Page 69 of Counting Backwards

“There’s more,” she said as she put the iPad back in her tote and then, to my dismay, kicked off her heels. She readjusted herself on the bed, settling into a comfy sitting position at the foot and crossing her legs under herself. “That nurse you went to see? She’s been trying to reach you.”

I didn’t remember ever telling Tate about Fern.

“She somehow managed to get in touch with Dustin,” Tate said.

Dustin.

After I texted him from outside Penn Station, he’d written back almost immediately. I hadn’t even read the message until long afterI’d gotten home from the obstetrician’s office. Just a simple note:“You’ve got this.”

Had I not been so distraught over the pregnancy, it probably would have been exactly what I needed to hear.

“You told him? About... this?” I gestured toward my belly.

“Of course not.” Tate flinched. “Since when do you think I tell people your private business?” She looked offended, and I felt a little bad for being so churlish when she was just trying to help.

“No, I know you’re a vault. Sorry I’m a grouch.” I forced a repentant half smile. “Dustin can tell the nurse to just call any of the co-counsel on the case for whatever she needs. I’ll give you a list.” I twisted to the side to look for the phone I’d been so aggressively avoiding.

“No, no list,” Tate said. “She wants to talk toyou. She told Dustin more women want to come forward. People who saw the article in the news. They want to join the complaint.”

“Oh.” As I processed Tate’s words, something tugged at me—a pull to get up and call Fern, to track down the new defendants and create the amended filing—but I pushed all of it away. I couldn’t trust myself to be a helpful advocate while I was so worried about my own situation. I wouldn’t be able to focus, which wouldn’t be fair to our clients. “That’s great news,” I finally answered. “It’ll make a difference for them all. Still, tell her to call Will Carbone at NYU. Or Lydia Brass, or anyone else at the Manhattan Immigrant Defense Center. I’m out.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this.” Tate squinted down at me like she was struggling to recognize me. “After everything you’ve put yourself through for this case, now that it’s really moving forward, you’reout?”

This wasn’t about what I wanted. But all I could think about was the baby and whether my every movement was putting it in further jeopardy. The women deserved more than the small sliverof mental space I’d be able to devote to legal work at the moment. I already knew from Shantrane that I was capable of making careless errors with disastrous consequences. I couldn’t risk something like that again.

“Look, I told Will Carbone and the rest of the team that I was having a medical emergency. They’ve got everything under control. They don’t need me.”

“Yes, they do, Jessa. You’re the one these women have connected with. You’re the one who inspired them to come forward. The case wouldn’t exist without you. You’re their best advocate. Don’t you see that?”

Tate’s words hit me hard. The team had just filed a second complaint with the Department of Homeland Security, and they’d begun reaching out to members of Congress. Since the beginning, I had promised the women I would be there. Right there with them. I let out a long breath as I thought it over again. But then I shook my head.

“I appreciate what you’re saying, but I just can’t. Thank you for coming, Tate.” Then I turned onto my side, away from her.

“Jessa, come on,” she persisted.

In response, I just closed my eyes, shutting out my friend, trying to shut out the world.

She stayed on the bed a moment longer, obviously reluctant to go. But eventually the bed shifted and I heard her stepping back into her shoes. Seconds later, I heard the apartment door close and the room was silent once again. I lay in the bed, exhausted, sad, afraid.

Before long I heard the front door opening again, and I figured Tate must have come back to argue another point. I kept my eyes closed, hoping to discourage her from saying whatever else she wanted to say. But then I heard my grandmother’s voice.

“Enough,” she said.

I turned over to find Gram marching into the room holding a paper grocery bag. She was wrapped in a cheery floral pashmina, but she wore a stern expression on her face.

“Enough,” she said again, waves of moral indignation wafting off the word. She dropped the grocery bag on the nightstand and moved toward my work bag in the corner of the room. Bending low, she dug into the bag and retrieved my laptop.

I pushed up on my elbow. “What are you doing?”

“Fire this thing up.” She held it out to me. “Check your emails.”

“What? Why?”

“Do as you’re told,” she said, her tone steely.

I felt wounded by her harsh pitch. She had to know how much I was struggling, how scared I was of something happening to the baby. I reached out for the computer.

“I’m making you a sandwich,” Gram said, picking up the bag again and turning on her heel. I didn’t bother to protest that I wasn’t hungry.