Tears in a Bottle

by Sylvia Bambola

  Dr. Newly cursed again. “Shut her up! Do you want everyone to hear?”

  The attendant clamped her arm around Becky’s neck and covered Becky’s mouth with her free hand. “You have to stay quiet. If you move about, the doctor could slip and injure your uterus.”

  Becky’s eyes grew wide with terror. Just as Dr. Newly flipped the switch to stop the suction, Becky felt the meager contents of her stomach come up and fill the attendant’s hand. The attendant helped her up, handed her a paper towel, then walked over to the little sink in the corner and washed.

  Dr. Newly threw his rubber gloves into a small basket near the suction machine, then glared at his patient. “No tub baths and no sex for a few weeks. Think you can handle that?” he said, and stormed out the door.

  Becky lay crying on a little metal table. They had put her in the supply room, a tiny room down the hall far from everything so she wouldn’t bother anyone. A dingy curtain served as a door. Immediately after Dr. Newly had left her, Becky began bleeding heavily. The attendant insisted that the doctor examine her, and when he did, he told Becky it was her fault for thrashing around during the procedure. He also told her not to bother coming back to him the next time she got “knocked up.” Then he instructed the attendant not to let Becky’s mother see her, but to send her home and have her come back in three hours “when the bleeding stops and the girl calms down.”

  Now, crying and frightened and wedged between shelves of sheets, gauze, rubber gloves, and antiseptics, Becky felt totally alone. She couldn’t get the picture of what she had seen in that glass jar out of her mind. She had killed her baby. She was a murderer. The sheets beneath her were sticky and wet with her blood. Was she going to die too? She hoped so. She deserved to die. But she didn’t think she wanted to die alone, even if she did deserve it.

  She could still feel the tearing, the ripping. She could still hear the suction machine. It seemed so loud in her ears. She would remember that sound to the day she died. If only that day were soon. When she let that doctor rip her baby apart, that suction machine scooped out her life as well. And now she felt empty. Terribly, terribly empty.

  A man walked slowly past the small group of pro-lifers outside the Brockston Solutions clinic. His left hand clutched the neck of his tan trench coat. His right hand and arm remained rigid at his side. A baseball cap, pulled low, and a pair of oversized sunglasses covered most of his face. He kept his head down and ignored the attempts of one of the picketers to give him literature.

  When he entered the clinic only one girl was in the waiting room. He heard voices coming from one of the rooms down the hall, but saw no one. He removed a steel rod from his inside coat pocket and shoved it into the two looped handles of the front door.

  Next, he removed a snub-nosed semiautomatic rifle from inside a special pocket he had sewn into the coat lining. For an instant he hesitated, then squeezed off several shots and killed the girl. Next he moved down the hall, shooting at anything that moved. A white-haired lady slumped over her desk; her blood splattered the wall behind her. More shots, more bodies fell, as he opened one door after the other. Finally, he came to the last door and flung it open. A man wearing bloody rubber gloves stood holding a coat tree like a weapon. Cowering behind him were a white-uniformed attendant and a pale woman who half-sat, half-lay on a bloody table.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” asked the man with the bloody gloves.

  “You Newly?”

  “Yes—”

  “Then this is for you.” The gunman fired three shots into Dr. Newly, then shot the women. He reloaded and sprayed the room with bullets. When he was finished, he picked up the patient’s chart that had fallen out of its plastic holder on the door, ripped off a page, wrote something on the back, and shoved it into the bottom of the holder pocket. Then he stripped off his bloody trench coat and wrapped it around his rifle. With one hand he opened the window, then punched out the screen. With his foot, he pulled over a small stool and positioned it under the window. And in a matter of a minute he exited the building.

