Crashing Down (18 page)

Lucy looks at her parents. Dad covers his face briefly. Mum kisses her. Paterson looks jubilant. Next to them, the Kapulettis don't move or speak. Both sit with heads bowed, as if in prayer.

We've won, Lucy thinks, but at what cost? What have we actually won?

As they leave the courtroom, Lucy glances towards the Kapulettis. They are both weeping. With the judge's ruling goes all hope of Carl living on — in his baby, her baby. She can't look away, and Mrs K senses it — turning her eyes on Lucy. Their grandchild is now at Lucy's mercy.

She looks away quickly.

Lucy paces her bedroom at Dad's. She is consumed by choice. It devours her. What to do? What to do?

The hearing has annihilated her. If it had been successful, it could have stripped from her the right to make decisions about her body. What was that all about? What world did she live in where people could set the law onto you to stop you doing something to your own body? Your
own
body? Mr K smoked way too many cigars; could Lucy ever take out an injunction to stop that? And Mrs K cooked with too much salt, potentially thickening the arteries of those who ate her food; again, would an injunction be possible? It riles her. How dare they? How dare anyone claim rights over her body? She
can't even believe it went to court. That she had to face a judge and defend her right to exercise her freedom of choice.

But on the other hand, this is the only grandchild the Kapulettis will ever have. And Lucy is the only one who can decide whether it reaches that potential or not.

She shakes her head. What is she to do? Her heart says no. Having a baby, at this point in her life, would be devastating. It would be the end of Lucy. But the other option means the end of Carl. And making a decision she's not sure she can live with for the rest of her life. What is the answer? No one can tell her: it always comes back to her choice.

A decision has to be made.

Dad watches her. ‘Are you sure this is what you want to do?'

She nods, but is unsure still. ‘Yes. I have to. I think.'

‘Okay, but I'm concerned that it might be too late.'

She nods again. With every day, every crisis, every drama, her preferred option has been slipping away.

Dad gets on the phone. Their fears are confirmed.

‘Janice says we are past the date for a medical abortion. Now it's surgical.'

Lucy nods. Devastated. It's bad enough to have had to come to this conclusion twice — but to have to go to a clinic, through a surgical procedure …

She remembers the film
Juno,
what the protester said outside the abortion clinic:
Your baby has fingernails.
Will there be protesters there? Will they say the same things? Will she be able to go through with it? She knows she must.

‘Let's do it.'

When The Day arrives, Lucy hasn't slept. She knows she is probably the unhealthiest she has ever been. She's hoping that today will end this, but worries it might generate a new set of anxieties.

She dresses like she is going out with her girlfriends and even puts on makeup. Looks at herself in the mirror. Assesses the fact that the person she sees before her is about to terminate a baby.
Not a baby,
the reflection says.
A possible baby.
Not real, not yet.

‘Who are you?' she says aloud to her reflection. ‘I don't know you at all.'

‘Hey,' Mum says as Lucy finally comes downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Okay?'

‘Yep. All good. Ready?'

Dad has the keys in his hand. ‘Good to go. Listen, Rabbit, there may be protesters there. When we get close, I want you to duck down.'

Lucy frowns. ‘Will they attack me?'

‘No.' Dad looks over the car's headrest at her. ‘They wave placards and try to guilt you out of your freedom when you're probably at your most fragile. It's like emotional terrorism — they should be stopped.'

They drive in silence, and in that silence Lucy multi-tasks, gestating and prevaricating. The gestating she cannot control — her body continues with its relentless cell division. The prevaricating she can —
distract, delay, don't consider.
That's what she tells her mind — which somehow has a mind of its own and won't listen to her.

Her mobile beeps and for a second she thinks it could be Carl. But of course it's not. He'll never text her again.

Emma. She opens the message.

Thinking of you kiddo. Love you. Call me when you can.

She smiles to herself, relieved she has the unconditional support of those she loves the most.

Dad turns into the next street. ‘Okay, duck down,' he says.

Mum smiles and grabs her hand. ‘Don't look at them.'

Lucy nods and guiltily slides down, but as she does she is filled with anger. Why should she? Why are they allowed to demonstrate their freedom and she's not? This is bullshit. So she sits up.

