Disorderly Conduct

Originally published in the Washington Post Magazine: May 28, 2000

In the case of Margaret Walters v. Downey Communications, a pregnancy discrimination lawsuit became a nasty legal slugfest for a revolving cast of combative lawyers

For Margaret Walters, it all began with what she wore. She studied her figure in the mirror and felt pleased that the navy-blue pants with the tattered lining still fit, even now, in her second trimester of pregnancy. Her husband, Steve, was at work; 2 1/2-year-old Elizabeth was at preschool. Margaret was grateful for the stillness in the house and the chance to collect her thoughts before the job interview.

For the last year Walters had been restless as an account executive with a marketing company north of Baltimore. When she'd heard from a co-worker about an opening at another marketing research company in Bethesda in early May 1994, she seized the chance. As she drove from her house in Arlington to the offices of Marketing & Management Information Inc., she felt a twinge of nervousness but was hopeful that this interview might be the first step toward a welcome change in her life.

In the joint reception area of MMI and its sister company, Downey Communications Inc., Walters shook hands with Harvey Richmond, vice president of marketing and sales.

From the deposition of Harvey Richmond, 3/2/98, the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission v. Downey Communications Inc.:

Q: Did you believe she was pregnant after her first interview?

Richmond: It never crossed my mind.

Q: Was she wearing maternity clothes at her first interview?

Richmond: I don't think so.

The interview went well, and Walters was invited back a few weeks later. This time, there were more introductions and an enjoyable conversation with Ed Downey, who co-owned DCI/MMI with his wife, Loretta. Over lunch, Walters, Richmond and several MMI employees talked about a variety of things, including her playing on the company softball team. When she left, she felt certain the job was hers.

From the deposition of Edward M. Downey, 3/25/98:

Q: Is it fair to say that in your opinion anybody would have been able to tell that she was pregnant?

Mr. Grayson [for the defense]: Objection; asked and answered twice now.

The Witness: I think anybody could see that she was pregnant if they were conscious in observing the fact.

By Mr. Hutter [Dana Hutter, attorney for the EEOC]:

Q: Did you ask her when she was due?

Mr. Grayson: I want to go back to the previous question. I think that I'm going to object also because the question calls for speculation on the part of the witness. I don't understand how you think that this witness can say whether everyone would know that she is pregnant. Are we talking about my three-year-old daughter? Are we talking about the Pope? Who are we talking about here?

The Witness: As I told you, I did not discuss her pregnancy. I didn't think it was appropriate.

About a week after the second round of interviews, Walters received a call from Richmond, offering her the position of manager of client services.

Letter from Harvey Richmond, 6/3/94:

Dear Margaret:

Confirming our recent discussion, Marketing and Management Information, Inc. is pleased to offer you the position of Manager, Client Services. This is a key function at our young, rapidly growing company. Margaret, we believe that you have the experience, maturity and people skills to be a great asset to our company. We also believe that we offer you the opportunity for a lucrative and professionally satisfying long term career.

The offer was thrilling to Walters, and she called Richmond back to accept, agreeing on a start date of July 1. At that point she mentioned to him that she was pregnant and due in October. Walters noticed a pause on the line, then Richmond said, "I'll need to work that issue internally." The conversation ended cordially, yet this last moment of awkwardness etched itself uncomfortably in Walters's mind.

After writing a formal acceptance letter, Walters placed it in an envelope and put it on the stack of outgoing mail.

She never mailed it. That same afternoon Richmond called back. "I'm sorry," he told her, "but we can no longer offer you the position. The job specs have changed."

Walters was stunned. Over the span of a few hours she had accepted and already lost a new job.

Letter from Harvey Richmond, 6/7/94:

Dear Margaret:

As we discussed earlier today, Marketing and Management has entered into an agreement to purchase a new data base operating system. This acquisition is a very major investment and expansion for our company. As such, it will significantly change the requirement of the position that we have discussed with you . . . In light of these new and unexpected developments we have postponed our hiring decision for this position . . .

By evening, Walters had gone from shock to outrage. She was convinced that the company had concocted a version of events in order to "unhire" her. On June 9, 1994, she filed a claim of pregnancy discrimination against DCI under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 jointly with the Maryland Commission on Human Relations and the federal EEOC.

What followed was nearly five years of protracted and costly civil action, amid a bizarre barrage of legal taunts and threats. For reasons that are still unclear even to the participants, a convoluted set of agendas overtook this case. What began as a personal disappointment -- a person is offered a job, then the offer is withdrawn -- became a free-for-all among lawyers that, in the words of U.S. District Judge Frederic N. Smalkin, was "over-lawyered and overpapered to an extent the likes of which I have not seen in 20 years' experience in this district." Perhaps the best way to follow the developments of the case is through the paper trail that litters the narrative of Margaret Walters v. the Downeys.

Ed and Loretta Downey run an informal company. Wandering freely about the offices are three springer spaniels, Oliver, Kelly and Chelsea, whose "business cards" read Official Greeter, Chief of Security and Top Dog, respectively. Policies and procedures are not always written down, and job descriptions are loosely defined, sometimes overlapping.

In May 1994, when Walters came for her interview, DCI/MMI had about 70 employees, a relatively small company in the marketplace. The company was attempting to purchase a new processing system -- at $250,000 -- that would be the biggest single investment it had ever made. Although the new system would give the Downeys a chance to be more competitive against their larger rivals, in the short run it was a terrifying plunge. Before the deal was finalized, Pat Flannery, MMI's executive vice president, was often on the phone until midnight in negotiations.

This was not the only unnerving issue facing the Downeys. Loretta did not meet Walters during the second interview because she was at Sibley Hospital, where she had learned that the lump in her breast was cancerous. When the good news came through about the database agreement, the entire office celebrated -- but without Loretta. She was undergoing tests and sifting through the complex decisions she would need to make regarding treatment.

The Downeys contend that Harvey Richmond had been out of the loop regarding the new system. Once he was debriefed, he could see that the requirements for manager of client services would drastically increase. The position might be negated entirely. So he decided to postpone hiring Walters.

Deposition of Loretta Downey, 3/24/98:

Mr. Hutter: When did you first learn that Margaret Walters had sought a position with MMI?

Mr. Grayson: I would like to note for the record it is now 3:34 in the afternoon. This witness has been testifying since 9:00 this morning. This is the first question that you have asked regarding Walters or the discrimination charges in this case.

Mr. Hutter: Can you answer the question?

The Witness: When she took legal action against DCI.

To the Downeys, the charge of discrimination was ludicrous -- DCI was co-owned by a woman after all. They had had several pregnant employees in the past, they say, and had worked hard to accommodate their needs and schedules, even providing generous leave time.

Two weeks after filing her suit, Walters's phone rang. It was Alan Grayson, who identified himself as the attorney representing the Downeys. Walters found his manner threatening and adversarial. He left her with the sense that if she didn't back down and withdraw the claim, they would have no qualms about making life difficult for her.

Instead of backing down, however, Walters signed a retainer with attorney Chet Levitt, of Jacobs, Jacobs & Farber in Rockville.

Despite their insistence that they had done nothing wrong, the Downeys wanted a quick end to the matter, and they authorized settlement discussions between Levitt and Grayson's associate, Fred A. Cohen. A hostile exchange of correspondence set the tone for years to come.

Letter from Fred Cohen, 7/8/94:

Dear Mr. Levitt: I write to respond to your settlement demand dated July 6, 1994. I hope that I received the entire letter. After all, the portion of the letter that I received did not contain a demand that Downey Communications, Inc. ("Downey") transfer to Ms. Walters the title to the wizard's castle in "The Wizard of Oz."

If Ms. Walters desires to accept the settlement offer dated June 27, 1994, the offer will remain open until 5:00 p.m. on Monday, July 11, 1994. You can be assured that Downey will vigorously defend itself if the offer is not accepted . . .

For the next several months, Walters spent much of her time making phone calls to nudge things forward. Each time she called the Maryland human relations commission to find out the status of her case, she was told that the supervisor with whom she was supposed to communicate was "on vacation." Walters had recently been laid off from her job due to company cutbacks. She had interviewed with two other companies while very noticeably pregnant and had gotten nowhere. In October, Walters gave birth to a girl, whom she and Steve named Jackie.