  Becky Taylor lay shivering on the metal table. Any minute she expected the curtain that separated her from the massacre to be ripped aside and to see someone with a gun standing in the doorway. She hoped he would come quickly and that death would be swift. It would be a perfect ending to the day. When no one came, she thought of crying out, “Here I am!” But she was too scared and weak to say anything and instead lay frozen beneath a thin sheet. She had not heard a sound for some time and wondered what could be happening. She lifted her head and dropped it again. It felt unusually heavy, like the end of a hundred-pound dumbbell. Then she heard sirens, then crashing noises and wood splintering, then shouts and feet running down the hall. She held her breath. She felt dizzy, weak and cold, so cold. She would not fight. Whatever this person was going to do to her, she would not stop it. Let the avenger come. Let him send her to where her dear baby awaited her.

  “Merciful heavens!” the policeman said as he pulled back the curtain. “Here’s another one, but it looks like she’s still alive.”

  Becky stared at the friendly face and wondered why the police officer thought she had been shot.

  The officer pulled the metal stretcher out of the closet. From her position in the hall, Becky could see bodies everywhere lying in pools of blood.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get you to a hospital. Hang in there, lass.”

  Becky raised her head to tell the officer she was fine, that she had not been shot, but when she did, she got a look at her sheet. It was covered with blood almost up to her chin. She dropped her head and closed her eyes. Maybe she’d be seeing that little baby of hers after all.

  7

  WHEN MAGGIE SWITCHED ON the light and saw a man lurking in the corner by the file cabinet, her heart did a flip. Stubble covered his face and his eyes had a haunted, faraway look. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty. A large blue backpack lay at his feet. When a breeze caught his blond hair and rearranged it, Maggie turned to the open window. The screen had been cut and the window jimmied open. Her hand went to the phone.

  “Don’t do it, Maggie,” Canon said, stepping from the shadows.

  “I’ve got to call the police. You must turn yourself in.”

  Canon’s rough hand covered hers and forced it away from the phone. “I ain’t never goin’ back to prison. They’ll have to kill me first.”

  “You murdered seven people, Canon. Seven innocent people.”

  “I thought you’d be mad about that. About me getting all seven, I mean. But they weren’t innocent. They all had blood on their hands in one way or other. I knew soon as I walked in that door they all had to die. I was just the sword of God, Maggie, the avenger, and I had to do what needed to be done.”

  Maggie shook her head. “This is not God’s way. You’re piercing the heart of God with that sword of yours.”

  “I didn’t come to argue. But they’re all liars, you know, those abortionists. They know what they’re doin’. They see…they see and they know, and they do it anyway. And their lies…their lies kill people.”

  Canon shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. His head was bent low, his eyes fixed on his shoes. “They ought not to have done it. They ought not to have broken her like that.”

  Maggie sighed and walked up to him. Who was Canon talking about? Twelve years ago, after his wife died, he started going to pro-life demonstrations. But everyone saw how unstable he was, how fragile his emotions were, and tried to discourage him from coming. He would weep uncontrollably in front of the abortion clinics whenever he saw a young girl or woman go in. He would mumble to himself as he walked back and forth on the sidewalk. But he was harmless in those days. He hadn’t turned to violence yet.

  “They ought not to have done it,” Canon repeated.

  Maggie put her hand on his shoulder. Is he talking about his wife? “It was a long time ago.” She began to pray for wisdom, for protection, for Canon.

  “That big ugly policewoman just
busted her fingers. I heard it. It was disgustin’. I wanted to throw up.”

  Maggie sighed. Beatrice Younger. Canon was talking about Beatrice Younger.

  “She was goin’ on eight months. They could see that, with her belly big, stickin’ out like a watermelon. They knew. They oughten’ve treated a pregnant woman like that. Like she was some kind of criminal. And she wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but counselin’ someone on the sidewalk, quiet like, real quiet like. But I heard it. They tried to lie about it later. But I heard it. That big ugly policewoman arrestin’ her, then breakin’ her fingers, right there on that sidewalk.”

  Maggie closed her eyes. “I know Canon.” That was the day, outside the Solutions clinic at Brockston, that Canon turned. That was the moment his unstable mind twisted itself onto a new path of violence. That had been almost ten years ago, and Canon had been in and out of trouble since. But he had never done anything like this last unspeakable act.

