twenty minutes about parental responsibility. Michael promised his son that he’d try harder to be home more, but it was such a lie that he had trouble saying the words out loud. His work kept him away from the people he loved most, and there seemed a bitter irony in that. It was like an elaborate knot, and he could not seem to yank it out, no matter how much he believed that he wanted to.
When the children were quiet, he found his wife at the sink, her hands full of suds. His heart felt heavy in his chest. He regretted the thoughts he’d had earlier about Celina. It was Annie he loved, from the moment he’d first seen her, and he would never betray her. He went up behind her and kissed her neck, her back, sliding the soapy water over her arms, her hands, her fingers. “Annie,” he whispered. She turned in his arms and they kissed some more, giggling in the now silent kitchen, their lips meeting and breaking apart with their laughter, and then they started upstairs, giggling even more, tiptoeing mischievously past the doors of their sleeping children, the sound of the wind rushing through the attic eaves. Even the way she looked now, all wet from the dishes, her hair tangled down her back, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and, although he had enjoyed other women in the past, women like Celina, he knew that Annie was his true mate.
They stumbled down the hall, into their room at the end of it, and found their way to the bed and made love across the old crazy quilt her mother had given them on their wedding day. He could hear the windows trembling, rattling in their cold frames like the applause of ghosts, and he wondered distantly about the weather, the cool air of autumn, the change it would bring.
13
THE FREE WOMEN’S HEALTH and Wellness Center inhabited a nondescript brick building with a glass double door. To Michael’s surprise, a small crowd of protestors, maybe twenty in all, had already convened out front, picketing behind police barricades. They held up signs: STOP THE MURDER, and GENOCIDE, and IT’S A CHILD NOT A CHOICE. A sense of dread filled his heart as he pulled into the parking lot and took the space next to Celina’s old red Blazer, the back of which was affixed with pro-choice bumper stickers. As he parked, two of the protestors came out of nowhere holding large wooden crosses and tried to swarm his car, but a police officer grabbed them and held them back. They were chanting at him, “Murderer! Murderer!” It was the first time he regretted having MD plates. He got out of the car, shielding his head with his canvas bag as if, any minute, something heavy would fall out of the sky and hit him. Once inside the building, it was business as usual. “Well, now, that was a festive welcome,” he said to the receptionist.
“You’ll get used to it,” she answered in broken Russian. “I’m Anya. You need something you just ask, okay?”
“Thanks, Anya.”
“We have pastry here.” She nudged him with a plate of cheese Danish. “You want?”
“Maybe later.”
“You’ll feel better if you eat,” she told him with certainty.
“Maybe you’re right.” He took a bite and smiled his thanks.
“Good morning, Michael.” Celina appeared in her pink scrubs, happy to see him. “We are so grateful that you’re here. Come on, I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.” She took his hand and led him down the hall, introducing him to various members of staff they encountered on their way. They were an earthy bunch of women in scrubs and white clogs and long silver earrings. The demonstration outside the windows didn’t seem to faze them. Celina showed him her office, a tiny room crammed with plants. The walls had been painted yellow and were covered with photographs of women: her grandmother, several patients and friends, and a host of women she admired, some of whom he recognized—Emma
When the children were quiet, he found his wife at the sink, her hands full of suds. His heart felt heavy in his chest. He regretted the thoughts he’d had earlier about Celina. It was Annie he loved, from the moment he’d first seen her, and he would never betray her. He went up behind her and kissed her neck, her back, sliding the soapy water over her arms, her hands, her fingers. “Annie,” he whispered. She turned in his arms and they kissed some more, giggling in the now silent kitchen, their lips meeting and breaking apart with their laughter, and then they started upstairs, giggling even more, tiptoeing mischievously past the doors of their sleeping children, the sound of the wind rushing through the attic eaves. Even the way she looked now, all wet from the dishes, her hair tangled down her back, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and, although he had enjoyed other women in the past, women like Celina, he knew that Annie was his true mate.
They stumbled down the hall, into their room at the end of it, and found their way to the bed and made love across the old crazy quilt her mother had given them on their wedding day. He could hear the windows trembling, rattling in their cold frames like the applause of ghosts, and he wondered distantly about the weather, the cool air of autumn, the change it would bring.
13
THE FREE WOMEN’S HEALTH and Wellness Center inhabited a nondescript brick building with a glass double door. To Michael’s surprise, a small crowd of protestors, maybe twenty in all, had already convened out front, picketing behind police barricades. They held up signs: STOP THE MURDER, and GENOCIDE, and IT’S A CHILD NOT A CHOICE. A sense of dread filled his heart as he pulled into the parking lot and took the space next to Celina’s old red Blazer, the back of which was affixed with pro-choice bumper stickers. As he parked, two of the protestors came out of nowhere holding large wooden crosses and tried to swarm his car, but a police officer grabbed them and held them back. They were chanting at him, “Murderer! Murderer!” It was the first time he regretted having MD plates. He got out of the car, shielding his head with his canvas bag as if, any minute, something heavy would fall out of the sky and hit him. Once inside the building, it was business as usual. “Well, now, that was a festive welcome,” he said to the receptionist.
“You’ll get used to it,” she answered in broken Russian. “I’m Anya. You need something you just ask, okay?”
“Thanks, Anya.”
“We have pastry here.” She nudged him with a plate of cheese Danish. “You want?”
“Maybe later.”
“You’ll feel better if you eat,” she told him with certainty.
“Maybe you’re right.” He took a bite and smiled his thanks.
“Good morning, Michael.” Celina appeared in her pink scrubs, happy to see him. “We are so grateful that you’re here. Come on, I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.” She took his hand and led him down the hall, introducing him to various members of staff they encountered on their way. They were an earthy bunch of women in scrubs and white clogs and long silver earrings. The demonstration outside the windows didn’t seem to faze them. Celina showed him her office, a tiny room crammed with plants. The walls had been painted yellow and were covered with photographs of women: her grandmother, several patients and friends, and a host of women she admired, some of whom he recognized—Emma
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