Chapter 12 2

"Did you bring the check and the bankbook?" demanded the Doctor.

"Yes." I handed them to him. On the next-to-last check stub the balance read two hundred eighty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents, and the next check was made out to that amount and signed. "I didn't know who to pay it to."

"I'll write that in. Very well, come along. I very much want you to watch this, for your own good."

"No, I'll wait out here."

"If you want the abortion done," the Doctor said, "then come along and watch it."

I went, most unwillingly. The Doctor donned his white jacket, and we went into the Treatment Room. Rennie was already on the examination table with a sheet up to her neck. I was afraid she'd object to my presence, but she gave no sign of approval or disapproval. Mrs. Dockey stood by impassively. The Doctor washed his hands and drew up the sheet from Rennie's abdomen.

"Well, let's see if you're pregnant, first."

When his fingers touched her to begin the examination, she jumped involuntarily. A minute or so later, when the Doctor slipped his hands into rubber gloves, greased the fingers, and began the internal examination, she started sobbing.

"Now stop that," the Doctor said irritably. "You've had children before." After a while he asked, "How old do you think the fetus is?" Rennie made no answer, and he didn't ask her anything else.

"All right, we may as well get to work. Hand me a dilator and a curette, please," he said to Mrs. Dockey, and she went to the sterilizer nearby to get them. The surgical instruments clinked in the sterilizer, and Rennie's sobbing became looser and louder. She twisted a little on the examination table and even began to raise herself.

"Lie down and be quiet!" the Doctor ordered sharply. "You'll wake everybody up."

Rennie lay back again and closed her eyes. I began to be sick as soon as the Doctor accepted the bright curette from Mrs. Dockey; I resolved to keep my eyes on Rennie's face instead of the operation.

"Fasten the straps," the Doctor said to Mrs. Dockey. "You should have done that before." A wide leather strap was secured across Rennie's diaphragm. "Now, then, hold her right leg, and Horner, you hold the other one. Since we don't go in much for obstetrics here I didn't bother to buy a table with stirrups on it."

Rennie's legs were drawn up and spread wide in the lithotomy position. Mrs. Dockey gripped one, pressing the calf against the thigh, and I, very reluctantly, held the other.

"I'm sorry, Rennie," I said.

Rennie whipped her head and moaned. A few moments later -- I would guess that the Doctor had applied his curette to begin scraping the uterus, but I wasn't looking to find out -- she began screaming, and tried to kick free.

"Hold those legs!" the Doctor snapped. "She's cutting herself to pieces! Shut her up, Horner!"

"Rennie --" I pleaded, but I couldn't say anything else. She was terrified; I think she no longer recognized me. Her face swam through my tears. For an instant she relaxed, fighting for control, but almost at once -- another scrape of the curette? -- she screamed again, and struggled to raise herself.

"Okay," the Doctor said disgustedly to Mrs. Dockey. "The curette's out. Let go of her leg and shut her up."

Mrs. Dockey pushed Rennie's head down and clamped a hand over her mouth. Rennie kicked wildly with her free leg; the Doctor jumped clear, upsetting his stool, and cursed. I inadvertently glanced away and saw blood on the sheet under Rennie's abdomen, blood on her upper thighs, blood on the Doctor's gloves. The vomitus rushed to my mouth, and I was barely able to swallow it down.

"We can't stop now," the Doctor said to Mrs. Dockey. "She's already hemorrhaging. Keep her quiet for a minute, and I'll get an anesthetic."

I began to catch Rennie's fear. She lay quiet again for a moment, and her eyes pleaded with me.

"Take your hand off," I told Mrs. Dockey. "She won't holler." Mrs. Dockey removed her hand warily, ready to clap it back at once.

"Jake, I'm scared," Rennie cried softly, trembling all over. "He's hurting me. I don't like being scared, but I can't help it."

"Are you sure it's too late to quit, Doctor?" I called across the room, where he was fitting a rubber hose to two tanks of gas on a dolly.

"No use to now," he said. "I'd be finished by this time if she'd cut out her foolishness."

"Do you want to go home, Rennie?"

"Yes," she wept. "But let him finish. I want to hold still, but I can't."

"We'll take care of that," the Doctor said, no longer annoyed. He wheeled the gas tanks over to the head of the table. "The way you were jumping around I could very well have punctured your uterus. Relax, now."

Rennie closed her eyes. The Doctor handed the mask to Mrs. Dockey, who with some relish held it down over Rennie's nose and mouth. The Doctor immediately opened valves, and the gases made a soft rush into the mask.