  “Turn yourself in, Canon. For the love of God, please turn yourself in.”

  Canon shook his head. “Ain’t no good talkin’ about it Maggie. I’m lightin’ out. I just wanted to stop and say good-bye and to thank you for understandin’.”

  “For understanding what?”

  “Nothin’. Don’t want to speak about it. No good if it gets you into a bad fix. But I just wanted to tell you thanks and good-bye. That’s all.”

  Maggie sat down behind her desk and dropped her head into her hands.

  “And I wanted you to know I got regrets. I did my best, but I ain’t finished, Maggie. I didn’t finish the job. I’m sorry about that.”

  “You have to leave now, Canon, and I have to call the police.”

  “I know that. Don’t think I don’t know that. You do what you gotta do and I’ll do what I gotta. I don’t guess I’ll be seein’ you again.” He gave her a strange, sad smile and crawled out the window and into the alley.

  Maggie picked up the phone and dialed 911. And after she was finished, she began praying for Canon, for the grieving families of those who lost their lives at Solutions, for the young girl found alive and her parents, for the police who would have to bring Canon in, and for the Life Center that was now sure to face a firestorm. What Satan has meant for evil, please God, turn and use for good.

  But even after she prayed, Maggie found her thoughts consumed with the young girl they found alive. There was an urgency in her spirit she couldn’t explain. Slowly, Maggie dropped to her knees and resumed praying.

  Maggie spent most of the morning answering Lieutenant Tooley’s questions about Canon Edwards. “Where was he going?” was the one Tooley had asked the most—a dozen times or more. But never had the Lieutenant asked Maggie why she hadn’t tried to stop Canon. After her time with Tooley, Maggie couldn’t face going back to the Center and had called her receptionist and told her she would be away for the rest of the day. Then she had called Kirt.

  Becky tried to open her eyes. Her lids felt like they had been nailed shut. It took all her effort to open them into slits. She saw a silver pole next to the bed and plastic bags hanging from a small crosspiece on top of it. Plastic tubing traveled from the bags and into one of her arms. She tried to move that arm, then realized it was strapped to a board. She could see dim outlines of people in white, moving about in the hall outside her room. A hospital. She closed her eyes and tried to remember. Why am I here? She lay there for a moment, then the horror of what had happened returned. O God, why am I still alive?

  Maggie sat smiling into Kirt’s face as he held her hand. The afternoon had been wonderful, but too short…for both of them. He had shown her his office, introduced her to his staff and new secretary. They had walked and talked and then had an early dinner.

  Maggie pushed her empty dessert plate away, then took a sip of coffee. They had been lingering over their food for two hours. It was almost seven, and she needed to head back. Being with Kirt made her feel much better about things. And He called His twelve disciples together and sent them out two by two. Two by two, two by two. Maggie was beginning to see the wisdom of twos.

  “I still can’t get over the fact that you drove to the capital to see me. It’s a first.”

  “Next time, I hope the weather will be nicer. The forecaster’s calling for ‘a copious amount of rain.’ You should’ve seen the drops on my windshield. They were the size of quarters.”

  Kirt brought Maggie’s hand to his mouth and pressed it against his lips. “That road through Hunter Mountain gets pretty slick when it’s wet. There are plenty of hotels in town. You could stay over.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I want to be at the Life Center tomorrow when it opens. There’s going to be a lot of backlash because of what’s happened. I don’t want people to think I’ve run away.”

  “Anyone who knows you understands you never run from anything.” Kirt gave her a strange look. “Except when it comes to…”

  “Comes to what?”

  “When it comes to marriage.”

  “I’m trying, Kirt, honestly I am.”

  “I know. But I want you to pray about something. Will you?”

  “Okay.”

  “I want you to ask God if I’m to be your husband.”

  Maggie pulled her hand from Kirt’s. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I know that if God says yes, you’ll tell me.”

  “This sounds like manipulation.”