With Walters unemployed and the arrival of a new baby, money was tight. Steve urged her to come to some agreement with the Downeys and take whatever money they offered her. Frustrated by the lack of progress on her case, she prodded her lawyers yet again for action.

By November, settlement correspondence had fluttered back and forth between Levitt and Cohen, who finally agreed upon the sum of $3,750. Walters says her attorneys were never authorized to accept such an offer without her approval. The Downeys contended that there had been a solid verbal agreement and accused her of reneging. Breach of settlement, they knew, was a violation of the law.

At this point Walters decided to fire Chet Levitt and his law firm, frustrated with their lack of progress. Then another person arose to champion Walters's cause.

Elaine Sykes has been an investigator for the Maryland Commission on Human Relations for 11 years. She is also a Baptist minister. Sykes believes the investigator job's primary necessity is common sense, although she carries a copy of the Code of Maryland Regulations with her at all times. She is not someone who scares easily. Six months after the original charges were filed, the commission assigned Sykes to Walters's case. She told Walters that settlement was an option, but the charges would have to be dropped. Walters was already appalled at the personal and financial costs of filing the suit, but she was not willing to back down.

Sykes went to work. She sent DCI a request for information that listed nine categories of documentation to be submitted within the week. Cohen replied with what became DCI's first line of defense: that Walters had sued the wrong company.

Letter from Fred Cohen, 12/15/94:

Dear Ms. Sykes:

 . . . DCI does not own MMI or any of MMI's stock; MMI does not own DCI or any of DCI's stock; the Complainant here, Margaret Walters, never applied for, or was offered, employment with DCI; Ms. Walters applied for a position with MMI, as her experience related to sales and marketing data . . . It follows that there can be no finding that DCI discriminated against Ms. Walters, and therefore the above charge must be dismissed . . .

At Sykes's urging, Walters then filed an amended charge of discrimination including MMI as a respondent. Cohen countered that it had been filed six days beyond the six-month statute of limitations. He accused the commission of illicitly backdating the claim. In a letter to Cohen, Elaine Sykes quoted from the statutes themselves: "All amendments shall relate back to the original filing date." She then slapped the company with a subpoena, now demanding 21 categories of documents.

Letter from Fred Cohen, 3/14/95:

Dear Ms. Sykes:

. . . Since you had MMI's alleged employment letter from the start of this investigation, and you nevertheless investigated DCI . . . without any complaint being issued against MMI, we believe that this subpoena is a lame effort to cover up your own mistake. Your unprofessional conduct toward counsel for the Respondent supports this hypothesis. You have lost all objectivity, and you have no business remaining on this case. Any effort to enforce this subpoena would be absurd, but if you do so, we look forward to the opportunity of deposing you, and giving you a taste of your own medicine.

In response to this aggressive and hostile tone, Sykes phoned Walters. "These are very evil people," she told her. "I can't give you any advice except that you need to pray for them."

Cohen aimed his fire at Walters as well. In an April 1995 letter, he warned her that she had seven days to withdraw her complaint, or they would pursue action against her personally for malicious prosecution, or abuse of process. This threat came at a particularly vulnerable time for Walters. Tensions were running high at home. Steve's job at the Environmental Protection Agency was on shaky ground because of layoffs. Again Steve asked Margaret to put an end to the legal battle -- whatever that entailed.

Walters spent her days following up employment leads, working mindless temp jobs and handing over her unemployment checks to Jackie and Elizabeth's day-care center. Finally the slow machinery of the Maryland commission made a finding of probable cause of pregnancy discrimination.

For every step Walters took, however, the Downeys countered. In May 1995 a late-model brown sedan pulled up in front of Walters's house. A burly off-duty police officer handed Walters a summons. As she read it, a feeling of panic swept over her. DCI was suing Walters in Virginia for abuse of process and breach of settlement. The Maryland commission had no jurisdiction in Virginia. Margaret Walters was on her own.

Alan Grayson is a Harvard Law School graduate, tall and slim, self-assured and righteous. He has been the Downeys' counsel for more than 10 years. "The whole idea of these people being sued for pregnancy discrimination was far-fetched to start with," he says. By the spring of 1995, as the case headed to the courts, Grayson personally took over the Downeys' defense. When Mark Wasserman, Walters's newly hired lawyer in Virginia, successfully sought an injunction against DCI to stop its lawsuit,Grayson refiled and an appellate court reversed the earlier ruling, allowing the Downeys' suit to go forward.

Walters and her lawyer believed the suit against her constituted illegal retaliation, and in November Walters added this charge to her Maryland complaint.

Letter from Mark Wasserman, 9/5/95:

Dear Mr. Grayson:

You continued to demonstrate your total lack of professionalism by calling me an [expletive] today. I will not tolerate that and I hung up the phone as a result, as I will in the future should you continue your abusive behavior . . .

Letter from Alan Grayson, 9/8/95:

Dear Mr. Wasserman:

I don't understand what you think you can accomplish by such snide and inexplicable remarks as, "your reputation proceeds you"* or "you continued to demonstrate a total lack of professionalism."

Rather than trying to demonize me personally in this wholly unpersuasive manner, I suggest that you give some thought as to why your client continues to harass DCI long after it was clear to her that DCI had nothing to do with any employment offer to her. Your feigned indignation, directed at me personally, is no substitute for a valid defense.

*The correct terminology is, "your reputation precedes you."

Loretta Downey, for one, was fuming, and the Downeys and Alan Grayson were now determined to take the matter to trial. While the Downeys were readying their legal arsenal for trial, Walters added a major weapon to her own.

Sue Huhta had been at Arnold & Porter for only two years. Intense and edgy, she was on the lookout for a compelling case to add to Arnold & Porter's roster. When she learned of Walters's suit, which was being shopped around by the Washington Lawyers' Committee for Civil Rights, she decided to jump in.

Paper started to fly. Arnold & Porter sent document requests to Grayson & Associates for the Downeys' files. Grayson fired back with 22 third-party subpoenas -- including to Walters's dry cleaner, her tailor, her credit card company, and her OB-GYN. By now, the case had passed from the Maryland commission into the federal jurisdiction of the EEOC. Trial was set for January 1999.

At one point, the battleground shifted to Florida, where lawyers from both sides flew to depose Pat Flannery, who had been fired from DCI in 1997. Huhta and Grayson squared off over the question of attorney-client privilege.

Deposition of Pat Flannery, 3/27/98:

Mr. Grayson: Hold it. I have something to say that's very important. I don't want you to interrupt until I'm finished. We just adjourned and Ms. Huhta, the attorney for Ms. Walters, called Mr. Flannery's attorney and spoke to her from 11:18 until 11:50. I asked to remain in the room and she refused and insisted that I leave the room and not participate in the conversation.

At some later point, Mr. Flannery rejoined them. I knocked on the door, again asked to come into the room and she again insisted that I leave the room. I surmise from this that there were material discussions regarding this case between herself and Mr. Flannery and Mr. Flannery's attorney who is an agent of Mr. Flannery . . . On the basis of her flagrant disregard for the attorney-client privilege . . . I ask Ms. Huhta and her firm to disqualify themselves from any further action in this case and leave this room.

Heated discussion and more accusations followed:

Mr. Grayson: Let the record reflect that Ms. Huhta is laughing at the prospect of her actually having to follow a Supreme Court of Maryland decision.

Grayson went on to file a motion with the court to force Arnold & Porter to withdraw. The judge refused.

Memorandum and Order by United States District Judge Frederic N. Smalkin, 5/5/98:

. . . this simple, one-plaintiff pregnancy discrimination case has now descended into an unseemly morass that approaches the intolerable.

By now there was such suspicion on both sides that when Grayson paid a visit to Arnold & Porter's offices to measure and examine Walters's interview clothes, he was closely escorted wherever he went -- even to the restroom.

