“Work yourself to death,” she said with a loving smile. She drew his head down again, kissing him firmly. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Elizabeth Chambers pressed the intercom. “How many?”
“Twelve.”
If the wait was too long, one or two clients would probably ask for their money back and leave. “Any sign of Dr. Wyatt?”
“Not yet.”
Elizabeth clenched her teeth to keep from venting her anger. Dr. Franklin had already left for the day, or she would have pressed for him to stay an hour longer. Dr. Wyatt’s tardiness was becoming habitual. Maybe she should increase his cut. She had little doubt that would bring him running to the clinic in a timely manner. Unfortunately, right now, she had to deal with the problem.
“Call his practice. See if there’s been some emergency.”
“Jim always calls if—”
“I said call him.”
“Yes, Ms. Chambers.”
“And tell Brenda I want to talk to her.” Lifting her finger from the intercom, she cut off any excuse that might be forthcoming. Picking up her pencil, Elizabeth tapped it repeatedly for a moment and then tossed it onto the desk in annoyance. Now means now, not five minutes from now. Flipping the ledger closed, she opened her desk drawer, dropped the ledger in, and slammed the drawer shut.
What a day! Sometimes she wondered why she kept on with this miserable, stinking job. If the money weren’t so good, she would have been gone long ago. She was sick to death of dealing with other people’s problems, problems they made for themselves and she had to help clean up. Most of the money went to the corporation that owned the facility, though their names were nowhere to be seen. They wanted to stay squeaky clean in some elegant high-rise.
Her head was aching already, and it was only a little after one. It would be pounding by three. She wished she could have a martini. Or a shot of tequila. That would be nice. Anything to deaden the throbbing in her temples.
She couldn’t depend on anyone. She had to oversee everything herself because she couldn’t trust people to do what they said they would do. Dr. James Wyatt for one. He’d say he’d be at the clinic at one, then stroll in at one thirty. Or others did more than they were told, like Brenda, who answered questions with facts that scared clients right out the front door. Two this morning. Six hundred dollars gone. Stupid girl!
Hearing the tentative tap on the door, Elizabeth controlled her temper. “Come in,” she called, smiling coolly as Brenda entered. She gestured for Brenda to sit in the chair near the desk. Elizabeth looked her over, admiring her neat appearance. Brenda was an attractive young black woman, a nursing student from the University of California, San Francisco, who had come to inquire about working at the clinic four months ago. She had said she wanted to help women. Elizabeth had recognized her sincerity and knew it would be useful. She had also recognized her need: money to finish her education.
Sitting forward in her leather chair, Elizabeth rested one hand lightly over her other on the burgundy ink blotter. “Phyllis said two of our clients left this morning after speaking with you.”
Elizabeth raised her brows when Brenda sat silent. “Is it true?”
“Yes, they did,” Brenda said, trying not to sound defensive. Phyllis had been furious when the second girl left, and demanded to know what she was doing to “drive them away.” Brenda had told her she wasn’t doing anything to drive anyone away, but Phyllis had been less than convinced. She hoped for a fair hearing with Elizabeth, who had always been cordial and firmly on the side of women’s rights. Surely she would understand. “They asked me specific questions.”
“About the procedure.”
“Yes.”
“And you answered.”
“Yes.”
“In detail.”
“As few as possible, but they—”
Elizabeth held up her hands to stay the stream of self-defense. “You’ve been through our training,” she said coolly, holding her anger under tight rein. Exploding at the girl would do no good, and it might leave her thinking that Elizabeth didn’t care about these women, too. Of course she cared! “You know what’s appropriate and what’s not, Brenda. The women who come here for our help are in a very delicate emotional state. They don’t need facts. They need careful and gentle guidance. They want us to help them make the right decision.”
“I understand all that,” Brenda said, clearly distressed, “but the patient who came in this morning was in tears. She wasn’t sure what she wanted when she came into the examination room.”
“And so you decided for her,” Elizabeth said quietly, furious.
“Of course not. I just answered her questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“About fetal development. She said she was almost four months along. She asked if the baby had a heartbeat and brain waves. A friend had told her it did, but she didn’t know for sure. So she asked me, and I told her the truth.”
“And made her feel ashamed,” Elizabeth said angrily.
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“Perhaps not, but it was the direct result of your interference. So what have you caused? Did you help her? Was her boyfriend out there in the waiting room supporting her? Is he going to marry her? Is he even still in the picture? Is her family going to support her? How old was she? Fourteen? Fifteen? What happens to her now that you’ve told her the truth?”
“She left before we could talk about any of that,” Brenda said miserably.
“Yes, she left. Scared to death because of you. Brenda, dear, there’s a reason we train you as we do. I thought you understood.”
“I do understand, but a woman has a right to an informed decision.”
“She wasn’t a woman! She was a child! A child in trouble and needing a way out, and we offered those services to her! Now what’s she going to do?” It would do no good whatsoever to tell Brenda that even the Supreme Court agreed that a woman didn’t need to know very much and, in fact, agreed that the less they knew the better.
