Permission

The following is a work of fiction and in no way represents the principles or views of the author.

August 1974

For the rest of her life, there would be nothing for Rebecca quite like the first day of law school.

It was early September. The leaves turning like they had every year prior, and Rebecca felt the wind kick up her hair like she was the only person in the world it bothered to notice. The day she imagined since she was in elementary school, watching a crowd gather outside the large courthouse downtown, was coming into view. Rebecca didn’t understand what was going on at the time, nor why so many people hung on the slow, deliberate words of white men in grey suits. Later, after piecing together information she extracted from her parents and the info-bits on the news, Rebecca understood more – and less – about what she saw on the way home from school.

Since then, she was determined to replace the aging white men in grey suits with a fresh face. Someone who can do what they do and more. Better.

And today would be the beginning.

The first day of law school wasn’t just reading syllabuses and buying books. She had an actual assignment due. An oral argument, on any topic, using one constitutional amendment to support her argument, and refuting one previous opinion in the process. Rebecca wrote hers in one day. She had been writing it in her head since June of last year, and it felt more powerful in the written form than it ever did swimming around in her mind.

The doors to the law school are wooden and heavy, forcing her back to the present moment and realize – I have no idea where I’m going. In a rare moment of conceit, she took out her folded-up map of the building’s interior and rotated it around until she found Room 218. One flight of stairs… three doors… on the right.

She shuffled in with the crowd. Giant sacks of books carried by students with giant hair, tall and long, bobbing in front of her.

Once inside the classroom, she surveyed the other students in Intro to Legal Theory. All first years.

Everyone looked largely like she expected. Diverse and eager, probably never even saw the inside of a courtroom or memorized the amendments in order like she had.

Rebecca considered their ignorance an advantage.

She sat down and pulled out a stack of index cards. It was supposed to be a brief presentation but Rebecca planned to take as long as she needed.

“Morning, morning everyone.” A middle-aged man appeared from the doorway at the front of the room. He wore a tweed blazer and appeared confident in his salt and peppered hair that had probably never seen more than a buzzer. It was efficient and unartful, like the rest of his appearance.

“Hello, glad you all have already gotten to know each other. Eager to see what we’ve all brought today, hm?” He says, landing a shoulder bag on the podium.

Gentle nods and nervous laughs respond.

“This is a class where I expect you – and encourage you – to fail. Repeatedly. Painfully. Fail every time you walk in!”

Rebecca tenses up. Fail? She wouldn’t know what that even looked like.

“Because this is where we find your flaws in logic. The flaws you will inevitably face in every subsequent course during your studies.”

Rebecca releases a short burst of air from her nostrils.

“The failing starts,” he picks up a small hammer and strikes a small, brass bell on the corner of his podium, “today. Who’s first? Please introduce yourself before making your argument. And be sure to clearly state your constitutional basis and the argument you wish to refute.”

Rebecca shot her hand up.

“Yes?” he points in her direction, “Please, stand up.”

Rebecca gathered her notes. She stood on unwavering legs and looked around the room at the eyes that met hers and the backs of heads that were scribbling notes and last-minute changes. There was the smallest of shakes in her hands, and a deep breath before she started speaking.

“In 1932, a judge named William H. Mohler penned an opinion in an obscure literary journal that would take the legal community by storm.”

She checked her professor’s face for recognition. He scowled in confusion, as if trying to place her reference.

“Judge Mohler wrote about pregnancy, and it’s effect on the body. He argued that pregnancy mostly takes. It takes energy, nutrients, sleep, time, money. Even life.

“He argued that creating life takes away a piece of a person’s soul and passes it on. Sometimes, in the case of death, it takes everything.

“Recall the 14th Amendment.” She barked, “The 14th Amendment is often misinterpreted. Unlike the other amendments, it is written vaguely in order to keep up with society’s natural progress.” She paused.

“However, it does guarantee one right, specifically: the right to due process.

“To take away a right to property or liberty, to throw someone in jail, we must execute a process. Make careful, not hasty, decisions.”

Rebecca investigates her audience’s reaction. They haven’t moved since she began, and many had hardly drawn a breath.

“To rob someone of these rights, we must make clear why the court would allow such a violation to occur. No court takes such a decision lightly.

“And yet, just last year, a large segment of our society was robbed of their due process. In the summer of ‘73, our highest court took our long held judicial tradition, the sacred due process, and put it in the hands of a single person. A person who may, or may not, have a rational thought process. A pregnant woman.

A pregnant woman knows not how to issue due process to her unborn child. There is not a defense for the other side – the child’s side. She gets to decide life, liberty, and property for her unborn child without any court interference.”