  “No, Maggie. I just need to know if I’m really hearing from God or hearing what I want. Sometimes, when you want something so badly—sometimes you can get confused. So I need you to pray. Okay?”

  “And what will that do?”

  “If you say yes it will help me wait it out. I don’t know anymore if I can wait it out, not unless I know for sure that it’s of God. I don’t think I can bear the disappointment later…if it should come to that. So, will you? Pray about it, I mean?”

  Maggie nodded. “What…what did God say to you? About us? About our future?”

  Kirt studied her, his eyes intense and sparkling. “You really want to know?”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, almost inaudibly.

  “He said you were my Eve. He said for me there would be no other. He said you were going to be my wife.”

  Becky’s long black hair hung loosely around her shoulders, obscuring most of her face as she looked down at the little bundle in her arms. Tears dripped from her chin and onto the rag doll wrapped tightly in a towel. It had taken several tries, but she had finally bundled the doll just like she had seen the nurses do in the hospital. She swayed back and forth on her bed.

  “Rock-a-bye, baby, in the treetop, rock-a-bye, baby, in the treetop.” She didn’t know any more of the lullaby and repeated these few words over and over. Then she stopped singing and broke into sobs. She had been doing this for hours now: rocking, singing, crying. The dull ache inside her seemed to grow larger by the hour. There was no escaping it. Some giant, invisible vacuum was sucking out her insides. The pain was terrible. But she had to submit to it. It was the only way. Because soon, very soon, she would be empty. And then she wouldn’t feel anything. Then the hurting would stop.

  It would have been easier if she had died. But nobody would let her. Why did they have to meddle? Why had they gone and spoiled everything by giving her all that blood? She wondered whose blood it was, then began to sob all over again. No wonder she felt so odd. She had a stranger’s blood flowing in her veins. She would never be the same again. Never. With her free hand, she knocked the empty box of DayQuil onto the floor. She didn’t want her parents to see that until it was all over.

  She took Raggedy Ann’s red yarn hair and ran her fingers down each strip, strand by strand, smoothing it as she went. When the entire head was done, she clutched the doll to her chest. “Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye…” Becky closed her eyes. She could still hear the sound of the suction machine, but it was getting fainter. The work was almost done. Soon it would all be over.

  After Becky puked into the toi
let bowl, she sank down onto the floor. The cool ceramic tile made her feel better, and she just lay there in a fetal position, wondering when the next wave of nausea would hit. She felt as if she had been throwing up forever, and couldn’t imagine there was anything left inside her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The twelve softgels she had swallowed were supposed to put her to sleep forever. She felt another wave of nausea and scrambled to her knees, reaching the bowl just in time. Her hair and her clothes and the room all smelled like vomit. You can’t even do this right! You can’t even kill yourself!

  She heard footsteps in the hallway, then a rap on the door. “Becky? Becky, are you all right?”

  Becky groaned and lay back on the cool tile. “Go away, Dad.”

  She heard the knob rattle and a thud as her father pushed against the door.

  “I said, go away!” She had never in all her life talked in that tone to her father or her mother. But she didn’t care how she spoke. What were they going to do? Ground her? She would have laughed at that thought if she didn’t feel so sick.

  “Open this door, Becky, or I’ll break it down!”

  “I’m all right, Dad. My stomach’s just upset.”

  He stopped turning the doorknob. “Well…okay…anything I can do?”

  The hard tile floor had begun to hurt Becky’s back, so she turned to her side and resumed a fetal position.

  “Becky? I said is there anything I can do?”

  “No, Dad, not unless you can give me back my baby,” she answered in a near whisper.

  “What? What was that?”

  Tears began to puddle beneath Becky’s cheek as she pressed it against the tile. “I said I want my baby back! Can you hear that? I want my baby back! I want my baby back!”

  The next thing Becky heard was her mom, coaxing her father away from the door. “Leave her. She needs time. Give her time. She’ll be okay.” Then Becky closed her eyes and began to sob.