strong. Stand by my side; lead me aright
) became
my motto as well. That woman, that mother of
God, was no longer just a picture on the wall to me.
Somehow, I knew she was standing beside me, closer
even than Liam. She was always with me. Even
when the day seemed unsuccessful, I felt that she
was still at work.
In that first year, I never personally witnessed a girl
change her mind and come out through those fateful
doors. I never saw her tearstained yet triumphant
face declaring that she chose life. A week
afterwards, Michael and his friends sometimes had
records of how many women changed their minds,
and this was recompense for me; I didn’t need to see
the change, so long as it happened.
One day, however, I was destined to see firsthand the
fruits of my labors.
I was standing in my usual spot, listening to all the
noise around me: the peaceful repetitions of the
Hail Mary, the occasional honks from the street, the
vulgar speech of the escorts, and the monologue of
the preacher, who came once or twice a month. As
each web of escorts passed, I looked for the woman
inside. There she was, staring out at the two of us.
There she was, about to say something. And there
she was, shunted inside. It was a normal day.
An hour and a half came and went. The building
closed, its work done. The escorts left, their
gruesome volunteer shifts finished. And the faithful
slowly trickled away, solemn-faced; we all knew that
there had been no saves that day.
Liam and I began to walk back to the car. “You
know,” he commented, “this is our one-year
anniversary of beginning pro-life work.”
“Yeah,” I said listlessly. “And a great way to
remember it. . .”
“Excuse me?” Liam and I turned around, expecting
to see one of the people with whom we said the
Rosary. But the woman we saw, we didn’t recognize.
Her face had an urgent, searching look. Her large
blue eyes rested first on me, then on Liam, and
then back again. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I
remembered her from somewhere — where, however,
I had no idea.
“You might not remember me,” she began slowly,
still searching for some sign of recognition, “but I
last saw you a year ago. You two were standing here.
You were looking at me. You saw me go into that
place. . . to have my abortion.”
Everything started to come back to me. I
had
seen
her before! A year ago. . . a year ago. . . that was my
first visit here.
She brushed her messy, flaming red hair from her
face, and her piercing blue eyes met mine, giving
me a clear view to the past. She was the first girl.
She was the first one I had seen going in, whose
tearstained face told of unnamed anguish in making
her decision. She had been about to call out, as so
many others had. But she was shoved inside — I
never saw her come out.
Why was she talking to me now? Why wouldn’t
she just bury that memory, as I had? Why was she
confessing to me?
She saw recognition and received courage to
continue. “That day, I learned something those
people try to keep hidden: there’s a back door.”
She let that sentence sink in. I almost refused to
believe the thought that forced itself to the front.
There was no way. She couldn’t be saying what I
thought she was. This couldn’t be happening.
But it was. She motioned to a nearby car and asked,
her eyes glowing, “Would you like to see the baby?”
***
The girl, Hayley, had somehow escaped. Her
pregnancy was troubled, filled on all sides with
urgings to abort, yet she went through with the full
nine months and gave birth to a wonderfully healthy
There Will Be Hope | Zoe Krauskopf | Grade 11
18
BAYLEY BULLETIN, MAR-MAY 2016