In the meantime, heavy damage to the Downeys' defense came from Harvey Richmond, who was fired just three months after Walters was offered employment at MMI.

Deposition of Harvey Richmond, 3/2/98:

Q: Can you tell me what was said during your phone conversation?

A: I told her that we were sorry to inform her that we had changed the scope of the job. . . . As a result of that, we had decided to wait until our extended requirements were fully known before proceeding with the hire, and we were postponing our hiring position.

Q: Why did you tell Ms. Walters that?

A: Because Ed Downey instructed me to.

Q: Was it your belief that that was the reason you were either revoking her job offer or postponing the hiring decision.

A: Not really.

Q: What was your belief as to the reason the job offer was revoked?

A: Because she deceived us, according to Loretta Downey.

A: Do you consider the contents of this letter [sent by Richmond to Walters explaining why they could not hire her] to be truthful at the time they were written -- it was written, excuse me.

Mr. Grayson: Objection; vague. You can answer.

The Witness: They are misleading.

Richmond, who promptly joined Walters's previous employer -- the rival marketing firm Information Resources Inc. -- after he was fired, went on to state that the rescinded job never changed in the way the Downeys had suggested and that the woman who finally took the position was considerably less qualified than Walters.

Before Richmond left, however, he said, the Downeys offered him a severance package of approximately $75,000, contingent upon his signing an affidavit corroborating their version of events in the Walters case. Richmond refused to sign.

In August 1998, Judge Smalkin ruled that DCI/MMI constituted a single integrated employer. Walters, it appeared, hadn't sued the wrong company after all. Smalkin also found ample evidence of pregnancy discrimination. Further, he agreed that the plaintiffs had established a sound basis for charging the Downeys with retaliation. He denied the Downeys' assertion that Walters breached the settlement agreement and called their claim that Walters fraudulently backdated her amended charge "patently ridiculous."

The Downeys had lost on all fronts. In desperation, they switched legal horses, hiring the Baltimore firm Hogan & Hartson, which specializes in employment law. Gil Abramson, who was now handling their case, spent the next few months stepping gingerly around veritable land mines left behind from four years of bitter litigation.

Although Abramson concluded his clients would have had a good chance in court, the Downeys decided to settle. The sheer cost of bringing the case before a jury -- an amount well into six figures -- persuaded them to quit. "It was a business decision," says Abramson. They also feared that if Walters won, Arnold & Porter would demand attorneys fees -- another six-figure sum.

Under the negotiated settlement the Downeys agreed to pay Walters $95,000, $13,000 of which would go to partially reimburse her legal fees. Walters would eventually go home with about $60,000. In addition, the EEOC would closely monitor DCI/MMI hiring and employment practices over the next 18 months.

While the case had officially come to an end, the caustic residue would remain for some time to come. "If there was some way I could have reached a more fair outcome, I would have done it," says Alan Grayson. "There should have been a clear-cut win for the Downeys."

Sue Huhta, of course, sees it much differently. "The tactics we were faced with presented difficult challenges," she says. "I have nothing short of pride regarding our responses." The Walters case was one of several cited when Arnold & Porter was named D.C.'s 1999 Pro Bono Law Firm of the Year.

One of the springer spaniels ambles into Loretta Downey's office and flops down next to her desk. There is the sound of light laughter from an adjoining office and the smell of coffee brewing. On a wall, as ordered by the EEOC, is a posted notice announcing the outcome of the lawsuit, and DCI/MMI now has a human resources expert to keep them out of trouble.

To this day Loretta Downey and Margaret Walters have never met nor spoken. But Downey, her cancer now in remission, has her own sense of Walters's motivations. "I would guess she saw this as an opportunity to make some money. I try to think of another scenario and I can't really. Ed said `shakedown.' I don't think that's too strong a term."

Walters, who gave birth to another girl, Caroline, in the summer of 1998, feels deeply grateful for Arnold & Porter's commitment to her case -- as well as vindicated. What DCI/MMI did was "illegal," she says. "It was my obligation to pursue it."

As it turned out, resolution came at a critical moment for Walters. During final settlement negotiations with the Downeys, Jackie was diagnosed with leukemia. The money from the settlement has helped the family cover expenses during her treatment.

Asked if she would go through this kind of legal ordeal again, Walters considers the question for a moment. "I guess I'd say I would, because I can't imagine that this bizarre thing could ever happen again."

Letter from Ed Downey to Fred Cohen, 1/18/95:

Fred: The attached [subpoena] is a real pain in the ass because of the amount of work it will require plus the fact that most of it is pure nonsense and ridiculous.

Let me know what you think.

 Ed. 

R.C. Barajas last wrote for the Magazine about a boy with cerebral palsy and his mother. 

Rescuing Jonah

Originally published in the Washington Post Magazine: October 25, 1998

The diagnosis was devastating. But locked inside their child's damaged body was a spirit that challenged them to act

Jonah is sipping water from the double-handled cup held by his father, Michael, when he starts to choke. He sputters for a moment, and his eyes half-close. He has slumped a little to his left, although he is propped up in his highchair between two chopped-off cylinders of bright pink Styrofoam. His arms rest passively on his tray as Michael dries his face with a soft cloth. "You forgot to tell your throat you were swallowing," says his mother, Margie. "Say, `I'm swallowing, throat! Help me out, tongue!' "

Michael asks Jonah, who is almost 4, if he wants to take a break from breakfast. Margie, who is deep in the throes of first-trimester morning sickness, is wolfing down a bowl of cornflakes with single-minded purpose, chasing it with a Diet Pepsi. But she stops for a moment to point out that Jonah has eaten only two bites of scrambled egg, and that it most certainly is not time for a break.

Distracted from his egg, Jonah correctly identifies several of the magnetic letters on his tray table. Margie quizzes him about what he learned for Father's Day.

"D-a-d-d-y!" he spells aloud in a breathless, fluttering voice.

"J-o-n-a-h!" he then offers in a whispery croon, grinning from ear to ear.

A moment later Michael delivers another small forkful of egg to Jonah's mouth and suddenly Jonah begins to choke again. It's okay, Margie tells him. Put your head down. Margie tells Jonah to remind his tummy to "go the right way." No one is panicking; they have all been through this many times before. Jonah recovers and Michael uses the cloth again to gently wipe egg bits off his chin.

Michael and Jonah end up sharing the egg in the old one-bite-for-you-one-bite-for-me routine. By the time they are done, some 35 minutes have passed, and Jonah has eaten about a third of an egg.

Cerebral palsy is an umbrella term for a broad range of neurological disorders and brain damage caused by oxygen deprivation occurring in utero or within the first year of life. The damaged nervous system typically causes stiff, awkward movements, affecting some or all limbs. A child with CP might have some degree of mental retardation, seizures or abnormalities in breathing, swallowing and sucking. The range of disabilities is enormous.

In Jonah's case the damage done to his brain seems to have occurred in the womb during the first three months of Margie's pregnancy as a result of an undetected infection. Jonah's class of disability, which affects all four of his limbs, is called mixed spastic quadriplegia. He is "floppy" -- poor muscle tone and control -- and when he tries to move his muscles, his movement becomes spastic and his limbs overshoot the mark. He cannot walk, sit or roll unassisted, his voice is very soft and

His brain is normal; his body is not.

Jonah is a striking boy. When he smiles, as he often does, a large dimple imprints his right cheek. His large ears frame a delicate face; his enormous eyes are sage green with the lashes of a llama. At an airport once, Margie counted 57 people who commented on those eyes. After hearing all the remarks, Jonah used to wake up in the morning and say, "Hi, Mom. Beautiful eyes," as if it were part of a normal greeting.

Margie and Michael are painfully aware that much of a young child's perception of the world rests on the discovery of how to move through it physically. Where the mind goes, the body follows, and the two are so thoroughly integrated that even laughter and tears are expressed from head to toe.

At the park, Margie and Michael see typical children play hide-and-seek, slide and swing, pilfer buckets and shovels from other kids and then become inconsolable when the items have to be returned. Most children have the luxury of gallivanting carelessly through the world, their minds and bodies working together to interpret and express. Most parents have the luxury of letting them have experiences on their own.

