The next morning, we take the subway together back to the elegant neighborhood where the clinic is located. It is completely unnoticeable from the street, impossible to tell that inside there will be a waiting room that looks like a welfare office, with institutional chairs, soap-opera TV, and dozens of women sitting, sitting, sitting. In the several times I’ve gone there to pick up or drop off a patient, I’ve seen one protester, one time. She was white, well dressed, and birdlike, and when she tremulously scolded a young Latina woman about “killing your baby,” she was practically blown backward by a blast of “Get the hell outta my way what business is it of yours fuckin’ goddamned puta bitch!”
On this day, the birdlike lady is nowhere to be seen. Adeena and I say good-bye at the clinic doors. She thanks me for making her feel “just like you was my moms.” In a few hours, she’ll be back on a bus to Philadelphia, free to do her thing, whatever that may be.