Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [75]
On the day that I knew they were leaving, I went to school as if it were any normal day. But my mind was elsewhere. One’s thoughts don’t normally drift toward Buffalo, but I couldn’t do much else that day but worry about my best friend’s safety and well-being.
It was after dinner when the phone rang. My sister answered.
“Mike—it’s Tucker.”
I went to the phone, knowing that they had returned by now.
“Hey.”
“The abortion,” he said, whispering, out of breath, and, if it weren’t Tucker, I’d say he was crying.
“They botched it. We never made it to New York. We didn’t go to Buffalo. We’re in Detroit.”
“Shit!” I said, a bit too loud. “What are you doing in Detroit? How is she?”
“Not… not good,” he said, now clearly in tears. “Mike—help me! She’s bleeding pretty bad. I don’t know what to do.”
“Where are you?” I asked, trying not to scream or cry myself.
“I got her to a hospital… somewhere here in Detroit. It was just awful. Awful. Oh God… I don’t want to lose her!”
I was unable to swallow. The lump in the throat grew into a full choke. I cupped my hand over the phone and swung the cord around the wall from the dining room and into the kitchen so no one could hear or see me. I tried to keep it together and figure out what I needed to do.
“What do the doctors say?”
“They say she’s lost a lot of blood. She goes in and out. They won’t let me in there. I’m fifteen, and I’m sure they’ve called the cops by now. I don’t know what to do!” He broke down uncontrollably.
“OK, listen! Pull it together! I’m getting in the car right now. I’ll be there in less than an hour. If the cops show up, say nothing. Say you want a lawyer and keep repeating that. And if they’ll let you in there, hold her hand and let her know she’s not alone—and tell her I’m coming.”
“OK. OK. I’m so sorry. This was my idea. We didn’t have the money for Buffalo. Someone told us about a safe place in Detroit. Cheap. It was wrong from the minute we got there and I just should’ve turned her around and left. I’m so sorry. Please… forgive me.”
Right now none of that mattered. I shouted upstairs that I was going to go hang out with Tucker and Zoe and I’d be back in a couple hours.
“Back by ten,” my mom shouted.
“Yes. Ten. Bye!”
I tore down M-15 to Clarkston and got on I-75 and hit the gas. At times the speedometer read ninety. The V-8 on the Impala had me in Detroit in fifty-two minutes. I followed the signs to the hospital, parked the car in the emergency room lot, and ran in. Tucker was there, his eyes all red.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I told him, as I hugged him. I asked the nurse if I could go see Zoe, and she said no. I asked about her condition.
“Are you a relative?” she asked.
“I’m her brother,” I said, without thinking.
“And where are your parents?”
“Where are yours?” I snapped back at her, realizing instantly that this was not going to serve me well. I changed my tune immediately.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m upset. I’m nineteen, she’s eighteen, and we don’t want to involve or upset our parents with this, if that’s OK. I hope you understand.” The BS flowed smoothly enough, but the tears that had formed in my eyes were real.
“OK, fine,” she said, filing away my insult for later retribution. “Just sit over there, and I’ll see if a doctor can come out to speak to the two of you.”
We waited nearly an hour before the resident came out looking for us.
“Which one of you is family?”
“I am,” I said.
“OK. Let me just say this was the stupidest thing you could have done. These back-alley abortionists are not doctors. They have no medical training whatsoever, and they do this only to make money and take advantage of people like you.”
“It’s all we could afford,” Tucker inserted unnecessarily. The doctor paused as he assessed who exactly this hoodlum was.
“It is illegal,” he said, hitting every word like he was hitting Tucker’s face. “You may have killed her. But you didn’t. She’s going to recover. You took an enormous