appeared barely to comprehend this. Sarah did not add the rest—that, no matter what the psychologist and obstetrician said, her firm might not take the case.
The girl studied the paper Sarah had placed in front of her. “Do I have to sign this?” she asked.
She sounded less resistant than dazed. “Our firm needs it,” Sarah answered. “And so do I.”
Mary Ann looked up at her. “Why?”
“Bringing a lawsuit is a huge step, Mary Ann. If I don’t make sure this is what
you
want, then I shouldn’t be your lawyer.”
“But I
want
you to be.”
Even her plaintive tone of voice filled Sarah with doubt. “Please,” Sarah told her, “read it carefully.”
The girl did this so intently that she reminded Sarah of the times when her own parents had chided her not to read too quickly. At last Mary Ann looked up and said, “It’s all true. Can I sign it now?”
Once more, Sarah was struck by Mary Ann’s oscillation between vulnerability and challenge. Quietly, she answered, “Before you do, I’d just like to know how you are doing. That matters, too.”
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. “I’m just
so
scared, Sarah. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”
This, Sarah suspected, was by far the truest expression of how Mary Ann felt. “What about your parents?”
Mary Ann shook her head. “It’s so hard to live with them now. Like we’re enemies, and they don’t know it. I feel like this
spy
.”
So had she, Sarah reflected, when she had been fifteen. But her truancies were small—a brief experiment with dope, furtive petting with a boyfriend. Nothing like this.
“Where do your parents think you are?” Sarah asked.
“At a mall, with Bridget. Looking for birthday presents for my mom.”
Sarah suppressed a wince—within the strictures of belief, the Tierneys seemed to rule with a light hand, and now Sarah was party to deceiving them. But the alternative was to make this girl their property, and the doctor and psychologist were waiting.
“Yes,” Sarah said, “you can sign the form.”
Several hours later, when Mary Ann was gone, Sarah sat at the same conference table facing Dr. Jessica Blake, the psychologist, and Dr. Mark Flom, a specialist in obstetrics who performed late-term abortions. Both Flom and Blake had faced these issues before; both had received death threats; both had gone to court to seek protection. She did not need to mention the risk involved in speaking out for Mary Ann Tierney.
“Well?” Sarah asked.
Blake, a trim, scholarly woman with wire-rim glasses and an incisive manner, inclined her head toward Flom. “You first.”
To Sarah, Flom’s white hair, fine features, and abstracted look were more suggestive of a poet than a doctor, but his tone was crisp. “I understand the power of belief systems,” he answered, “all too well. But I can’t believe Jim McNally— or any doctor—would be so sanguine once they saw the sonogram.”
“Bad?”
“This is not just hydrocephalus—it’s severe hydrocephalus.
“There’s water in the ventricle system inside the fetal cortex. It operates to compress and destroy brain tissue and, in the process, prevents us from determining by ultrasound whether there’s a chance of tissue developing normally.” He frowned, creating grooves in his slender face. “But when you can’t see
any
cortical tissue—as here—the prognosis for the fetus is dismal.”
Sarah nodded. “Her doctor said as much.”
“Any doctor would. But here’s what offends me—the notion of delivering a fetus with a head like a bowling ball by means of C-section.
“Unlike the usual procedure, which is more limited, a classical C-section requires a large vertical incision which opens up the entire uterus. Aside from the emotional trauma to a fifteen-year-old girl, that carries a risk of blood loss, infection, pulmonary embolism, and, in rare cases where something goes wrong, a hysterectomy—risks
twenty times
that of a normal
The girl studied the paper Sarah had placed in front of her. “Do I have to sign this?” she asked.
She sounded less resistant than dazed. “Our firm needs it,” Sarah answered. “And so do I.”
Mary Ann looked up at her. “Why?”
“Bringing a lawsuit is a huge step, Mary Ann. If I don’t make sure this is what
you
want, then I shouldn’t be your lawyer.”
“But I
want
you to be.”
Even her plaintive tone of voice filled Sarah with doubt. “Please,” Sarah told her, “read it carefully.”
The girl did this so intently that she reminded Sarah of the times when her own parents had chided her not to read too quickly. At last Mary Ann looked up and said, “It’s all true. Can I sign it now?”
Once more, Sarah was struck by Mary Ann’s oscillation between vulnerability and challenge. Quietly, she answered, “Before you do, I’d just like to know how you are doing. That matters, too.”
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. “I’m just
so
scared, Sarah. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”
This, Sarah suspected, was by far the truest expression of how Mary Ann felt. “What about your parents?”
Mary Ann shook her head. “It’s so hard to live with them now. Like we’re enemies, and they don’t know it. I feel like this
spy
.”
So had she, Sarah reflected, when she had been fifteen. But her truancies were small—a brief experiment with dope, furtive petting with a boyfriend. Nothing like this.
“Where do your parents think you are?” Sarah asked.
“At a mall, with Bridget. Looking for birthday presents for my mom.”
Sarah suppressed a wince—within the strictures of belief, the Tierneys seemed to rule with a light hand, and now Sarah was party to deceiving them. But the alternative was to make this girl their property, and the doctor and psychologist were waiting.
“Yes,” Sarah said, “you can sign the form.”
Several hours later, when Mary Ann was gone, Sarah sat at the same conference table facing Dr. Jessica Blake, the psychologist, and Dr. Mark Flom, a specialist in obstetrics who performed late-term abortions. Both Flom and Blake had faced these issues before; both had received death threats; both had gone to court to seek protection. She did not need to mention the risk involved in speaking out for Mary Ann Tierney.
“Well?” Sarah asked.
Blake, a trim, scholarly woman with wire-rim glasses and an incisive manner, inclined her head toward Flom. “You first.”
To Sarah, Flom’s white hair, fine features, and abstracted look were more suggestive of a poet than a doctor, but his tone was crisp. “I understand the power of belief systems,” he answered, “all too well. But I can’t believe Jim McNally— or any doctor—would be so sanguine once they saw the sonogram.”
“Bad?”
“This is not just hydrocephalus—it’s severe hydrocephalus.
“There’s water in the ventricle system inside the fetal cortex. It operates to compress and destroy brain tissue and, in the process, prevents us from determining by ultrasound whether there’s a chance of tissue developing normally.” He frowned, creating grooves in his slender face. “But when you can’t see
any
cortical tissue—as here—the prognosis for the fetus is dismal.”
Sarah nodded. “Her doctor said as much.”
“Any doctor would. But here’s what offends me—the notion of delivering a fetus with a head like a bowling ball by means of C-section.
“Unlike the usual procedure, which is more limited, a classical C-section requires a large vertical incision which opens up the entire uterus. Aside from the emotional trauma to a fifteen-year-old girl, that carries a risk of blood loss, infection, pulmonary embolism, and, in rare cases where something goes wrong, a hysterectomy—risks
twenty times
that of a normal
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