“It’s not about her. It’s about me. This is so private.”
“Did you leave a note at least, to let them know you’re okay?”
“No, and I realized last night that I should have. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry about that.” He pulled out his phone. “Call them. At least tell them you’re okay.”
“I can’t. She’ll know where I am. I’ve been so caught up with getting away I never thought to—”
“Emma, find a way to let them know you’re okay. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter. I would be petrified if she did this to me. We love our children more than anything in the world.”
Emma believed him and had to force down tears.
“So you don’t know what’s happened, do you?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you’ve been caught up with other things, but I have to tell you something.”
“Is my mom okay?” she asked quickly, suddenly terrified.
“Yes, your mother is fine, but your house was attacked this morning and part of it was blown up. Your mother and father and dog are all fine, and—”
“Wait a second! My house was bombed? Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding. Two men blew up the front of the house but everyone is okay. The two men were shot and killed, and only one person inside was injured. That was an FBI agent who was wounded. But he’s doing well. Look, I’m not sure you should be making this decision on your own when so much is going on in your life.”
“It’s really private. Can’t you understand that? And I’m seventeen. I’ll be eighteen soon.”
Don’t get all worked up, Emma warned herself. Be mature.
“What about your boyfriend?”
“He knows I’m pregnant.
“What does he want? Do you know?”
“Yes, he’s”—she paused, and in hesitating felt as though she had said the word that now had to follow—“Muslim.”
He nodded. “So am I.”
I knew it. Here it comes.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t understand and respect your feelings. That’s what’s most important here. I’m not making any judgments about you, and it would be good for both of us if you didn’t make any about me. Maybe your boyfriend isn’t, either.”
“No, he definitely wants the baby.”
They talked for another ten minutes. Dr. Abbas appeared to listen carefully as Emma did her best to sound level-headed. Inwardly, she experienced a growing sense of panic that despite his reasonable demeanor, Dr. Abbas would insist on bringing her parents and Sufyan into the discussion.
He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a tissue. “Where are you staying while you’re here? Where did you sleep last night?”
“In my car.”
“That’s not safe, Emma. The receptionist has the address of a residence we refer women to. It’s safe and comfortable, and it’s nearby. If you need money, we can arrange your stay for you. I want you to think about your decision for twenty-four hours.”
“Is that so you can think about it?” She was so tired of waiting.
“No. If tomorrow you want to terminate, I will have you scheduled. You have my word.”
Your word? She didn’t want his word. She wanted to be on his schedule for the abortion as soon as possible.
At the front desk, Emma got directions to the home where other clients had stayed, and then headed out to her car. The location was about two miles away.
They would be the longest two miles of Emma’s life.
Chapter 27
Emma felt out of her element in the heart of Baltimore. She wished she could hurl herself forty-eight hours into the future when she’d have all this behind her: pregnancy, abortion, the city itself.
But maybe it won’t ever be. She’d read about women who’d regretted ending their pregnancies, but also others who’d been doubly glad they’d had them. Almost all agreed, though, that it was complicated and made you more complicated. Your body, your mind, your soul. Changed you in so many ways. After everything Emma had endured in the past two years — almost getting blown up by a backpack nuclear bomb; kidnapped by a Washington DC drug lord, who turned out to be an old business associate of her father’s — she didn’t know how much more complicated her life could get. But she supposed the women who’d been writing about abortion on the Web — pro and con — knew a lot more about the subject than she did.
She swore when she saw a parking ticket on her windshield. The whole country’s falling apart and they’re still giving these things out? She wanted to tear it up, but didn’t dare.
Instead, she pulled it out from under the wipers and threw it on the passenger seat. Then she looked around and put the address into her phone. Right away her phone told her to drive north, adding, “Turn right on West Mulberry Street.”
“Okay, okay,” Emma replied to her phone. “Just give me a chance to get this thing started.”
She fired up the Fusion and drove dutifully north.
More directions followed, taking Emma past men with grocery carts, sleeping bags, filthy blankets, and plastic bags filled with empty cans and bottles. One stumbled to the driver’s-side window, his vacant eyes staring at her.
“Get me out of here,” Emma whispered, as if the voice on her phone might respond to a desperate request.
Instead, it told her to turn left in one block.
Emma did.
“Oh, crap.”
From the homeless to the nearly so: dilapidated housing with broken porch railings and rotting stoops loomed before her, along with the people sitting on them.
Watching me, she realized.
A second later, the vehicle stopped running. Died right in the middle of the street. Cars parked on both sides, leaving her to block the right lane.
Emma tried the starter repeatedly. Not a spark. Dead-dead-dead. She pounded the steering wheel. A car eased around her. Then it was gone. She was alone.
No you’re not.
Two guys were walking up. Gold chains around their necks, jeans around the bottoms of their butts, undershorts showing. Ball caps askew — Orioles and Wizards.
“Hey, girl. Need some help?” asked the bigger, bulkier one. His short bony friend looked on, smiling.
The smaller one promptly started talking a line, too. “Sure she does. Come on, sweet sister, pop the hood on your Fu-sion.” Making a dance out of those two syllables.
“I’m going to call Triple A,” she said through the closed window.
“Sure, you do that,” the big guy said. “You must think you’re in Bethesda and they’ll come running.” He was laughing now, looking at her high school parking permit in the corner of the front window. “Good luck with that shit. Last time I called, I waited days.”
The shorter one laughed, too, and slapped palms with his buddy. “Triple A. Yeah, you’ll be waiting. Least you got some company. Pop the hood. I work on cars. I might be able to help you.”
Did she dare? Did she dare not?
She released the hood. It rose before her. She couldn’t see what the bony guy was doing. The bigger one tapped her window.
“What do you think we’re gonna do? Eat you alive? You can come out.”
Shit. She froze. She wished Sufyan were here. Or his dad. That would show she wasn’t prejudiced. But maybe she was to react like this. Or was it just showing good sense? She didn’t know, wondering if some bigot banging around her brain really was making this seem so much worse.