready. She lifts the chain out of her purse and wraps it around and around the arm of her chair as quickly as she can with Allan’s help. A woman behind her gasps.
“Order in the gallery!” the Speaker shouts upward, his booming voice carrying into the very back rows. “Order, I say! Control yourself, madam!”
The third protest comes from a woman several seats down on Evelyn’s right. The fourth from the west side again. The fifth from Evelyn’s own mouth, before she even has a chance to think about what she’s saying. It’s as if a stranger stood up in her body and shrieked the words over the excited, outraged chattering from the public gallery and the dark mutterings of deep male voices from the Chamber.
As the entire gallery erupts around her, Evelyn makes eye contact with the Prime Minister, who holds her gaze before strong male hands grasp each of her arms. She stiffens as one of the guards yanks on the chain, but when they nearly lift her rigid body into the air to carry her out, her self-defence training kicks in, and she goes limp. Both the guards pitch forward as her weight drags them all back down. Her head smacks against the back of the chair, and she winces as Allan shouts an admonishment to the guards. Everything is chaos. Evelyn stays as lifeless and heavy as a sack of onions. The guards end up half dragging her out of the gallery.
One of the guards gives her a kick in frustration. “Get up!” he bellows at her, his face beet-red and his doughy forehead beading with sweat. He’s angry. He feels helpless. He’s unable to stop what’s happening. And that’s all Evelyn needs.
“Make me, asshole!” She hardly recognizes herself, but she doesn’t care. “Make me, then!”
He spits on her and reaches down, grasping her arm again in both his hands. He pulls—hard—and Evelyn feels something in her shoulder wrench out of place. She cries out as the other guard yells at his partner to stop.
Dizzy with the pain, all Evelyn registers is the utter pandemonium in the room, the shouting and screams and rattling chains, the Speaker bellowing commands that go unheeded. The sudden dampening of the sounds as she’s hauled out of the gallery into the hallway. The relative quiet of the security office and the feel of the chair underneath her. The ache in her shoulder and head.
It isn’t long before she’s joined by a crowd of others, all the women who stood up to protest, and some of their male allies, too. She spots Paula among them. Everyone looks rather the worse for wear; collars are torn or sitting sideways, mascara is smeared, ties are crooked, hair has come down from carefully pinned coifs. Some of the women, like Evelyn, suffered injuries. Lips are bleeding and bare arms are blooming bruises.
The security guards shunt them all into the small office where Evelyn is still seated, and they bake in the heat for what feels like hours. Evelyn thinks her adrenaline should be wearing off by now, but the panic hasn’t set in the way the pain in her shoulder has. She’s still quaking with exhilaration at her own daring, and thinks wryly about what Tom’s reaction will be when she calls to tell him that she has, in fact, been arrested and needs to be bailed out of an Ottawa jail.
There’s much muttering and complaining in the holding room. “Our protest became a riot,” Paula says proudly. “Well done, girls!”
“But when are we going to get out of here?”
“Where are the others?”
“Do you think they’ve shut it down?”
“Did we do it?”
“Are they going to arrest us, or what?”
“I don’t think they have enough handcuffs…”
“They could borrow our chains!” Paula says.
There’s a chorus of appreciative chuckling before the door finally opens and a tall, burly man with no neck strides into the room. All heads turn in his direction.
He glares at them, his lower lip downturned like an angry bulldog’s. “I’ve never seen such madness in all my years here!” he barks. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. The Speaker’s closed the Chamber.”
Evelyn is proud to see all her fellow protesters meet his gaze with wide smiles. No one looks away. No one is backing down. It unnerves him, this huge presence of a man who takes pride in the fact that he can intimidate people. Evelyn can’t remember the last time she felt so good. She could spit fire if she wanted to.
The man’s Adam’s apple slides up and down his thick, clean-shaven throat. “Well, we can’t hold you all. Just get the hell out of this building within the next three minutes, or so help me God, you’re all under arrest.”