A young woman wants an abortion. She contacts the local clinic, which she’s only ever heard about online. People in her community, they hate the clinic, but she’s desperate. The clinic gives her an address where she’ll meet the clinic escort that will guide her to the entrance.
She arrives at a cafe to meet a woman wrapped head-to-tow in layers of clothing. Scarves, hoodie, dark sunglasses. She speaks with a vaguely European accent.
“You must walk ahead of me,” she says, “and do not look back. You may feel like you are alone, but I will be right behind you. But you must not look at me.”
The young woman asks what to expect.
“Most days, it is an uneventful walk. It has been a quiet day. Some days there are many people here shouting things or attempting to sway you. If they were here, I would walk beside you and hold your hand. But today is not one of those days. If you have not been here before, you will see evidence of past ... protests ... Try not to let it upset you.”
As they leave the cafe and begin to walk, the escort falls behind her. “We will turn down the street on your right. The clinic will be halfway down the block. I am with you, do not be afraid.”
She makes the turn and has a moment to take in the scene. It’s odd, she thinks, that they would make sculptures like that. An angry woman screaming and swinging a sign like a weapon. A bearded man in the act of throwing something, rage on his face. A preacher in robes, his arms aloft with a bible and a shotgun in each hand.
She walks quickly toward the entrance, troubled by the kind of clinic that would immortalize protestors in this way. She begins to shake.
“They are the ones who meant violence. Only those. The ones who come with words are bad, but only a nuisance. They mostly keep their distance now. But sometimes they intend to harm. I have had a long time to learn how to tell the difference.”
She notices one other person on the block. A teenage boy in the uniform of a delivery company, carrying a box. He meets them at the entrance. Can you have them buzz me in, he asks.
“They do not accept deliveries here,” she replies. “There is a facility where packages go before coming here. You should know this.”
He says he doesn’t know about this and he just wants to finish his job.
“You will not be admitted. Take your delivery back to your boss. They will know where to send it.”
His face twists in anger. Before she can react, his hand has grabbed her arm. He pulls her to him. There is a knife. In the scuffle, she grabs accidentally at the box, ripping off a piece of cardboard. The blood rushing to her ears, she doesn’t really hear what he says. Something about baby-killers.
Then there is a sound like the hum of a large truck rolling down a street. She smells campfire and wet rock like a cave. The world grows cold and still.
“You must close your eyes and keep them tightly shut while I help you free.”
She squeezes her eyes as gentle hands guide her out of the twisted embrace of the delivery man. He does not move. He feels rough.
She hears a buzzer. A door opening. The hands guide her inside then let go. She hears the door close behind her.
Soon there are others there, telling her she can open her eyes. She fills out forms, people talk to her with kindness. She is afraid to ask what happened out there, but eventually she does. Before her procedure, she learns the story of her escort. She would not believe it if she hadn’t been there. She asks if the escort will be there when she leaves. She is told it’s possible, but unlikely. A different escort will probably be waiting. This one only comes very occasionally. When it seems to matter. But she’s always watching and they’ve learned to trust her when she appears. She has saved many lives.
Some time later, her abortion finished, she is ready to leave. A kind middle-aged woman with a short-cropped haircut meets her near the entrance. She will walk her to wherever she needs to go to catch a cab or bus home.
As they exit, the young woman looks around and sees it. The new statue. A delivery man with a knife and a torn box. It has been moved away from the building’s entrance, joining its siblings along the street as silent warnings to those who would bring harm. She has to see. She walks close to it and peers into opening. She doesn’t know what a bomb looks like, especially one made of stone, but she’s confident that she is looking at a bomb.
She wonders if it would make things worse or better if people knew. Gorgons are considered monsters and people who think abortion is evil will certainly see it as more evidence they are correct. Or would they learn another lesson about mistreated women who protect each other?
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