"Breathe deeply," the Doctor said, watching the pressure gauges.

Rennie inhaled deeply two, three, five times, as though anxious to lose consciousness. Her trembling subsided, and her legs began to go limp.

"Check the pulse," the Doctor told Mrs. Dockey.

But as she reached for Rennie's wrist with her free hand, Rennie's stomach jerked inwards, and she vomited explosively into the mask. A second later a horrible sucking sound came from her throat, and another. Her eyes half opened briefly.

"Bronchoscope!" the Doctor said sharply, jerking the mask away. Rennie's face was blue: the sucking noise stopped. "Take the strap off, Horner! Quick!"

I tore at the strap with my fingers; couldn't see it clearly for the water in my eyes. Another gurgling explosion came from Rennie's chest.

"Bronchoscope!"the Doctor shouted.

Mrs. Dockey ran back to the table with a long tube-like instrument, which the Doctor snatched from her hands and began to insert into Rennie's mouth. The vomitus was all over her face, and a small puddle of it lay under her head, in her hair. Her face darkened further; her eyes opened, and the pupils rolled senselessly. My head reeled.

"Get oxygen ready!" ordered the Doctor. "Horner, take the pulse!"

I grabbed Rennie's wrist. Maybe I felt one beat -- anyway, no more after that.

"I don't feel any!" I cried.

"No," he said, less excitedly. He withdrew the bronchoscope from her windpipe and laid it aside. "Never mind the oxygen, Mrs. Dockey." Mrs. Dockey came over unhurriedly to look.

And so this is the picture I have to carry with me: the Treatment Room dark except for the one ceiling floodlight that illuminated the table; Rennie dead there now, face mottled blue-black, eyes wide, mouth agape; the vomitus running from a pool in her mouth to a pool under her head; the great black belt lying finally unbuckled across the sheet over her chest and stomach; the lower part of her body nude and bloody, her legs trailing limply and clumsily off the end of the examination table.

"So, that's that," the Doctor sighed.

"How'd it happen?" Mrs. Dockey asked.

"She must have eaten a big meal before she came out here," he said. "She should've known better. Vomited it up from the ether and then aspirated it into her lungs. What a mess this is!"

I was stunned past weeping. Shock set in almost at once, and I was forced to find a chair before I fell.

"Straighten up, Horner; this won't do."

I couldn't reply. I was fighting nausea and faintness.

"Go lie down on a couch in the reception room," he ordered, "and prop your feet up. It'll pass. We'll clean her up, and then you'll have to take her out of here."

"Where?" I cried. "What am I going to do?"

"Why, take her back home. Don't you think her husband wants the body?"

I stood up and lurched for the door, but before reaching it I fell flat. When I revived I was lying in the reception room, and the Doctor was standing nearby.

"Swallow these," he said, giving me two pills and a glass of water.

"Now, then, pay attention. This is serious, but it'll be all right if you keep hold of yourself. We took her out to your car. Now don't do anything silly like trying to dispose of her secretly. I've called the husband and explained that she'd be awhile coming out of anesthesia. The best thing for you to do is take her right to her house and tell the husband she'd dead. Be in a panic. Tell him she seemed all right until you got halfway home, and then she started vomiting and got strangled -- the autopsy will pretty much bear that out. He'll call the hospital ambulance, and they'll discover the abortion, but that's okay. You'll be asked questions; that's okay too. Don't tell them where it was done until tomorrow; after that it won't matter. I'm leaving tonight with a few of the patients in the station wagon, and Mrs. Dockey will stay here to handle things. The house and phone are in her name, and she'll say she's one of my patients who set up the home. You don't know my name, and she'll give them the wrong one and plead ignorance of the whole business. They can't hold you or her either, and they won't be able to find me. Here, take this." He gave me an envelope. "That's your bus fare and enough money to last you until Wednesday. Our plans are the same. Meet Mrs. Dockey and the other patients Wednesday morning at the Greyhound station, and she'll tell you then if there has to be any change in our plans. Do you feel able to drive now?"

I couldn't answer: all my grief had returned in a rush with consciousness.

"You look all right," he said curtly. "This thing was everybody's fault, Horner. Let it be everybody's lesson. Go on, now; get it over with."

The pills must have worked: when I stood up this time I didn't feel faint. I went out to the car and got in. Rennie was lying curled up on the back seat, dressed, washed, her eyes closed. It was too big a thing to know what to think about it, to know how to feel. I drove mechanically back to the Morgans' house.