A student stood up, eyes red and cheeks wet. She shuffled down the hall’s short stairs and out the door, head held high, her lower lip white beneath her teeth.

“Thus, to stay consistent with the 14th Amendment, a woman should have to make a formal request to the court for all pregnancy termination requests. Such filings must remain part of the public record, a practice common to other judicial proceedings. A mother seeking an abortion is pursuing to enforce not only her own rights, but to also take away rights from another. Such an act requires due process. Thank you.”

The edges of Rebecca’s notecards are dampened with sweat. A small exhale and slight smile release the pent up anxiety she built since she wrote the opinion several weeks ago. When she sat down a chorus of creaking chairs and sighing students filled the hall. Windbreakers shuffle when a handful turn around to look at the clock behind them. A lengthy moment passes before the professor calls the next student to speak.

August 1994

Rebecca shuffles past an elderly couple on the street. She is in a hurry – she met her married boyfriend at the nearest luxury hotel and is ten minutes from being late to a strategy meeting. She isn’t alarmed at the time crunch, she merely needs to proceed at her typical, breakneck pace through the city.

Rebecca’s life has operated as if divinely timed, like an elaborate domino demonstration. Once it started, every moment, every day, month, and year of Rebecca’s life flowed directly from one to the next. After she graduated from law school, she took a job in Boston. Her stunning victories against corporations and individuals alike earned her a reputation as one of the most cutthroat attorneys in the city. Her face appeared on two billboards, one of which she passed on her way to work every morning. A few friends in state politics recommended she run for Attorney General in a few years.

She makes it to the meeting on time. Early, in fact. Looking around the oval table, she takes notice of which partners were already there, which were absent, and the general air of preparedness in the room. Rebecca remains confident, as she always did, in her superior abilities. Within fifteen minutes she finds a way to outshine her lower ranked colleagues.

After the meeting, Rebecca stayed at the office the rest of the day. She went home late in the evening, content with the day’s efforts to reach self-imposed expectations.

The next morning, while she prepares her morning latte, Rebecca feels a twist in her stomach. She grips the kitchen counter waiting for it to pass, but instead the contents make its way upward. She makes it to the toilet in time.

After thoroughly revisiting last night’s takeout, she peels away from the toilet and catches her breath. “Am I already that much of a lightweight?” she asks no one, reconsidering the two glasses of wine that lulled her to sleep last night. She dials her secretary.

“Chelsea? I’ll be late today. I just threw up all over the bathroom.”

“Do you need me to get you anything? Some Pepto?” Chelsea asks, her tone devoid of any curiosity.

“No. No, I doubt it’s anything serious. Just have something on my desk for when I come in. Toast and an earl grey from the café at the corner.” She paused, “The nice café.” Rebecca recalled the last time her new secretary got her breakfast. She showed up with a soggy sandwich wrapped in tinfoil.

“Of course. Should I push back your 8:30?”

Stupid question – it’s already eight o’clock. “Obviously.” Rebecca responds before hanging up. She should be able to figure out the details on her own.

That afternoon, after memory of the morning’s events faded away, Rebecca had the most unusual feeling.

She downed the earl grey tea on her desk and was halfway through an afternoon espresso, preparing for a client meeting.

Rebecca rubbed her eyes. A yawn squeaked through her lips.

“Chelsea?” She bellowed through the open door. “Did you get me a decaf or something?”

Chelsea appeared in the doorway. “A decaf espresso? No, I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

Rebecca chased away another yawn. “There is, and whatever this is,” she raises the coffee cup in the air “is not doing the trick. Get me another and make it a double this time.”

Chelsea left with a nod.

Rebecca hung up and placed a hand on her abdomen.

There was little chance of pregnancy. Still, she paced her apartment until the test arrived an hour later. She thanked her secretary and opened the nondescript paper bag to a pink box containing two rapid tests.

By now, Rebecca’s bladder is full, and she is relieved to get this test over with. Detested to sit and watch a stick covered in her own urine, Rebecca sets a timer and leaves to put on a proper outfit, something she failed to do since she fell ill.

The timer goes off.

Rebecca feels her stomach drop and her heart race as she nears the test.

To her dismay, two pink lines make her sudden sickness clear. She is pregnant – at 43, no less.

Since Rebecca learned of her pregnancy, she has changed little about her daily life. She stopped drinking wine with dinner, but other than that, her life continued with long hours of work and regular, secret hook ups with her married boyfriend. She gave little thought to her pregnancy. Although, in the back of her mind, she knew there was a limited time to act.

Late on Saturday night, Rebecca got up from bed, unable to sleep. She visited her old law school binder and found her argument from 1974.

