Kate’s memory of the rest of the ap-
pointment is blurry. She remembers some
complication with payment and a sharp
admonishment from an administrator
about her tardiness, which brought forth
the tears she had successfully held in until
then. Called back to the exam room, she
was relieved to see her favorite clinic
staffer there. At a prior appointment,
the staffer had made Kate feel comfortable
and reassured. But now, performing the
ultrasound, the energetic, warm woman
grew quiet. “What’s wrong?” Kate de-
manded, her body tightening with fear.
“Oh, things are just going to go a little
differently today,” the staffer replied,
trying to keep her tone light. Kate
clenched her jaw against the rising bile
in her throat.
The ultrasound was showing the fetus
at 20 weeks, but Kate’s appointment was
for someone who was 18 weeks along.
That meant Kate couldn’t get her abor-
tion. The extra two weeks triggered a
48-hour waiting period and state-man-
dated counseling about fetal pain—a
concept that’s been widely debunked for
more than a decade. She would have to
make the journey all over again for an
appointment next week. That would be
her final chance to get the procedure in
Little Rock; abortions after 22 weeks are
illegal in the state. It was already too late
to get one in Mississippi, where abortion
is not available after 16 weeks.
As a nurse explained the situation and
began the required monologue about
fetal pain, Kate’s eyes filled with bright
white light, and she gagged.
i first meet Kate, a pseudonym to
protect her identity, by the pool at a Little
Rock hotel a few hours after she was
turned away by the clinic. Her fingertips
are stained bright orange-red, courtesy of
a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and she is
wearing the summertime uniform of col-
lege girls in the South—oversize T-shirt,
athletic shorts, sandals. She greets me
with a warm familiarity and says she
hopes I can explain what just happened
to her, because she has been too afraid to
Google much of anything.
Kate tells me repeatedly that she’s pas-
sionate about helping people. She wants
kids someday, with the right person. The
man who impregnated her is not that.
They were only sexual the one time; she
had been drinking and she doesn’t
remember how they ended up at her
apartment that night. When she told him
she was pregnant and that she wanted an
abortion, he said it was her choice.
Kate worried she would be judged if she
went to the clinic in Jackson—the only
one in the state. “Ole Miss is apparently
the most liberal area in Mississippi, and it
is not open-minded,” she says. It took her
some time to find an alternative, sifting
through search results for crisis pregnancy
centers—anti-abortion establishments
that aim to convince women to carry to
term based on religious conviction. Shecalled a legitimate abortion clinic in
Memphis, but the receptionist sounded
overwhelmed, and it made Kate’s anxiety
swell. Finally, she made an appointment
in Little Rock for early March.
The man who impregnated her drove
her to the clinic that day, and he promised
to pay for her procedure, Kate says. They
were in the car by 4 a.m.; Kate wanted an
early appointment so she could make it
back in time for a night class. She was later
surprised when the clinic asked for pay-
ment upon her next visit. Apparently, the
man declined to pay for the appointment
while she was in the exam room.
He later asked Kate to keep the baby
and give it to him. She refused. The
morning of her third appointment, she
found her tires slashed. That’s when she
decided she needed help. That’s when
she found Laurie.PLAN C0.2%
of all abortions in
the US happen in
Mississippi.47
states have higher
abortion rates than
Mississippi.