Page 60 of Counting Backwards

“You’ve got to stop this,” Isobel said, “coming in here over and over just to ask me about my hysterectomy. It’s my business, and I told you already, I’m not comfortable making a public fuss about it. I got my family to think about.”

“I’m not here to pressure you,” I rushed out. “I just thought you’d like to know that five women have now agreed to join a class action.”

“A class action?” Isobel let out a little laugh. “Denise told me she called you Erin Brockovich a while back. She meant it as a joke, but look at you now.” Isobel leaned back in her chair and gave mean approving once-over. “You’re really trying to stick it to them, huh?”

“I have to dosomethingand do it without exposing any of you. Some of the women will be listed on the complaint as Jane Does, so we’ll have Jane Doe #1, Jane Doe #2, and so on. If you wanted, you could add your name to the action as another Jane Doe.” I ran a hand over my own abdomen as I spoke. “Or not. It’s up to you, but I wanted to keep you informed.”

Even though I hoped so deeply that Isobel would decide to join the fight, I couldn’t force her. If she wanted to sit this out, I would respect her wishes. I was well aware that I had absolutely no idea what it was like to walk five steps in any of these women’s shoes. But I did know what it felt like to dream of a family. I hoped that if ever someone robbed me of that, I would still have the will to fight. But who could say? I prayed Isobel would find that will within herself.

“Who exactly are we suing?” Isobel asked. “The government?”

At hearing her say “we,” I tried not to smile.

“A lot of people. The defendants, at least so far, will be Hydeford Detention Center, DeMarke Corrections, Dr. Choudry, Pinelands, the director of the local ICE field office that oversees this facility, the secretary of Homeland Security, and the director of US Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I’d like to add more employees at the clinic and several individual guards too, but we’re not quite there yet.”

“People here are going to go crazy if you really file a complaint.” I sensed a warning in her tone.

“Somebody has to do something about what’s happening in here.”

“And why is that somebody going to be you?” Isobel challenged me.

“You sound just like my husband,” I said without thinking.

“He doesn’t want you doing this?”

Despite my usual efforts not to discuss my personal life with clients, I was so raw I couldn’t suppress the urge to say a little something about what was happening with Vance.

“He thinks I should have more proof before I start blowing up everything in my own life to start something he calls a crazy crusade. But I know what it is to want a baby. I miscarried last year, and I don’t know if this one...”

I trailed off, realizing I had just accidentally revealed my pregnancy to Isobel too. The last thing I wanted was to make her feel worse about her own infertility.

“You’re pregnant?” she asked. “I shouldn’t be surprised with the way you’ve been rubbing your belly since we sat down.”

I yanked my hand down to my side.

“My husband,” I said, “thinks if I get too stressed, I’ll lose this baby too. The arguing has been endless. He left, and I honestly don’t know if he’s ever coming back.”

“Yikes,” Isobel said, taking in a sharp breath and regarding me.

I gave a little shrug, suddenly self-conscious, and Isobel shook her head.

“No, don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t act like it’s no big deal. I’ve been real with you. Now you be real with me.” She continued studying me. “Tell me something,” she said. “Why does it matter to you so much that we bring this case?”

I thought for a moment, trying to put my emotions into words. I wouldn’t tell Isobel about my family history. That was simply too much. I was still struggling to face it myself, and it was hardly the most important part of this picture anyway.

“If you don’t stand up for yourself,” I finally said, “people will keep getting away with it, taking control of women’s bodies and making choices for them they have no business making. We all come at these decisions with our own personal histories. WhenI was a little girl, my mom used to button up my raincoat for me on wet spring mornings, singing a song about ‘one button, two buttons, three buttons, four.’” My voice cracked as I chanted the words, picturing my mother in those moments. “I often imagined myself doing the same thing for my own child one day, bouncing my shoulders to the rhythm in the same goofy way. And now I think about all the women in here who had their own dreams when they were little girls, and how those dreams are being ripped away from them. Nobody else has the right to decide which ones of us are fit to bear children, which ones of us are ‘good enough.’ What does that even mean? This isn’t about individual worth or merit. It’s about our rights.”

Isobel sighed heavily, but she didn’t respond.

“We have to stand up for ourselves and for each other,” I repeated, my voice rising. “Think about your daughter. She’s going to make her own judgments about who her mother is. Who do you want to be for your child? I know who I want to be for mine.”

Isobel stared back at me, her face blank, and I worried I had gone too far.

“Listen,” I said, my bravado dimming, “I know you only wanted a lawyer to help with your deportation. I won’t bother you about this again, and I’m really, truly sorry if I’ve been too pushy.”

I closed my notepad and put the cap on my pen.

“I’ll set up an appointment to prep for your next court appearance,” I told her. “We’re good until then.”