There are three women holding placards. Do they really believe their demonstrating will sway people whose lives they know nothing about?
Do you know I'm seventeen, that my boyfriend is dead? Do you know how difficult this decision was to make? Do you feel your opinions are so much more important than mine? That you have a right to enforce them? When I would never do that to you?
These thoughts make Lucy straighten and make eye contact. The placards read: ‘Does your baby have a name?' and ‘The Australian Law Court Supports Abortion'. And there are graphic images of dismembered babies, a comparison being made with the shallow graves of Jews during the Holocaust.

Lucy maintains eye contact. One of the women, a round-faced, pleasant-looking woman, gives her a small smile. It is a smile of total sadness. It communicates her desire to stop Lucy.
Please don't do this, give your baby a chance.
Lucy feels deeply ashamed. She wants to look away. But anger collides with her shame. They pass close and she shakes her head at the woman resentfully. No, she will not back down. They don't know her; they don't know her life. They can have as many babies as they want and Lucy will never protest. No.

But as Dad parks the car, Lucy realises she is trembling uncontrollably. And she has searing pain in her stomach and lower back.

‘Okay?' Dad says, turning off the engine.

‘I feel really sick,' Lucy says, wanting to double over, the pain is so intense.

‘More than nerves?' Mum opens the door.

‘These are so bad.' She has to haul herself out of the car. Wishes she could crawl in on hands and knees but compromises with a hunched-over shuffle.

Dad puts a hand under her elbow. ‘How bad? On a scale of one to ten?'

‘Five,' she lies. It's really fifteen, but she doesn't want to worry him.

This pain is monster.

The clinic is an old house that's been converted. It still looks like a house. Where the reception desk is, covered by a plastic shield protecting the women behind, Lucy sees the original ornate fireplace against the wall — this must have been the lounge room. She wonders what the shield is for. Someone demanding an abortion? And then realises it's probably the opposite — anti-abortionists. Extreme people go to extreme lengths. She starts to feel really nervous. What if protesters break in and shoot them all? Pro-lifers killing people? That has to be the greatest oxymoron ever.

There's a row of chairs, and another waiting room off to the side. Lucy sits and watches. A young girl is called into a small room. There are very few men here. Most of the women have come with a female friend. The woman next to Lucy is talking to another woman beside her.

‘So it's my second time. Hubby in for a misdemeanour — at least two years. And I go, can't
do it alone. Got two under two — a third will be unaffordable and, like, well, too much. He goes, yeah babe, your decision. So here I am. It's not so bad. Okay. Over and done. Nothing to it.'

‘Yeah,' the other woman agrees.

The conversation panics Lucy. After a while, do you become immune to the gravity of the situation? If you do it once, do you find it easy to keep doing it?

The young girl emerges from the room after about fifteen minutes. Her eyes are red. She shakes her head at the receptionist and leaves through the front door, despite the fact that they have all entered through the back door. Outside there is a cheer from the protesting women. A baby saved.

Lucy starts to shake. This is too much. She has searing pain. She catches her breath, doubles over.

‘Okay?' Mum asks.

‘No, the pain is so bad.' Lucy looks around. ‘Where's the toilet?'

She sees a sign and shuffles to it. In the cubicle she drops her knickers — there's a stain of blood. Suddenly she's burning up and wants to strip off her clothes. Doubles over. Hears her ears ring. Panics
she might be about to faint. She pushes her hands against the cubicle walls and breathes deeply.
Okay, okay,
she tells herself. A smear of pink when she wipes herself with toilet tissue.

‘Okay?' her mum asks again when she returns to her seat.

‘There's blood,' Lucy says, catching her breath.

A woman comes out from behind the counter and indicates for Lucy to go into a room for her counselling session. Her mum and dad stand up, but the woman says, ‘She has to do this part alone.'

Dad nods. ‘You okay?'

The pain has subsided somewhat. Lucy grimaces. ‘Yes, why can't you come in?'

‘Routine,' the woman says. ‘The counsellor likes to speak to you alone, free from any other influences or opinions.'

