Hers was a faded blue dress, with daisies and vines embroidered all across the front. She spent just shy of an hour ironing and steaming it, matching it to a brand-new pair of flats. She curled her auburn hair per the instructions of a perfect grinning influencer—only, while looking at her, to realize her teeth were a bit yellow in comparison.
But the alarm broke her out of her reverie, so she resorted to inconspicuously checking her reflection in windows.
“Gertrude O’Malley,” she muttered to herself, over and over, whilst speed-walking down Washington Avenue. She whipped out her phone—9:30 AM. Thirty minutes and her life would officially begin. “Please, call me Gertrude. I was born August 14th, 1988 . . .”
She turned a corner, and there it was—nestled between First and Wellington. The building was immaculate, with the Planned Parenthood logo gleaming above her. Gertrude hunched her shoulders, rehearsing her lines one more time—Gertrude O’Malley, August 14th, 1988, here’s my insurance and ID—and crossed the threshold.
The waiting room was empty, save for a couple young women. A girl no older than sixteen flipped through a pamphlet, her mother rubbing her back. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. An older lady sat upright, head snapping to attention when someone entered or exited.
Her chest tightened. Eyeing her fellow constituents, Gertrude smoothed out her skirt, landing in the plush seat nearest the door. The old woman stared at her—pinching her lips together, Gertrude offered her a timid smile.
The woman tersed. Gertrude could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Then, to her surprise, she dipped her head in respect.
Okay, Gertrude. She inhaled sharply. You can do this. Nothing bad is gonna happen. You’re here, you’re twenty-five minutes early, everything is fine.
But a lot could happen in twenty-five minutes.
A broad stroke of a Sharpie was all it took to turn her away, and the man holding it wouldn’t bat an eye. What did it matter to him if she got care or not? It wouldn’t make him any poorer if a wrecking ball swung into the side of the building, or if all the doctors and nurses walked out at once.
She stole a glance at the receptionist. He was having an animated conversation with a fidgety twenty-year-old—something about birth control.
Gertrude checked her phone, holding her breath. She scrolled through videos of global catastrophes—senators calling on their voters to make a stand—the grating voices of billionaires--
Maybe she could get a work visa in Canada. For a second, she tried to picture herself, sitting in a log cabin, with a Canadian lumberjack for a husband. He’d slaughter a deer for her while she was at work, make her maple pancakes in the morning, then, as she left for her office job, he’d ask her aboot her day.
She could pull off a secretary job, could she? Maybe she could go back to school and become a journalist—God knew the world needed them. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if their neighbors let refugees come in from America. Her mother could vouch for her, could she? She could start a new life, right? She could--
The receptionist’s voice was clear as an alarm clock. Gertrude nearly dropped her phone, a shuddering gasp leaving her. Several pair of eyes landed on her—she nearly sunk to the floor, face burning, as she shuffled to the front.
“Um,” she pushed a strand of hair from her face. “Gertrude O’Malley. I’m here for gender affirming care.”
“O’Malley . . . O’Malley . . .” the receptionist muttered, scrolling through his database. Gertrude picked at her fingernails. “Can you confirm your date of birth?”
“Peeeeerrrrfect.” The receptionist typed something in. Gertrude straightened, smoothing out the front of her dress. This was it. She leapt over the hurdle, and landed with perfect marks. “Well, Miss O’Malley, Doctor Sobolevsky will see you in about . . . ten minutes.”
Hers was a faded blue dress, decorated with daisies and vines. Her auburn hair was perfectly curled. Her doctor’s recommendation was folded neatly into her brand-new purse. And Gertrude’s face broke out into a relieved smile, flashing her pearly whites.