Seeing Brenda’s shock at the outburst, Elizabeth sat back, forcing her anger under control. She let out her breath slowly, trying to calm down. “If that girl had wanted the sort of information you gave her, don’t you think she would have gone to a pregnancy counseling center rather than come to us?”
“I don’t know. She was very confused. She didn’t know what to do. . . .”
“All the more reason for you to counsel her appropriately.”
Her telephone rang. Annoyed, Elizabeth picked up the receiver. “Not now, Phyllis. I’m in a conference.”
“It’s Mr. Ord again.”
The heat of anger burst like a rush of adrenaline. Mr. Ord was her daughter’s principal. Kip was probably in trouble. Again. How many times did she have to go through this before her daughter grew up? “Ask him to hold for just a moment.” She slammed the receiver down and looked at Brenda. “I have to be blunt this time, Brenda. We’ve covered this ground before, and I don’t like going over and over things so important. So here it is. You either do things the way we trained you to do them, or you leave. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elizabeth recognized the sparkle in Brenda’s eyes, the zeal to help women in trouble. “I know it’s difficult,” she said, taking a more soothing track. She didn’t want to have to look for another nurse. They were getting harder and harder to find. “Brenda, I know how much you care, and that’s the quality that made me hire you in the first place. But you have to stifle your own personal feelings and think of what’s best for these young girls. Put yourself in their position. How are they ever going to manage raising a child at this time in their lives? Pregnancy is a disaster for them, for their families, for everyone. We can help. We do help.”
Brenda sighed heavily. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Fine,” Elizabeth said, curbing her impatience. “You can go back to work. Just don’t let it happen again.”
As soon as Bre
nda closed the door behind her, Elizabeth picked up the telephone again and punched the buttons, forcing a pleasantness to her tone as she spoke. “Hello, Mr. Ord. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve had to suspend your daughter for drunkenness, Ms. Chambers.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said I’ve just had to suspend your daughter for drunkenness.”
“Drunkenness? There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, Ms. Chambers. She reeks of beer. Mrs. Cavendish brought her to the office a few minutes ago after Kip vomited in the classroom. She’s on a crying jag in the nurse’s office as we speak.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Kip doesn’t drink. And who is this Mrs. Cavendish, anyway?”
“Mrs. Cavendish is your daughter’s English teacher,” he said stiffly.
“Oh,” she said, face hot, resentment swelling. “I forgot.” And no wonder. This was the third private school Kip had gone to in the past two years. How was she supposed to keep track of all the teachers’ names? Oh, why was her daughter doing this to her again? She’d been out of control since she turned thirteen. Did Kip think word wouldn’t spread? She’d end up right back in a public school again, and then what chance would she have to be anything? She’d be lucky to learn to read and write!
“Your daughter needs counseling, Ms. Chambers.”
“She’s had counseling.” Psychiatrists and psychologists were always good at finding someone to blame. Mother. Father. Society. That was what was wrong with Kip. The girl was always blaming everyone else for her problems rather than dealing with them herself! What good did it do? Well, she was sick of it, sick of her own daughter.
“I’m sorry she’s caused problems. I’ll have someone pick her up.” She’d call her ex-husband and tell him he could have his new wife pick her up. Bitterness mixed with resentment. Her ex was always so quick to tell her she was a lousy mother. Well, let’s see how well he would deal with Kip!
“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Chambers.”
“If it wasn’t necessary, why have you wasted time with this call?”
“Kip has made some accusations.”
Elizabeth froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“Accusations—”
“Yes. I heard you. What sort of accusations has she made?”
“She said you’ve struck her, not once but several times.”
“That’s not true!” She had disciplined her, sent her to her room, even shouted at her on occasion when pushed beyond the limit. But she’d never struck her daughter. Not in the way he meant. “I have never abused my daughter, Mr. Ord, and I resent your accusation.”
“I didn’t accuse you, Ms. Chambers. Your daughter did.”
A seething rage filled Elizabeth. Of all the ingratitude! She’d done everything she could to make things right for Kip, and look where it got her. “Fine, Mr. Ord. You tell my daughter she can call the youth authority. Do that for me, will you? If I’m such a lousy mother, perhaps she’ll be happier in a foster home!” She slammed down the telephone.
Someone tapped at the door.
“What is it?”
Phyllis stuck her head in and grimaced. “Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to let you know Dr. Wyatt’s here.”
“Good,” she said and glanced at her watch. Twenty-five minutes late. That was six hundred dollars down the drain! Add that to the two clients Brenda had lost, and she had a twelve-hundred-dollar loss for the day.
What she wouldn’t give for another Dr. Franklin. Someone quick and efficient. Of course, he had his weaknesses, too. Only yesterday, a young girl had become hysterical when Dr. Franklin began the procedure. He’d told her to shut up. He’d already begun, and it was too late to stop. He told her she should have thought things through before she walked in the door.
Shuddering, Elizabeth stood. She had been forced to speak with him about it. He had been less than pleased at being called to account by a mere director, but she could not allow such insensitivity to pass. She understood he had been upset, but treated in that manner, the girl would tell others in her same situation to go elsewhere. She would seek help at another clinic if she found herself in the same situation again.