The irony strikes her and she laughs out loud. ‘My decision counts here? My right to choose what I want to do with my body?'

‘Of course.' The woman shows her into the room. ‘Your decision is the only one that counts here.'

‘Hi, Lucy. I'm Denise.' The counsellor, a short, stocky woman with wiry hair, grasps her hand firmly.
‘How are you doing?' Despite her brusqueness, there is a softness to her.

‘Okay. I was in a bit of pain before. Mum thought nerves, but there was a spot of blood.'

‘Oh.' Denise frowns. ‘Mid-cycle bleeding often happens during the course of a pregnancy.' She consults her notes. ‘This would be about day thirteen in your cycle. The pain bothers me, though.'

‘It's not so bad, a niggle now,' Lucy says.

‘Okay, well, tell me if it increases. Now, let's talk about the termination. You'll go through for a couple of tests — blood, ultrasound — and after that you'll go under a light anaesthetic, a twilight one. It will make you drowsy, but you'll still be conscious. The doctor will basically insert a cannula and vacuum aspirate the contents of the uterus. Most women say it is painless, a bit like menstrual cramping, at worst.'

Lucy nods. It sounds so clinical —
vacuum aspirate the contents.
She notes they never refer to it as a baby, a foetus, even. It is merely
contents.

‘Let's discuss your decision,' Denise says.

Lucy shrugs. ‘It wasn't an easy one.'

Denise nods. ‘Of course. It never is. I see from the notes the father is deceased.'

Lucy catches her breath; the stabbing sensation is back. ‘Car accident — caused a brain aneurysm.'

Saying those words doesn't make it feel real. Over the last few weeks, she's had to deal with Carl's death, the court case, and now this. She realises that she is still completely numb — but not comfortably now.

‘I'm going to recommend you have follow-up counselling,' Denise says, ‘not just to deal with the emotions following the procedure. There is a whole raft of emotions that you will experience to do with his death, too.'

Lucy nods. ‘Dad already has me scheduled.' She laughs at her choice of words. ‘I don't mean scheduled to be committed to a mental ward — I mean scheduled for counselling. He's a mental health nurse.'

Denise smiles. ‘How fortuitous. How do you feel about your decision?'

Lucy grimaces. The pain is building again. This time it is more of a hollow ache. Like a slow throbbing. ‘Unsure, but sure. It's hard. But I'm sure this is what I should do. Not necessarily right, but the best option. I can't do it alone. I can't deal with
Carl's death and grow a baby. I think the reality of it might break me.' She gasps.

Denise rises. ‘The pain is back?'

Lucy nods. It's increasing. Seems to hit a high note and then subside. It feels like — and this fills her with fear — what she imagined contractions would feel like.

‘It's coming in waves.' She bends over, feels a leaking. ‘I think I'm bleeding.'

‘I'll get the doctor.' Denise goes out.

Dad and Mum rush in.

‘Hey, Rabbit,' Dad says, ‘what's happening?'

‘Lots of pain. I think I'm bleeding.'

‘Looks like the decision has been made for you,' he says, watching the door for the doctor. ‘I think you're miscarrying.'

They take her through the waiting rooms to a consultation room. It's sterile, like a doctor's office, in contrast to the waiting rooms, which were like sitting in a stranger's house.

The nurse hands her a gown. ‘Take off your underwear and lie on the bed.'

The bleeding has increased. And the pain keeps ebbing and flowing.

‘I'm Dr Gregory,' the doctor says, smiling at her. ‘You're presenting with signs of miscarriage.'

Lucy looks at her dad and fights tears. He has tears, too, and squeezes her hand.

‘You wouldn't be the first,' Dr Gregory says. ‘This sometimes happens. I'm going to check for a heartbeat.' He applies a clear gel and runs a scanner over her abdomen. There is no sound but for the gurgling noises in her stomach. ‘No heartbeat,' he says.

Lucy feels an overwhelming sadness. It surprises her. ‘None?' she asks.

He shakes his head. ‘I'll do a quick exam.'

It's the most uncomfortable feeling. Lucy lies with her legs bent as the doctor inserts a gloved finger. She cringes, and tears escape.