Rage of Angels
“We’ll see each other as often as possible in the meantime,” Adam told her. “We—”
Jennifer forced herself to speak. “No, Adam. It’s over.”
He stared at her. “You don’t mean that. I love you, darling. We’ll find a way to—”
“There is no way. Your wife and baby aren’t going to disappear. You and I are finished. I’ve loved it. Every moment of it.”
She rose to her feet, knowing that if she did not get out of the restaurant she would start screaming. “We must never see each other again.”
She could not bear to look at his pain-filled eyes.
“Oh, God, Jennifer! Don’t do this. Please don’t do this! We—”
She did not hear the rest. She was hurrying toward the door, running out of Adam’s life.
27
Adam’s telephone calls were neither accepted nor returned. His letters were sent back unopened. On the last letter Jennifer received, she wrote the word “deceased” on the envelope and dropped it in the mail slot. It’s true, Jennifer thought. I am dead.
She had never known that such pain could exist. She had to be alone, and yet she was not alone. There was another human being inside her, a part of her and a part of Adam. And she was going to destroy it.
She forced herself to think about where she was going to have the abortion. A few years earlier an abortion would have meant some quack doctor in a dirty, sleazy back-alley room, but now that was no longer necessary. She could go to a hospital and have the operation performed by a reputable surgeon. Somewhere outside of New York City. Jennifer’s photograph had been in the newspapers too many times, she had been on television too often. She needed anonymity, someplace where no one would ask questions. There must never, never be a link between her and Adam Warner. United States Senator Adam Warner. Their baby must die anonymously.
Jennifer allowed herself to think of what the baby would have been like, and she began to weep so hard that it was difficult to breathe.
It had started to rain. Jennifer looked up at the sky and wondered whether God was crying for her.
Ken Bailey was the only person Jennifer could trust to help her.
“I need an abortion,” Jennifer said without preamble. “Do you know of a good doctor?”
He tried to mask his surprise, but Jennifer could see the variety of emotions that flickered across his face.
“Somewhere out of town, Ken. Someplace where they won’t know me.”
“What about the Fiji Islands?” There was an anger in his voice.
“I’m serious.”
“Sorry. I—you caught me off guard.” The news had taken him completely by surprise. He worshipped Jennifer. He knew that he loved her, and there were times when he thought he was in love with her; but he could not be sure, and it was torture. He could never do to Jennifer what he had done to his wife. God, Ken thought, why the hell couldn’t You make up Your mind about me?
He ran his hands through his red hair and said, “If you don’t want to have it in New York, I’d suggest North Carolina. It’s not too far away.”
“Can you check it out for me?”
“Yeah. Fine. I—“
“Yes?”
He looked away from her. “Nothing.”
Ken Bailey disappeared for the next three days. When he walked into Jennifer’s office on the third day, he was unshaven and his eyes were hollow and red-rimmed.
Jennifer took one look at him and asked, “Are you all right?”
“I guess so.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.” If God can’t help me, love, there’s nothing you can do.
He handed Jennifer a slip of paper. On it was written, Dr. Eric Linden, Memorial Hospital, Charlotte, North Carolina.
“Thank you, Ken.”
“De nada. When are you going to do it?”
“I’ll go down there this weekend.”
He said awkwardly, “Would you like me to go with you?”
“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“What about the return trip?”
“I’ll be all right.”
He stood there a moment, hesitating. “It’s none of my business, but are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“I’m sure.”
She had no choice. She wanted nothing more in the world than to keep Adam’s baby, but she knew it would be insane to try to bring the baby up by herself.
She looked at Ken and said again, “I’m sure.”
The hospital was a pleasant old two-story brick building on the outskirts of Charlotte.
The woman behind the registration desk was gray-haired, in her late sixties. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” Jennifer said. “I’m Mrs. Parker. I have an appointment with Dr. Linden to—to—” She could not bring herself to say the words.
The receptionist nodded understandingly. “The doctor’s expecting you, Mrs. Parker. I’ll have someone show you the way.”
An efficient young nurse led Jennifer to an examining room down the hall and said, “I’ll tell Dr. Linden you’re here. Would you like to get undressed? There’s a hospital gown on the hanger.”
Slowly, possessed by a feeling of unreality, Jennifer undressed and put on the white hospital gown. She felt as though she were putting on a butcher’s apron. She was about to kill the life inside her. In her mind, the apron became spattered with blood, the blood of her baby. Jennifer found herself trembling.
A voice said, “Here, now. Relax.”
Jennifer looked up to see a burly bald-headed man wearing horn-rimmed glasses that gave his face an owlish appearance.