Page 43 of Counting Backwards

“I’m taking the leave,” I said, “because the firm won’t let me file a class action for the Hydeford women.”

“It’s probably for the best that the firm’s letting it go, given how much evidence you’re still lacking. Even if you have enough to support the claim of substandard medical care, that doesn’t prove thepart about unnecessary sterilizations. Look, do I think the women should have been given more information before their procedures? Yeah, seems like it. Could the doctor have done a better job explaining the risks or making sure interpreters were present? Yes and yes. I admit that something concerning is going on, but the facts you have don’t prove any intent to do harm or even that the procedures were not medically necessary, lifesaving interventions.”

I couldn’t believe he was still refusing to get behind me. I wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him for insisting that I had to be missing something. What I was missing, it seemed, was the supportive husband I thought I had.

“Evidence isn’t the problem. We’ll get that. It’s me. It’s because I’d be the one bringing the case. The firm doesn’t want my name front and center on another case that may end up in the news.” I felt a fresh wave of shame, thinking about the partners’ opinion of me, their persistent reluctance to take me seriously, an attitude that had reached more of my colleagues than I’d ever realized.

“I mean, I’m not sureIwant your name front and center in the news about this either. You’re not the only person whose reputation would be affected, and with the podcast—”

“Vance!” I turned toward him in my seat, ready to lay into him, but he held up a hand like a stop sign.

“Hear me out,” he said. “Why don’t they just put another attorney on the lead? If they believe someone is actually orchestrating the sterilization of all these women?” His tone was fanciful, as if that intentionality was an utter impossibility, as if he were talking about ghosts or time travel. “Shouldn’t somebody put a stop to it?”

“Right. Which is why I’m taking the leave. Because the case needs to be filed. And if I’m working on my own, I don’t need anyone’s permission.” I wanted to add,Noteven yours, Vance.

“On your own? But if they give it to someone else at Dillney, there can still be more investigating, which you could skip. Andthen if it turns out it’s more than just chasing shadows, whoever did the investigating could bring the case, and you wouldn’t have to risk your spot at the firm. You can just work on something else.”

“No.” I shook my head, knowing we were treading closer to matters I didn’t want to discuss. “It has to be me.”

“Why? Plenty of attorneys at your office could handle it.”

The chances of another attorney at the firm following up seriously were slim at best. As Andrew had made clear in our meeting, the expectation at Dillney was to focus on billable hours and career advancement. If I handed off the case, it’d be a matter of weeks before the whole thing fizzled and died. I wasn’t going to abandon my clients like that.

“Because...” I struggled to answer Vance, wondering how to tell him the universe had sent this case to me specifically, how it had everything to do with what Gram had shared with me about my family’s past. “It just does. It has to be me.”

“What about your salary? You’re not going to get paid? Don’t you see how rash you’re being?”

I huffed audibly before answering.

“We have plenty saved. Even without your ridiculous Wall Street salary, we could live off savings for six months.”

“So it’s only for six months then? No matter what?”

I clenched my teeth and turned toward the window. Looking into the seemingly endless thicket of trees along the side of the road, I tried to choose the right words, but Vance spoke first.

“Let me guess. They’ll only take you back if it goes well.”

“Yup.”

“So what you’re saying”—his voice began to rise—“is that you’ll be working twice as hard, earning nothing, and adding even more stress to your system. All for something that might not even be happening?”

“Precisely,” I deadpanned.

When he didn’t respond, I turned toward him with a sheepish expression, hoping he could just accept this.

“Jessa, this isn’t a joke!”

“Trust me.” My words came out clipped. “I’m well aware.”

Vance’s neck began to turn pink, a telltale sign that he was fuming. He seemed to be running through all the different things he wanted to say, trying to choose where to start, and I braced for the impact of hurtful words. But then I saw a marker for house number 1799 at the end of the road, the lively blue and yellow hues of the painted mailbox so at odds with the weight of the moment we were having.

“It’s there.” I pointed.

Vance swallowed and turned into the partially hidden gravel driveway. Once we rounded the first bend, we could see Vance’s cousin’s new home. An oversized colonial with brown shingles, gray shutters, and three symmetrical dormers, it was every bit the quaint pastoral retreat that would inspire a young couple to finally move from Manhattan to the suburbs. It was a place where parents could raise a growing family in the fresh open air, admiring lightning bugs and bunny rabbits on summer nights. I tried not to be jealous of the perfection of it all.

Vance pulled to a stop outside the two-car garage and moved the gearshift into Park without looking at me.

“Come on,” he said, his words tight as he opened his door. “We’re already twenty minutes late.” He was out of his seat in a flash, slamming the car door with significantly more force than necessary before starting toward the front door. I hadn’t even taken off my seat belt yet.