But Margie and Michael have a child whose mind and body are at odds. One who relies on his parents to bring the world to him. They watch as he struggles to use the limbs that misinterpret his commands. Each night they go to sleep wondering: How can a parent go about rescuing a child like Jonah?

Jonah began life in crisis. He was in the neonatal intensive care unit at Arlington Hospital for his first two weeks because he threw up constantly. At 4 months, his pediatrician told Margie and Michael that Jonah had certain developmental and physical delays. It was because of this early, careful observation that they began taking Jonah to a physical therapist. No one spoke of cerebral palsy, until Michael's mother mentioned the term.

Margie learned later that many neurologists refuse to diagnose cerebral palsy before 12 months, preferring to hedge their bets; there is a certain percentage of early motor function difficulties that children simply outgrow. There is also a minefield of potential psychological repercussions when a disease like CP is diagnosed. Parents often go through a period of mourning in which they grieve for the able-bodied child that will never be.

Margie and Michael questioned their neurologist about cerebral palsy when Jonah was 10 months old. The neurologist said, "Let's not think about that at this point."

Feeling shut out and frustrated, Margie shared her feelings with Jonah's physical therapist in Arlington, where they live. She suggested that Margie look in the clinic's library. They walked over to the bookshelf. Margie was aware that protocol dictates that a physical therapist cannot name a suspected disorder until a doctor has made the final diagnosis. So she began reading aloud the subjects of the books on the shelves in front of her:

Autism. Brain Injury. Cerebral Palsy. Down Syndrome.

"Let's go back one," the therapist said quietly.

Later, after reading 37 pages, Margie handed the book to Michael, crying. It described every symptom, every single thing they'd been through in the past 10 months. The next day they returned to the physical therapist and Margie said, "Jonah has CP."

"Of course he does," the therapist said.

Margie LeVant is a petite, pretty woman in her mid-thirties. Before Jonah was born she worked as an environmental consultant for nonprofit organizations. She and Michael Gilman, who is a tax lawyer, have been married for five years. Her effervescent cuteness is tempered by a quick mind and a tenacious energy. She laughs easily, but does not suffer fools lightly. Fiercely loyal to her friends, Margie would make a formidable enemy.

Margie is an optimist and an activist. She sees the glass half full. The first physical therapy sessions with Jonah fell upon Margie, enabling her to see earlier and more clearly Jonah's limitations. When Michael attended, he felt terribly depressed afterward. There was very little Jonah could do for himself, and no way of predicting how able he might become later in life, or how dependent he might remain.

The first two years of Jonah's life were hard ones. He threw up so much that he simply stopped eating. Margie and Michael were forced to have a gastrostomy tube put directly into his stomach to feed him. They spent two years in family therapy with Jonah to get him to resume eating. Their psychiatrist at Children's Hospital in Washington finally diagnosed Jonah as suffering from "post and current traumatic stress syndrome." When faced with the choice between breathing and eating, Jonah opted to breathe.

Many children with cerebral palsy are nonverbal. Many have little control over their facial muscles, and many are intellectually impaired. But from very early on, Margie was almost certain that Jonah was not. His perceptiveness became clear to her when Margie was getting dressed one morning and temporarily put on one of Michael's shirts. From the bed where Jonah was lying, there suddenly came giggles, and then uncontrollable, tiny fits of laughter. It took several minutes for Margie to determine the cause. She finally realized that Jonah thought it was a riot that Mommy was wearing Daddy's shirt. Jonah was only 14 months old at the time.

Perseverance and pushing toward independence for their son became a common theme in their household. Jonah was not coddled or permitted to wallow in self-pity. Margie and Michael set high standards as well for those who worked with Jonah. At his preschool at Jamestown Elementary School, Jonah's teachers told Margie they wanted him to use adaptive communication technology (including augmented voice boxes equipped with buttons that activate prerecorded words) at the age of 2. Margie flatly refused. She told them she felt that if Jonah needed to say something, and people couldn't understand him, he could work harder to make himself clear. He didn't need to push a button that said, "I want a cracker."

She fought that battle and won.

Two years ago, a chance meeting was to test Margie and Michael's commitment to self-sufficiency for their child and provide a focus for all of their hopes. It was right before Jo-nah's second birthday, and he had just been fitted for ankle-foot orthotics. These braces force the foot flat and perpendicular to the leg so a child can more easily position his center of gravity for walking. Jonah and Margie were at Tysons Corner, trying out the braces in the mall, when Margie spotted a boy, 7 or 8 years old, walking with AFOs. She asked the boy's mother if he had CP, and if she might introduce Jonah to him. It was important, she thought, that Jonah see a big boy with cerebral palsy who walked.

As the two mothers spoke, the woman, whose name was Lynne Carr, asked Margie if she had heard of "conductive edu-cation." Margie laughs, remembering exactly what Lynne said: "If I had a 2-year-old with CP, I would go straight to Hungary."

Margie thought Lynne meant straight to hell, that if she had to start over again with a 2-year-old, she'd leap off a cliff.

In fact, Lynne meant Budapest.

Conductive education is an intensive method of teaching children with motor disabilities that was developed by Hungarian researcher Andras Peto in the 1940s. The technique is now carried on at the Peto Institute in Budapest. The results have been successful enough to spark interest around the world, resulting in the formation of conductive education centers in several countries. There are many overlaps between conductive ed and traditional physical therapy, but one big difference is that physical therapy is often administered to kids with cerebral palsy in one-hour sessions a few times a week. Conductive ed classes, by contrast, meet every day for several hours at a time, in five- to eight-week sessions. Not one moment is idle. The sessions are intensive, relentless and demanding.

The primary goal of conductive education is to allow the child to become competent in daily activities such as dressing, eating and maintaining personal hygiene. Movements taught in class are not just practiced in order to strengthen unused muscles, but apply directly to daily living, such as reaching for an object or putting on a shirt. Teachers coax the children to stretch, sit up, pull up, roll over and walk. They often use peer pressure to motivate children to be competitive and try harder to move their bodies as they are taught.

Although conductive ed is relatively new in the United States, it is gaining acceptance. Lynne Carr was involved with a group of parents who took it upon themselves to bring out Peto-trained "conductors" from Budapest. A new session was just starting. There was space for one more child of Jonah's age. Margie and Michael decided it was worth the $1,000 fee and enrolled Jonah.

At the first class Jonah sat at a table, with Margie supporting him, and listened to every word the conductor said. He was the only verbal child in the group. At the end of each class, Margie and Jonah would struggle to the car, and cry all the way home from exhaustion. It was, she recalls, like boot camp. But by the end of four grueling weeks, Jonah was able to stand, with help, for the first time in his life.

Seeing the strides Jonah had made, Margie wondered why the sessions weren't available full time. Lynne explained that to organize the whole curriculum and wade through all the red tape of setting themselves up as an organization would call for someone with boundless motivation and a wholehearted belief in what they were doing.

Someone like Margie.

By October 1996, she had organized parents into a group called the Capitol Association for Conductive Education. The parents obtained their 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status and began fund-raising. In four months they raised $25,000. Margie's parents alone raised $7,000. Even her dentist sent $100. The association began its first courses the following summer, all taught by instructors from the Peto Institute. Twenty children from seven states attended. Before the end of the year the association had received a small grant from United Cerebral Palsy of America, and this year it obtained free office space and a van from Inova Health System.

The controlled, kinetic atmosphere of the conductive education classroom was very trying for Jonah; it is part of his personality to be passive and unmotivated. Margie constantly challenged this passivity and inertia to compel him to progress. She hoped there might come a time when he would stop envisioning himself as a non-walker, when he would decide he wants that ball rolling across the floor. And he wants it first.

At Fairfax Christian Church, a five-week session of conductive education is in progress. Margie looks radiant, the first-trimester nausea having subsided. Her dark auburn hair in a French ponytail, her green jumper just revealing the push of her 16th week, she looks like a young, exuberant girl. Jonah is lying on a plinth -- the low, slatted wooden platform on which the children perform many of their tasks. There are five children in this class. The group conductor, Csilla, is teaching the children to lie flat and straight. Jo-nah's teenage assistant is encouraging him to do the exercise. Only his head and shoulders are visible from behind the next plinth, but he looks around with his penetrating green eyes and begins to giggle.