Perfectly stated – albeit strict. she thought. Rebecca was even a little intimidated herself, reading a young woman’s passionate words on the rule of law. She also found that she still agreed with her younger self.

Rebecca was heavily conflicted.

She looked more like a grandmother, or distant aunt, than a mother. Nothing in her life was set up for a baby. Other than, of course, the growing space in her uterus.

Holding her old binder she recalled Lilly – the fragile classmate who left halfway through her presentation. Since that day, Lilly and Rebecca never saw eye to eye. The two ambitious students embodied the disparate opinions within their graduating class, presenting exactly opposite opinions on issues big and small. Often, Rebecca would flip through Lilly’s notes in the library when she left to use the bathroom. If Lilly was making an argument in favor of the defense, Rebecca would opt for the prosecution. Once she had scrapped an entire paper just to start over and burry Lilly’s argument.

Rebecca could not decide for herself. It was too difficult – an inconsistency she could not reconcile with her life thus far.

Rebecca sat at her desk and penned a letter to Lilly, now a prominent lawyer for a nearby civil rights group.

After re-introducing herself Rebecca asked Lilly for her help. Lilly wouldn’t know this, but it was Rebecca’s most desperate act.

I write today to ask you for some assistance. I have become pregnant unexpectedly, despite my age. I do not take this situation lightly, and as you may remember; I do not take a decision to end a pregnancy lightly, either.

I’d like your best argument on ending a pregnancy. Why would an abortion be a suitable remedy for my situation?

Please respond.

Rebecca

Rebecca sent the letter to Lilly’s office, hoping she wasn’t away for vacation or some other reason. She resolved to put the decision out of her mind until she heard back from Lilly.

Rebecca’s pain has increased. Her lower back aches constantly. An unusually fatigued Rebecca opens the mailbox to find Lilly’s response.

“Rebecca –

I am sorry to hear you are in such a position. It must be very dire if you are contacting me, of all people.

It is no secret that you and I have never agreed on anything. To be very honest, I counted myself lucky to have evaded you all these years.

Nevertheless – I will offer an opinion. Not my opinion, but the one which you skewered in school. Judge William H. Muhler argued -

Rebecca stopped reading. She remembered the Judge’s opinion well enough. Judge Mohler’s opinion is as meritless as it is absolutely insane.

Rebecca feels slighted. Insulted, by a classmate she held at arm’s length for over twenty years. The letter, the idea that she would take this man’s words seriously is an insult to her character. Or, more importantly, her intelligence.

Indignant, she crumples the pages of Lilly’s letter and throws it in the trash. She would take it to the dumpster now if her back didn’t hurt so badly. It was as if the muscles surrounding her spine had evolved into a solid block of granite.

Rebecca collapses into a velvet chair. She breathed deeply, in and out.

“Why.. why won’t you go away.” A hand rested absentmindedly on her abdomen. Her hand, she noticed, was thinner than usual. She felt her class ring loosen around her index finger and seeing the space between gold and her knuckle disturbed Rebecca. It was as if she were beginning to disappear.

September 1994

Rebecca was sweating in the exam room. The thin medical paper under her knees is damp. Hot flashes during pregnancy should be illegal.

The pregnancy had only brought Rebecca more pain. Mostly physically. The rock in her lower back did not subside, and frequently set her nerves on fire in the middle of the night. Perpetually unsure, Rebecca delayed a doctor’s visit. Chronic, throbbing, and shooting pains accented every day of her first trimester. She stopped seeing the married man who is inevitably the father, and most days she called in sick to work. Her assistant stopped asking how she was doing.

There is a timid knock at the door before a young doctor enters.

“Hi Rebecca, I’m Dr. Joyce.” The young doctor extended her hand, which Rebecca did not meet.

“As far as I can tell this visit is just an update on your current condition. How are you feeling so far?”

“So far?” Rebecca sat up slightly, “So far, I feel like shit every day. So far, I can’t go to work, go shopping by myself, or live any previous aspect of my life. So far – my condition has felt like a prison sentence.”

The young doctor glances at her right ring finger. Nodding sympathetically, she places the chart on the counter and begins inspecting Rebecca’s growing, aching body. She feels the slight swelling in her abdomen, the tense muscles in her back, and her vitals. She performs an ultrasound first on her belly, and then, curiously, on her back. Both women are silent.

“Okay Rebecca, I’m going to consult with one of my colleagues, but I’ll be right back.”

Ten minutes later, the doctor comes back with an older man behind her.

“Hi Rebecca, I’m Dr. Stephens. I’m here to take a look at your baby, is that okay?”

The gaze is his eyes suddenly alerts Rebecca. It reminds her of opposing counsel, the moment they see loss coming for them.

“Why – is there something wrong?”