And usually there was a next time. These young girls didn’t learn by their mistakes. In fact, they often went right out and got themselves pregnant again within a few months. Clinic statistics bore the evidence. Though they dispensed birth control to the girls before they left, the girls either didn’t bother taking it or took it inconsistently, increasing their chances of getting pregnant again. It was disheartening, often downright irritating. However, it was also profitable, and his behavior had been, quite frankly, bad for business.
Elizabeth’s mouth curved into a cynical half smile. She knew exactly which buttons to push to get Dr. Franklin working properly. His bedside manner this morning had been kindly, even soothing.
Now, for Dr. James Wyatt.
Jim entered the supply room, removed his sport coat, and donned a blue paper overshirt from the shelf. He put his arms in it so it tied at the back.
“I hope nothing was wrong at your office this morning, Jim.” A voice spoke from the doorway. He glanced at Elizabeth.
“A walk-in.”
“Emergency?”
He sensed the frigid anger behind her sedate smile.
“Two of our clients left this morning.”
“This was her third pregnancy. Two have ended in miscarriages. It takes time to admit a patient to the hospital for observation.” He didn’t know why he was explaining himself.
“I imagine your staff could have handled the details.”
“Possibly, but I take a personal interest when one of my patients is upset.”
She bristled. “Two of your patients were in great distress. Here. The wait frightened them away.”
“Or maybe they thought better of having an abortion,” he said rigidly, knowing that response would not go over well.
He was right. Her eyes flashed with growing anger. “Perhaps,” she said smoothly, then stepped into the room. “Here’s your check.” She held out it out to him. He frowned. He was bothered by the money side of his work at the clinic, and usually she considered that, giving him his pay in an envelope. Apparently she felt like reminding him he was no better than anyone else, maybe worse for his pretentiousness. He drew pay for his part in the business just like she did, just like Dr. Franklin, just like Phyllis and Brenda and half a dozen others.
Heat flooded Jim’s face. He looked at her and felt a muscle jerking in his cheek. He wanted to tell her to stuff that check where the sun didn’t shine, but he held his tongue. Establishing a practice was expensive. Malpractice insurance was a killer. What choice did he have? “I’ll pick it up later.”
“I’ll just tuck it into your sport coat, how’s that?” she said, mockery clear in her tones.
“I said I’ll pick it up later.” He stepped past her and went out. He walked down the hallway to the first room and took the chart off the door rack. It was a brief form with the barest minimum of facts about the waiting patient. Stapled to it was a signed consent. He read everything. Sighing, he entered the room, scarcely glancing at the young girl on the table.
“Is it going to hurt?”
“As little as possible,” he said, smiling at her with what encouragement he could offer.
She talked as he made swift preparations, fast words pouring out in her fear. He tried to put her at ease. She fell silent through the procedure, tensed up at the pain. One of the “nurses” took the basin from the room.
When it was over, Jim stripped off his gloves and discarded them in the wastebasket. Everything had gone smoothly and swiftly. He was good at what he did. Thorough. Elizabeth always encouraged him to finish the procedure and move on to the next room, leaving one of the counselors to give instructions afterward, but he couldn’t. Not today. He lingered, concerned, and spoke gently to the silent girl. He wanted to say something to make it easier
on her, but he hadn’t the words.
“You’ll be all right,” he said, patting her arm.
Turning her head slightly, she looked up at him.
Looking into her eyes, Jim hurt. Worse, he remembered the newspaper article he had read that morning.
Dynah sat terrified in the clinic waiting room. Half a dozen girls sat in the chairs around the room, all with their backs against the wall. Dynah’s mother sat beside her. She supposed she should be thankful for that, noting the others were by themselves. Yet she was torn. Was she doing the right thing? Was this the only way out?
No one said anything.
No one made eye contact.
Her heart thumped wildly every time the door opened and another number was called. Each seat that was vacated was filled with another girl or woman who entered. All strangers. All closed into their private anguish. She was afraid she was going to be sick.
“Mom, I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered, trembling.
Hannah heard the fear in her daughter’s voice and took her hand, holding it on her lap between both of hers. “Shhh. It’ll be all right. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
“I just don’t know. . . .”
“I won’t force you, honey. I promise you. We’ll talk to the counselor first, and then we’ll see what’s to be done.”
Dynah looked into her mother’s eyes and could say no more. She looked down, not wanting her mother to see how afraid she was. She was so afraid she had caused a breach in her parents’ marriage.
“I suppose it’s the only way. I don’t know what else to do.” Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, is this what I’m supposed to do? If it’s right, then why do I feel this churning inside me and this gut-wrenching fear? I can’t see my way out of this mess I’m in. It wasn’t my fault, Lord. Why did it happen? Why?
Dynah fought down the tears she knew would only add to her mother’s distress.
Hannah felt her daughter’s torment and shared it. “It’ll be all right,” she said again, clinging to the hollow words, wanting to believe them. Her daughter wouldn’t be alone the way she had been. She would have her mother to stand beside her, to hold her hand through it all and love her afterward. It would all turn out right in the end. Dynah wouldn’t hurt the way she had.
The Atonement Child Page 17
