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Holy shit, thought Dymphna, the Women's Center has hired a Moonie. She stared at the
walnut nameplate on the desk that read "Pamela Craig, Unitarian Chaplain" until
the words snapped in her brain and she remembered that Unitarian meant tambourines and
Birkenstocks, not the Reverend Moon marrying a thousand brides to a thousand grooms.
"Dymphna," Pamela Craig said, losing the chummy tone she'd invoked while
asking about her Saint Bridget's letter jacket. "I’d like you to tell me how you
feel about terminating your pregnancy."
Dymphna said, "Well, of course I feel sad about it."
Pamela Craig nodded.
Dymphna stared up at a poster of a girl kicking an oversized soccer ball. Inside the
white spaces of the ball were statistics on low rates of pregnancy and sexually
transmitted diseases for teenage girls involved in sports -- outdoor sports, she
thought, enjoying her little joke until she realized she couldn't share it with anyone.
Another poster showed a twisted metal clothes hanger spelling the words "Never
Again." And then there was a photograph of a naked girl screaming. A cluster of women
had her pinned to the ground, splaying her arms out, crucifix style. The caption below the
picture explains that the girl was about to undergo genital mutilation, as was the custom
in rural Somalia. Dymphna wondered what sort of art-whore photographer would document a
girl's terror instead of helping her.
Was it the effect of the bulletproof glaze on the windows, or had dusk really turned
the say a sheer, sugary violet. The air in the small office carried the smell of freshly
glazed donuts from the discount bakery next door. When footage of protesters picketing the
clinic played on the evening news, there was usually some slacker off to the side, leaning
on his sign and eating a long john.
"Why does it make you sad?" Pamela asked.
Dymphna had envisioned the Women's Center as a medical commune where the staff gave
massages, brewed herbal teas, and recited poetry. But, no, brisk nurses and doctors had
shuttled her in and out of exam rooms and finally to this psychobabble torture chamber.
Dymphna said, "Well, it just, you know, isn't a super-happy occasion."
She felt teary and fought it, staring into Pamela Craig's plain face, thinking that her
pale lashes screamed our for mascara and she needed cream concealer to smooth out her zit
scars.
"Yes, Dymphna, it's a decision that women really struggle with."
"It sure is," Dymphna said, her face blank as a tablet.
"Do you feel guilty about your decision?" Pamela asked.
"I feel terrible," Dymphna blurted. Then she flipped her hair over her
shoulder and rallied. "Although I realize it's the best thing for me right now."
"Do you think it's a sin?" Pamela Craig asked.
Dymphna posed dreamily, tucking her hand under he chin. If it wasn't for the green felt
cross piercing the B on her letter jacket, if Dymphna had gone to Roosevelt High School,
Pamela Craig wouldn’t be asking that, and surely equal opportunity laws made her
question illegal. And what person under the age of eighty talked about sin?
God was ancient and remote, but surely not beyond understanding that she was
seventeen, and had plans to go to the University of Kansas, and then to France, to the
Sorbonne for her junior year. Sorbonne, she whispered to herself. If she could
forgive God, with his noted miracles, for allowing the pregnancy test stick to show two
lines, he could certainly forgive her for having an abortion.
"It's not a sin," Pamela Craig muttered.
Why did she answer her own question? Why did this zitty Unitarian think she was queen
of the world?
"No offense," Dymphna said, "but, how do you know?"
Pamela laughed. "I guess you have a point, Dymphna. And somehow I think you're
going to be just fine."
Dymphna knew she'd passed this last hurdle and would be allowed to get her abortion on
Saturday morning. Still, she wanted to ask one shameful question: How much does an
abortion hurt? But Pamela Craig was already leading Dymphna out of her office, saying, oh,
she hoped it didn’t rain because she hadn't rolled up her car windows and bye-bye,
nice meeting you!
Excerpted from LIVING WITH SAINTS © Copyright 2001 by Mary O'Connell. Reprinted with permission by Atlantic Monthly Press. All rights reserved.
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