Music is used in every aspect of the teaching. Songs are sung by the conductors and the children during each exercise, music and movement integrating until they become one in the child's mind. If Jonah is slouching at home, Margie can sing a piece of the song and Jonah will try to straighten himself on cue.

Csilla begins the series of movements that will have all the children roll over, straighten their legs and raise their arms from a supine position.

I'm Jonah, I'm lying straight.

1-2-3-4-5.

I'm Jonah, I'm lying straight.

Jonah begins to cry quiet, high-pitched sobs, as he turns away toward the wall. His assistant soothes him. "Up," he tells her. She holds him, calms him. He is ready to go again.

After much hard work and a lot of encouragement, Jonah and his classmates are sitting on the ends of their plinths. Jonah's assistant rewards him with congratulations and kisses. But there is more work to do.

If you're happy and you know it, stamp your feet.

If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands . . .

Csilla stands behind Jonah and concentrates on him. Keep your weight on your feet, Jonah. Stand tall. Stand tall. Keep your head in the middle. Crouch down. Jonah's face is taut with concentration as his arms struggle to support his delicate hands laced around the rungs of the ladder-back chair in front of him.

It's lunch time. Jonah still has to eat baby food. An assistant, the same young woman who comforted him earlier, places the spoon in his hand and helps him guide it to his mouth. Jonah takes his time before he decides to cooperate. Margie comes in and reminds him to say "Ahh" and to tuck his chin. There is an edge to her voice. She needs him to eat. A few moments later, Jonah whispers "Ahh" for the poised, loaded spoon.

When he has eaten enough, he is placed on the floor next to the assistant. Jonah lies quietly for a time, then smiles slowly and begins to tickle her by moving his whole hand under her bare foot. She tells him that in order to tickle properly, he must wiggle his fingers. He does. She laughs. Everything here is a lesson.

After a breakthrough with a psychiatrist at Children's Hospital, Jonah began to eat like an average 2-year-old. His parents had to supplement his food with a heavily fortified formula, and he still had to be fed through the gastrostomy tube at night. Margie told Jonah that when he turned 4 over the summer, they were going to take out his "button" and he would have to eat like a big boy. They felt he was old enough to take responsibility for his body. Margie knew Jonah hated the button. It was

Margie was willing to take the chance of dropping his nutritional intake, even though Jonah was still not on the charts for body weight. Her hope was that if he felt that he was mature enough not to need the tube anymore, he'd be willing to cross over that psychological line and take more food orally.

Soon, however, this plan had to be abandoned. Jonah was still receiving two-thirds of his nutrition through the tube at night, and to remove it would have taken away his primary source of calories.

Margie took the disappointment in stride. Speaking with the gastroenterologist, she and Michael discovered that although Jonah was not even on the height and weight charts for a typical child, he was solidly in the 50th percentile of children with cerebral palsy. For the first time in Jonah's life, the doctor said that if he just kept growing the way he was now, it would be sufficient. After years of being told Jonah was too thin, that they had to do better, Margie and Michael finally felt that their efforts to feed their son had been rewarded.

Jonah's gossamer voice flutters into the kitchen from the porch where he and Michael are having lunch. The door between the porch and the sunny, high-ceilinged kitchen is slightly ajar.

"Open the door, Daddy!" From the kitchen window, the top of Jonah's head and his magnificent eyes are just visible as he sits in his highchair.

Margie's eyes dart up from the kitchen table at the sound of Jonah's voice. She beams and waves vigorously through the old-fashioned paned-glass window that looks out onto the porch.

"Jonah! Jonah! Can you see me in the window? Hi! I'm waving at you, do you see me?"

Jonah's face turns but he cannot quite seem to find the source of the sound. His head lolls back a little as he tries to follow his mother's voice. Mouth open, a slight smile blossoming, his eyes languidly search for her.

Margie knocks sharply on the window. "Jonah! Hi! Mommy's here! Put your chin down please. Thank you."

Margie is trying to beat the ever-ticking clock. There are a mere two years, maybe three, left before kindergarten, or even first grade. She and Michael are hoping to have Jonah enter regular public school with his neighbors of the same age, and there is so much he must learn before then. He will need confidence if he is to connect with mainstream life at school.

For now Margie's primary concern is that Jonah be independent in his toilet training by the time he goes to public school. She knows this is an almost unimaginable leap, but she also knows that for a 6-year-old this would be an enormous boon. She is also hopeful that he might, by then, be able to feed himself, but knows that goal may still be out of reach. He will probably need to have an assistant at lunch time.

As for things that Jonah might need in the future -- a keyboard, a wheelchair, an assistant -- his parents count on Jonah to provide the answer. Margie believes a realistic scenario is that Jonah will say to himself, "I worked really hard on this for years and I could walk in class, but it's just not worth the energy, so I choose the chair." She wants him to make the choice.

A glass half full. Margie seems somewhat baffled when people express sorrow or, worse yet, pity about her family's situation. When they took Jonah to the hospital and he was about a year old, she recalls, they were sitting in the waiting room with a family who had just learned that their 8-year-old daughter was in the final stages of liver cancer and wasn't leaving the hospital. By comparison, Jonah's problems seemed like just a hitch -- not a tragedy.

Margie and Michael believe Jonah will have much to offer the baby brother to come, that the role of big brother will be exciting, rewarding and at times infuriating. They also believe it will be good for Jonah to share their attentions with another. It is also, inevitably, another push for Jonah toward independence. He will have to learn to reach for things, to entertain himself, to move his body to get where he wants to go.

There are many unknowns ahead. Like other children with cerebral palsy, Jonah is more likely to develop respiratory problems, has an increased risk of seizure disorders and is more prone to certain infections. But Margie knows that each case of cerebral palsy is unique and most statistical projections are unreliable.

Margie and Michael are well aware of the fact that the healthiest person is not always the happiest. Rather, it is the one who feels the best about himself and feels the most loved. They know they cannot cure Jonah nor control how healthy he is. But they can care for him, cultivate his independence and nurture his pride. And they can make him feel loved. That's their way of reaching their son, of giving him a good life.

R.C. Barajas last wrote for the Magazine in April. 

Here is the sad addendum to this story:

A Mother's Crusade Ended by Her Death 

Woman Fought to Help Son, Others With Cerebral Palsy 

David Montgomery, Washington Post Staff Writer

October 28, 1998

By Saturday morning, the years of pain and faith and hard work were starting to pay off for Margie LeVant. Her 4-year-old son, Jonah, who has cerebral palsy, seemed to be responding well to an innovative therapy. The organization she helped found to treat disabled children like Jonah was a week away from launching a full-time program. In a few hours, The Washington Post would publish an inspiring magazine story about her family's travails and her own tough optimism. And LeVant was going into labor with her second boy. 

Then something went terribly wrong, something so medically freakish that it happens to maybe one in 80,000 pregnant women. While LeVant was in bed in her Arlington home early Saturday morning, some of her amniotic fluid seeped into her bloodstream. It caused a reaction that shut down her body's ability to process oxygen, then it stopped her heart.

LeVant died almost immediately. 

Her baby boy was delivered in the emergency room, but he had gone without oxygen for 45 minutes, and he was severely brain damaged. Samuel LeVant Gilman, who lived 36 hours, will be buried today, next to his mother, who was buried Monday. 

The title of the story published Sunday in The Washington Post Magazine was "Rescuing Jonah." It was about Samuel's brother, Jonah; his mother; and his father, Michael Gilman -- an ordinary family who set an extraordinary example, according to those who have known them. They persevered in the private, daily grind of dealing with disability and joined a public crusade to promote a cutting-edge treatment program. And the person at the center of the story, the person leading the fight to give their son an independent and good life, was Margie.