The doctors exchange a glance. “We just want to make sure we know how your baby is developing.”

The next hour was excruciating. Pain, it seemed, suddenly got worse when one is aware of the cause.

Later that day, the doctors’ advisories rang in her ears, “Your life is in danger.”

“A high-risk pregnancy can risk both your life and the life of your child.”

“I have seen women try to carry with this condition, and it is not pleasant.”

“You will likely have to take leave from work until you deliver.”

Normally, Rebecca would be at the office right now. Drowning in some case, passively arguing opposing counsel with ease. Today, work was far from her mind. All her energy focused on the growing fetus in her belly, threatening to snap her in half.

There was no one Rebecca could turn to. No one to give her permission to save her own life.

May 1995

Rebecca is screaming in agony. She is in the sixth hour of labor, delivering a child that should have already killed her.

In the months since that fateful doctor’s visit, she had visions of pregnant women. Pain induced hallucinations of women carrying children. Some were blissfully managing the burdens of childbearing, others watching their previous lives slip away as they gave more and more of their life to someone else.

The first visit was from a woman she recognized. A woman with dark, curly hair picking up items in her house and examining them closely. Rebecca, stunned in her bed, watched the woman pick up a candle, a plate, a jewelry box, and several bottles of prescription pain medication. She seemed distant. Almost as if she were shopping idyll.

Rebecca used to see this woman at the farmer’s market. Every week, without fail, and always alone. She never bought the same thing twice but filled her shopping bag with vegetables and fresh loaves of bread.

Rebecca was about to call out to her when the woman walked out of the bedroom and disappeared. She left behind an emptiness in the apartment. The visions would keep her company until her due date.

In the living room, one or two of her visions would watch the news next to her. It’s November, and the people of Massachusetts just voted in a new Attorney General.

“I should be taking notes.” She commented to the apparition next to her. “That’s going to be me in a few years, you know.”

The woman got up from the couch, with one hand cradling her belly and the other bracing her lower back.

“Excuse me?” Rebecca asked, “Are you there, ma’am? Can you help me get up?” The woman didn’t seem to notice her. Rebecca cried, asking a ghost for attention.

The visions would come into Rebecca’s apartment at will. Women sat on her furniture and prepared tea in her kitchen. Pregnant bodies rubbed their bellies with coconut oil in her bathtub. Sometimes their mouths moved as if they were talking to someone who wasn’t there. They appeared to be living ethereal lives, absent of Rebecca’s presence. Rebecca often felt like these people moved on in a world without her in it. She often wondered if she had already died.

The visions brought a new mood into the apartment. Scents like fresh linens and blooming lilies. Sounds like wind rustling leaves, even though the windows were shut, and the closest tree was three stories below. More than that, their air of excitement and joy followed them from room to room. Rebecca could smell their budding happiness. Tasting their giddiness, but never joining.

Rebecca’s child, snug up against her fractured spine, is fully grown inside the womb. Rebecca only knew she was in labor from the massive pool of liquid she found herself in as she was sobbing on the couch, suffering in agonizing pain for the ninth month.

The two doctors told her to breathe. They pleaded, “You’re almost there, Rebecca! Push now, but GENTLY! Almost!”

Rebecca grips the stained sheets on the hospital bed with her last ounces of strength. Her back is wet with blood and sweat. Her feet pressed against the metal stirrups, she held her breathe and pushed. Exhausted.

Desperate for relief from the horrid parasite inside. Her last memory was a loud snap.

Her eyes wide open, her head fell back, and blood dripped from her open mouth. The doctors shifted their gaze from her vagina to her face, now colorless. It held all the fear and despair Rebecca was too afraid, or too weak, to express in her pregnancy. With nothing left to sustain her but her own will, her spine succumbed to the pressure and snapped in half.

Rebecca’s vision briefly went black before she was gazing into her own, lifeless eyes. She watched the rest of the birth from across the room, helpless.

Rebecca watched as her child was pulled from her limp body. The room was silent except for the incessant alarms of medical machinery. The doctors, desperate, resuscitated the child and immediately noticed the full set of teeth in the child’s mouth. The teeth were razor sharp and hard as diamonds. Alarmed, the doctors performed an ultrasound and found dozens of teeth scattered in the child’s belly and internal organs.

At all hours of the day the baby cried out in yelps and howls, maligned by pain of all sorts. Rebecca never left her child’s side. She tried desperately to comfort her; a skill she didn’t think she’d ever need. She touched the child’s head and whispered when no one was nearby.

When Rebecca’s baby passed, she was there to greet her child’s rebirth into death. Unable to let go, Rebecca clung to her child and cradled her indefinitely.

Swaddled in her arms, Rebecca left the hospital with her baby.