new. You’ll get used to it. I’m Lisa, by the way.”
Cait shook her outstretched hand. “Cait Monaghan.”
“Nice to meet you, Cait.” She led them to a cramped office. The walls were papered with Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe prints, and the single, small window overlooked the parking lot below. “So,” Lisa said, moving a stack of papers off a chair so Cait could sit down. “How’d you hear about us?”
“I saw the article in Digg and thought it would be good to get involved.” This was true, mostly. The attention surrounding her article had died down as the good people of the Internet had found someone else to hate, and she had been pretty much forgotten. She should have been relieved. Instead, she found a swirl of anger growing inside her like bacteria, ready to burst through the skin.
After her conversation with Ken at the bar, she’d gone home and read every single comment that had been written underneath that article, followed every single thread. She read until her eyes were blurry and her insides slick with nausea and then she clicked on another link and read some more. She read until she could read these things—things she always feared might be true about herself, things she would whisper to herself late at night, when her mind was soft and weak—unflinchingly and without pain. She read until the shame was replaced with a dull sort of numbness, and then she read on until that numbness turned to rage.
She’d been carrying that rage around with her for weeks now. She needed somewhere to focus it, a grindstone on which to sharpen it.
Reading the article about the work the Sisters of Service were doing across Texas, she felt something stir inside her. Here was a bunch of women facing down a bunch of (mainly) men who wanted to tell them that what they did with their bodies was shameful and wicked and wrong. Here were women standing up for other women, strong and proud and brave. She wanted to be like them, to be involved in something noble and selfless.
Really, though, she wanted one of those protesters to spew some of their bile her way so she’d have an excuse to explode.
“Oh, cool. We’ve been getting some nice attention from that piece.” Lisa’s mouth twisted, like she was tasting something sour. “Some not so nice, too.”
Cait attempted a rueful laugh, but it came out more like a splutter. She had read the comments underneath the piece, every hate-filled word. It was what had nudged her into sending the email asking if she could volunteer.
“Anyway, did Deborah run you through the basics? No last names, no personal details, no social media. Our job is to protect the patients, period. Their safety is our only priority, and we can’t do anything that might jeopardize that.”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. Let’s get going. We’re starting you out on a weekday because they’re quieter. Saturdays are a zoo. For today you’ll just shadow me. See how I talk to the patients, get a feel for the route. If we’re both feeling good after today, you’ll go out on your own for the next shift. You work nights, right?”
Cait nodded. “I bartend down at the Dark Horse.”
“Oh, man, I haven’t been to that place since college. They still make you wear those Daisy Dukes?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Lisa laughed. “Yeah, it seemed like the kind of place that would remain untouched by progress, if you know what I mean. How long’ve you been there?”
Cait shrugged. “A few years. It’s not so bad once you get over the uniform. The tips are usually good.”
“Hey, money’s money, right?”
“Amen.”
Lisa led her to a beat-up, old Honda Civic. “Our chariot awaits,” she said ruefully. “Sorry about the mess.” Cait excavated some space on the passenger seat among the take-out wrappers and stacks of leaflets, and Lisa drove them downtown and parked in front of a Rite Aid. “You don’t want them to see your car,” she explained. “If they get your plates, you’re cooked.”
It was early still—not quite nine a.m.—but Cait could already see a few protesters starting to gather. “Time to suit up,” Lisa said, slipping the rainbow tabard over her head. “You ready for this?”
Cait pulled on her tabard. The smell of cheap nylon filled her nostrils, and she felt a flutter of nerves. “I think so.”
Lisa put her arm around her and steered her across the street. “You totally are.”