Now her friends and relatives, once both dazzled and warmed by LeVant's energy, are trying to imagine life without her. In the process, they are confronting a question as old as grief: If the universe is a sane and ordered place, how can fate be so cruel? 

Yesterday, in an anguished, broken voice, Gilman described what it would be like as a single parent to raise a son with special needs.

"I'm not so concerned about the work," he said. "I'm concerned about the -- I can't be the parent that she was. That's lost forever."

Margie's father, Howard LeVant, of Rochester, N.Y., said his emotions ranged from "unprintable" anger at the way things turned out to a vulnerable need to reach out for support. "What we are doing is holding on to each other, emotionally and physically," he said. "People are flying in from all over."

"You can't explain this," said Lynne Carr, of Fairfax County, whose 11-year-old son has cerebral palsy and who met LeVant as part of an activist group of parents seeking the latest therapies. "It's such a tragedy. . . . Just like my son has cerebral palsy. I don't blame God. But God can help you to deal with it." 

The day after his mother died, Jonah -- who has a fluttering, musical voice and big green eyes -- tried to call her on his toy telephone. The boy's mind is as sharp as any 4-year-old's, but his body won't cooperate, leaving him with poor muscle control in all four of his limbs. Soon after Jonah's mother died, his father had frankly told him the truth. She was gone. 

"Tell me again what happened to Mommy," Jonah said the next day.

Patiently and gently, Gilman told the boy again of death, of the physical disappearance of his mother. In the meantime, Jonah has been distracted from his loss with the sudden appearance of so many relatives in the house.

LeVant was a petite and pretty woman in her mid-thirties, an optimist and an activist, according to the magazine profile by freelance writer R.C. Barajas, who spent months with the family, chronicling how they painstakingly and lovingly met the challenges of raising Jonah. LeVant and Gilman, a tax lawyer, were married for five years. She was an environmental consultant for nonprofit organizations before Jonah was born. 

LeVant was possessed of an apparently bottomless source of energy and enthusiasm, her friends say. Many among the 400 who attended her funeral chuckled fondly during a eulogy by friend Kelly Scarborough, who observed of LeVant: "She could take 25 phone calls, plan a fund-raiser, build a rabbit hutch, get Jonah off to school, design a pair of earrings, and stencil her kitchen before I could even brush my teeth in the morning!" 

Doctors believe that Jonah's cerebral palsy stems from a lack of oxygen during his first few months in the womb, probably the result of an undetected infection. For the first two years of his life, he threw up almost every time he ate, and even now meals remain an ordeal. But LeVant and Gilman resolved that he would grow up to live as independently as possible. 

When Jonah was about 2, LeVant and Jonah chanced to meet Carr and her son Jason at a Tysons Corner mall. LeVant introduced herself, and in no time, Carr was telling her of a promising therapy that was being pioneered in Budapest.

It is called conductive education, a form of intensive rehabilitation for children with motor difficulties such as cerebral palsy. The method was just beginning to gain prominence in the United States, but Lynne and Gary Carr were among a few local parents who knew of it. They were involved in finding instructors for short conductive education courses in the Washington area. 

What was missing was a formal, full-time organization, with legal charitable status. Enter Margie LeVant. "I think everyone was intimidated by the concept of turning this into an organization, except Margie," Gary Carr said. The Capital Association for Conductive Education was formed. Next week, after many months of part-time, ad- hoc classes for about 30 children, it will begin operations with office space and regularly scheduled classes. The association is planning a lasting tribute in LeVant's memory, possibly a scholarship in her name for a child with cerebral palsy whose parents cannot afford the classes. 

LeVant and Gilman thought carefully about having a second child. They sought medical advice on whether there was any chance another baby might be somehow prone to having cerebral palsy as well. "We had some assurance that we had as good a shot as anyone to have a healthy baby," Gilman said. "We felt like Jonah would be a good sibling, and it would be good for him to have a sibling."

But LeVant's pregnancy wasn't easy. Her doctors at Arlington Hospital prescribed bed rest because she had signs of going into premature labor, according to her family. She was allowed back on her feet only recently. Early Saturday morning, she told her husband that her water had broken. He left the bedroom momentarily, and when he came back, he could tell she was stricken, unable to communicate. "She was dying," Gilman said. Doctors call the attack an "amniotic fluid embolism." The odds of it happening are between one in 8,000 and one in 80,000 pregnancies, said Susanne Bathgate, assistant professor of obstetrics and gynecology at George Washington University, citing standard medical studies.

Jonah is hanging in there. "He's a remarkable little boy," his father said. And friends and relatives say they are coming to believe that LeVant's light and energy will persist, despite her absence.

"A lot of children have benefited from her work," Lynne Carr said, "and will continue to do so."

And two years after this story was published, I was given the opportunity to check in with Michael and Jonah.

The Procedure

Originally published in the Washington Post Magazine on April 5, 1998

During the 45-minute drive they try to make fun of some of the names of the small businesses they pass, all looking vacant and despondent in the midday drizzle. There is a travel agency, a nail care salon, a deli. The names aren't very good, and so don't make interesting sport. They lapse into silence until they reach the building, right across from the paint store, just as the receptionist had promised on the phone.

The office is at the back of the building, up on the second floor. The complex is open to the sky, the various offices lining the edges of the open quadrangle. As they walk up the wet cement stairs to the floor above, she almost expects to see a mob of angry protesters at the door of the clinic. Instead there is just a door, scuffed and used, many letters of the clinic's name missing, scratched down, she imagines, by angry fingernails. The only new-looking part of the entryway is a small black intercom attached to the door. 

"May I help you?"

"We have a 12:30 appointment."

"Name?"

She states it, then spells it. No one can ever get it right otherwise.

"Are you two together?"

For the first time she realizes there's a camera on them. Yes, they are together. They are allowed to push the door open and enter.

The office is tiny, packed with chairs, a slash of Plexiglas not more than four feet in front of the door separating the patients from the goings-on in the rooms behind. She is signed in through a space in the Plexiglas and asked to pay. She uses her MasterCard, vaguely wondering if she will be upset when she sees the name of the clinic and the amount of $225 on the monthly statement. It also makes her feel old, using a credit card for this. So established, so mature, so fiscally responsible. Such a person should know better than to be in this predicament. They sit in the two chairs closest to the door. There is only one other couple in the waiting room, young, maybe just friends. The girl has beautiful long hair artificially colored auburn,

Someone has painted the waiting room a shade of dusty rose, in an attempt, she guesses, to warm up the small, cramped slice of a room, although the gray carpet has been pieced together in places with duct tape, strictly, coldly, utilitarian. The walls advertise birth control methods, HIV testing and condoms. A poster of two handsome young men embracing says underneath you'll never guess what they wear to bed. There is a basket of free condoms on a counter top near the receptionist's desk. A photocopied flier on the Plexiglas tells patients that next month this clinic is consolidating with the clinic in the next town, and will be moving to, the flier promises, a bigger and better location. This new location is a lot closer to her home, she realizes. Too bad she couldn't have waited. A clock radio from a previous decade plays cloying soft rock to a pile of dogeared magazines next to her left elbow. She has an almost overpowering impulse to turn the radio off, but picks up a travel magazine

She is asked to follow a nurse, asked to pee into a cup, asked to go into a back room to have her blood pressure and temperature taken. She must also have some blood drawn to determine if she is anemic.

"Are you a bleeder?" asks the nurse after taking out the needle.

She says no, and sure enough there is barely a drop of blood to put a Band-Aid on. With her heart pounding the way it is, she is amazed the blood doesn't spurt across the room.

She is returned to the waiting area once again. A few more couples have trickled in. A young woman is buzzed in as they wait. (May I help you? Name? Are you together?) The young woman pays in cash, a wad of crumpled bills. Shakily, she tries to smooth each one before handing it to the receptionist.

A buzz. A man's voice says he wants to come in. The receptionist asks if he has an appointment. He doesn't. She says she can't let him in. He says there is a girl he wants to see. The receptionist says she's sorry but she still cannot let him enter. He asks if the receptionist can at least tell him if this certain girl is there. The receptionist tells him she cannot give him that information. Finally, he leaves.

