I came in the door that afternoon holding our then-youngest son, Ian, and our husky, Melville, on his leash. Donna was curled up on the sectional in the tiny living room of our insurance-funded suite, back after another day at her new job at the hospital. Something in her eyes told me she was worried. I noticed the phone book open on the desk. Two full pages of Obstetrics/Gynecology. Perhaps our own OB was listed. I hadn’t put it together yet.
“The Boulder Abortion Clinic,” I said, noting one of the ads. I was in a good mood, and perhaps it made me obtuse. “That’s kind of in-your-face, isn’t it? You’d think they’d go with something a little more subtle, what with all the nuts out there. The Boulder Family Planning Cooperative, or—”
Donna wasn’t amused. Ian crawled into her lap. She kissed him on the forehead and hugged him as though she hadn’t seen him in a week. I began to see.
“You’re not—”
The phone rang before I could finish. She raised her finger, biting her lower lip as she lifted the receiver. Hold that thought.