She's prepared when they call her name again, because the woman who was there before her, the one with the dyed auburn hair that is sometimes in a bun and sometimes down, always goes right before her. First come, first served.

This time she is introduced to a counselor, who takes her into a room with a big desk and nothing on the walls. A life-size plastic uterus and vagina are on the desk, and the counselor uses them to illustrate exactly what is going to happen to her during the procedure. From now on, it is called the Procedure. That's fine with her. It's a better word than some, and right now, words have become terribly important to her. She finds herself searching almost obsessively for the right words to say and think. Doesn't want things to come back and haunt her. The counselor tells her of the risks; incomplete evacuation, infection, perforation of the uterus, hemorrhage. She is told that the Procedure is far less dangerous, statistically, than giving birth. She is also warned that the vacuum machine is very loud and alarming, and with all the advances in medical science, isn't it terrible, says the counselor, that they can't find a more humane-sounding machine for this sensitive purpose? The counselor asks if she wants some birth control pills to take home with her. She says no thank you. Didn't like the pill. Was on it once for a short time, but was uncomfortable about messing with her hormones. She'd preferred the diaphragm. Of course it had failed her miserably this time, although she'd used it religiously since the twins were born 15 months ago. She took little comfort knowing she was now a statistic herself, one of the 5 percent, give or take, for whom the diaphragm had failed.

The counselor is European, perhaps Dutch, although she can't be sure, and is very good at what she does. It helps her feel calmer. Her heart has been going like a mad thing ever since she read, in graphic detail, the required material about the Procedure. Now it quiets down to a muffled nervousness, a state where no one else could possibly guess how scared she really is. A more comfortable place to be.

The counselor informs her that the doctor who will perform the Procedure on all the women there today ("who is wonderful and very experienced and whom we are so lucky to have with us here at the clinic!") never arrives before 3 p.m. They are free to go out to the local deli for some soup, or just to wait in the waiting area. Whatever they wish. The counselor asks if there are any other questions. Why do we have to be here at 12:30 if the doctor doesn't arrive until after 3? she finds herself asking. It is patiently explained that the reason this clinic can perform the Procedure so cheaply, a third the price of other clinics, is its assembly line method. By the time the doctor gets there, everyone is prepped, counseled and waiting. He therefore has only to do Procedure after Procedure until 7, with a minimum of downtime. It seems brutal but is efficient, and the counselor has a grim, sad conviction in her explanation. So it must be. Before she leaves the room, the counselor gives her two Advil in a paper cup. For the cramping later.

She and her husband decide to leave for 45 minutes or so, and inform the receptionist, who reminds them they are No. 2, and so must return by 2:30, in case the doctor should come early. By this time, the waiting room is about two-thirds full, mostly women, some still filling out information on clipboards, some leafing absently through magazines, some just gazing ahead. She wonders if their frightened faces reflect her own, wonders how many also have children waiting for them at home. Do theirchildren consume them as hers do, leaving nothing left over? Her three boys complete her. She fears a fourth would absorb her, deplete the precious reservoir of time she has so carefully garnered to spend with each child. She fears this with such conviction that it has brought her to this place.

The two of them walk past the still-busy lunchtime traffic; the drizzle has stopped but the cars' tires still hiss through puddles and over dark gray pavement. They walk to Borders Books, a few blocks away. She thinks he wants to get something to eat, but he has another idea in mind. He leads her purposefully to the music section. After a small search and the help of an employee, he has the Beatles' White Album in his hands. She has wanted it for some time. They look admiringly at the crisp new CD and laugh when they notice a typo in the text on the back. Disc 1, Dics 2, it says. They joke that it might someday be worth a lot of money. Like the upside-down airplane in that stamp. In another moment the floor has dropped and her heart is in her throat as she thinks on what they must return to in a few minutes. It is now 2:10.

He goes and pays for the CD and a magazine while she thumbs through a book she cannot read. At the coffee counter, he gets a cookie and a drink, but although she hasn't eaten since 8 or so, she cannot manage even a bite of the cookie. They walk back toward the clinic, stopping at a pay phone to call the babysitter and find out how it's going, and to tell her they might be a little later than planned. They were suitably cryptic about what they were doing. They didn't know her views on the subject. Didn't want to offend.

Walking up the steps, they pass a couple they recognize from the waiting room. She wonders what number they are and how they can look so relaxed. She hopes she doesn't faint or throw up when it comes time.

They knock on the door and are buzzed in immediately. They are shocked to find the waiting room jammed. All the chairs are taken except those that are simply too close together for comfort. People have put their feet up on those. It is obvious that the doctor has not arrived yet. The two of them stand next to the door, in the wedge of space in front of the Plexiglas window. It is very hot and there is no discernible air current of any kind. The buzzer sounds again. (Yes? Do you have an appointment? Name? Can you please identify that package you have in your hands?) The receptionist's voice is strained and tense. The voice through the intercom, with some humor, says the box contains implements. The caller is finally buzzed in, a striking tall, slim black woman with an enormous box labeled by drawings and print as cooking implements. Asked to leave the box behind the counter, she does so. The woman's name is hard to decipher, and so a little clarifying is necessary with the receptionist. Finally, however, the woman takes a place near the door, standing. The woman smiles almost imperceptibly at her, and she returns it as they take off their heavy coats.

Some time passes, and a few waiting couples leave in search of food or air. She and her husband sit down in newly abandoned chairs, still warm from their previous occupants. She doesn't want to sit, but her legs are tired from standing and her heart is going at such a speed she thinks she'd better. The slim black woman sits next to her, filling out papers on the clipboard. She wonders what number the black woman is. Across from her is No. 1, the woman with the dyed auburn hair. Their eyes meetand they smile quickly. Next to the young woman is a black couple. He is reading the information sheet intently, and she is filling out the forms. They hold hands often and smile at each other, even laugh softly a few times. There is something reassuringin their affection, their intimacy, their obvious respect for each other in the middle of that rose-colored waiting room. She sees the woman look off into the distance occasionally, sadness in her lovely face. She cannot take her eyes off them.

No. 1 is called.

Her heart leaps out of her chest and she wants to run, but before she can, her name is called. She stands up and moves past the cramped row of chairs.

Can my husband come?

No, you are going in for the actual Procedure now. He has to wait out here.

So she hands him her coat and goes through the door.

She is asked to empty her bladder and place the sanitary napkin she was asked to bring with her in her underpants.

Another nurse comes up to her with a frank smile, introduces herself and, as they enter the small room, tells her that she'll be with her throughout the whole Procedure. She then asks her to undress from the waist down, leaving her socks on. She is to sit on the examining table with a sheet over her lap to wait for the doctor.

There is a sink, a table, a cart of instruments. Not much to look at. It is very hot. The walls are thin and she hears conversations. The nurses outside are talking about vacations, about cruises; somebody mentions the Bahamas, and there are excited gasps and a muted swell of laughter.

From next door, through the thin walls, she hears a loud machine switched on. It starts and stops a couple of times over a few minutes and then is quiet. It sounds exactly like an industrial vacuum cleaner. She thinks her heart is going to give out. She tries to think about her kids.

From outside the door there is more conversation as the nurses continue to talk about vacations. A man's deep voice joins briefly in the levity, there is a rustling of papers directly outside the door, then a brisk knock. The nurse enters first wheeling a machine, and she is followed by a thick-set doctor who introduces himself in a rich African accent. He is at once efficient and soft-spoken as he prepares.

She has been asked to recline and to shove her bottom right to the edge of the table "until it feels like you're going to fall off." The nurse stands at her right side and hands things expertly to the doctor as he seats himself on the low stool. The nurse says that she may hold her hand if she wishes, and she answers that she may take her up on that. The doctor assures her that this nurse may look petite, but that she has very strong hands indeed. He says this as his own strong hands quickly examine her uterus.

She tries to relax as the speculum is inserted. The nurse tells her what the doctor is doing so she can prepare. He gives her a shot of anesthetic in her cervix. She bucks and then apologizes when the doctor firmly tells her not to do that again. She then takes the nurse's hand and holds on tight to the protective glove. For hours afterward, her right hand will smell like latex, until she finally is able to scrub off the scent with two washings of strong soap.

Another shot in her cervix. The pain is unexpected and nauseating. She feels she's being stabbed. Apologizing for her moaning and her twitching away from the doctor, she starts to babble about her short labor before the C-section with the twins, about how she pitied the nurse who had to catheterize her without anesthetic. She had bucked and squirmed and apologized then, too, until the nurse really had to get quite sharp with her. The nurse next to her now and the doctor crouched between her legsask questions and make comments as she tries desperately to keep her mind on the story, but even she knows they are simply keeping her distracted in order that she be more pliant during the Procedure.

The third and final shot is given, and she cries out as quietly as she is able, aware of the thin walls and the other women waiting behind them. Then the doctor has to manually dilate the cervix. She cramps immediately and tries to breathe as the nurse coaches her. He goes in again with a larger tube, and she grips the latexed hand as tightly as she can. The cramping sensation is sickening, and she slips into herself for a moment until the nurse tells her the worst is over and that they're almost done now. Finish your story, she is urged.

She tries, concentrating on her memories as the vacuum is switched on and starts to gurgle and hiss.

The doctor had scheduled a C-section for Thursday but her membranes ruptured on the Saturday before, at 11 at night. She was taken by ambulance to the closest hospital (not the one they were supposed to deliver at) and rushed into Labor and Delivery. One of the babies' feet was already descending, and she was whisked off to the OR. Her doctor had arrived just in time to make a fast incision and get the loud, healthy twins into the world, two minutes apart, in a whirlwind of activity and a crowd of medical personnel. Their first cries were so beautiful as she briefly held each of them before they were taken off for observation. She was happy, stunned. She'd been unable to sleep . . .

The machine is switched off, the doctor scrapes inside her uterus with a spoon-like instrument whose name she was told but cannot remember. There is a little more vacuuming, like for crumbs, she vaguely thinks, and it is done. The nurse leaves for a few moments, and the doctor stands at the small counter, quietly filling in some forms.

She lies there on her back, the fluorescent lights in her face, her ears ringing in the silence. Her heart has slowed, but she now fears it will slow too much and just stop. At that moment she doesn't care. Her emptiness and horror are so deep she cannot think. Silently she weeps. She cannot imagine ever stopping.

The doctor finishes his paperwork and prepares to leave. He looks at her as he opens the door and tells her softly to let it out, to cry as hard as she can, that it is healing. She nods but keeps crying silently after he leaves, afraid of what might come out if she let go.

The nurse returns briskly to tidy up and to see how her patient is doing. She is allowed to sit up, then to stand if she doesn't feel too woozy. The bleeding is determined not to be excessive, and she is allowed to dress. Before she can get into her underwear with the sanitary napkin already in place, a large drop of bright red blood falls on the linoleum floor. The nurse efficiently sprays it with a massive dose of disinfectant, and wipes it away.

As she puts on her shoes, she says to the nurse that she thinks this must be one of the hardest jobs imaginable. The nurse, still busy preparing the room for the next Procedure, says it's what she believes in, what she knows to be the right thing for families, children and women. She is very worried about what the future holds for clinics like theirs. Her strength is contagious, her conviction gratifying. The nurse reminds her to go home and love her children, that over the next weeks they will be her greatest source of strength and the key to her recovery. It gives her momentary strength, this talk, to walk to the recovery room. The nurse has her sit in a reclining chair, brings her a cup of hot tea and puts a heavy blanket over her. Although

The recovery room is not lit by fluorescent tubes. There is the welcome relief of a regular desk lamp, and a small glow of recessed lighting from above the counter where refreshments are kept. Otherwise, the room is dimly lit. Out in the hallway, a large phone repairman works in a cramped utility closet full of wires and circuit breakers that she can just see from her place in the reclining chair. A nurse, after chatting with the repairman for a few moments, comes in and warns that an alarm might go off but not to worry if it does. Something to do with the phones. The nurse looks at her and asks how it's going. She just nods and tries to look like she's pulling herself together.

She is still weeping and cannot stop.

There is a horrible, unspeakable moment when she feels her whole body crying out, "Stop! Wait! Put it back! I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! Don't leave me, please! I don't abandon you, I don't hate you. I don't cast you out of my family!" And she thinks she will go mad then.

The tears continue. The warmth of the tea seeps into her body where the blood and tissue have left a hole. Another woman is led into the room and seated in the chair to her right, hidden, blessedly, behind the lamp. She does not want to see this other woman, and thinks she would dissolve if she did.

A nurse, who has been seated at a desk in the corner of the dim room, working busily, comes over to her and the new arrival with a paper bag for each. She takes out two bottles of pills and explains what each one is for and how to take them. There is Methergine, to help the uterus clamp down and stem the flow of blood, and there is an antibiotic to ward off infection. They are instructed to eat a yogurt a day to help prevent a yeast infection, to rest as much as possible, and to look for thesigns of trouble: infection, hemorrhage, deep depression. The nurse asks them, when they feel up to it, to go to the bathroom and check their sanitary pads. If the amount of blood is not in excess of their normal flow on the heaviest day of their period,they can leave.

In the bathroom, she is surprised not to see more blood. She feels as if there should be more. She feels as if blood has been flowing from her at the rate of knots. She also thinks she should feel faint. She does not feel faint, or lightheaded, or woozy. She thinks she should lose consciousness, faint dead away and lie there in a heap on the floor like a dead thing.

Back down the hallway, past the bathroom with the broken toilet seat, and out the door into the crowded waiting room. She feels all faces on hers, searching, trying to read her experience. She feels her face must speak volumes. Her eyes search out her husband and she motions with her head for him to follow her. At the slash of Plexiglas she makes an appointment for a follow-up visit two weeks later, and flies out of the office.

She weeps without stopping or speaking on the way home. Only when they miss their exit does the mundane chore of finding their way back to their oldest son's preschool override her misery. She waits in the car while her husband goes in to get their son, knowing the blood would overflow through her jeans if she got up. Instead she disappears behind the "After the Abortion" pamphlet, being careful to hide the name, lest she offend anyone. The school is in a church after all.

She is conscious of an anger, a rage that she cannot express her sorrow and grief to anyone, that in this tragedy she is considered a villain rather than a victim. Loneliness, guilt, bottomless sorrow fill her and the tears run down her face as she sinks into a sadness so profound she cannot fathom it.

Then there is a knock on the window. Her son is there, face full of pride, showing her a drawing of a monster and telling her all about it through the glass. She can't make out a word, but when she opens the door and hugs him, his blond curls tumble against her face and his smell of last night's shampoo and today's damp sweat fill her head, dulling for a moment the reek of disinfectant and latex.

At home the babies cling to her, both with colds, both wanting her lap, both climbing with sharp little feet onto her sore belly. She feels the blood fairly gushing into her sanitary napkin each time she stands up or even moves. She stays sitting on the floor for fear she will faint, alone with the babies, thinks she might bleed to death. She knows it might be easier that way.

She bleeds a lot, passing clots that so alarm her she calls the clinic's hot line later that evening. They reassure her, and indeed in time, a few days only, the bleeding slows to a weak spotting, occasionally getting heavier if she is especially active, but certainly fading, dying, dimming with each passing day. She never faints, never bleeds more than a normal amount, and doesn't go mad or die. In fact, she feels her body becoming her own again in a few days, her nausea and exhaustion disappearing almost without her realizing it. There are tears and darkness and fear, and, at times, her guilt weighs on her chest and makes it hard for her to breathe. She herself was, after all, the fourth child, a surprise to her parents a full five years after the supposed last child in their family.

Two weeks after the abortion, she is steady and calm. A month later she is once again so involved with the needs of her children she doesn't think much about what she has done. Five months later, she thinks occasionally on the fact that she would now be seven months pregnant, would be feeling a baby's movements and tentative kicks. The next month she reads a well-written pro-life article and bursts into tears. It is the only time a pro-life point of view has touched her. When October rolls around, the nine-month mark, it will be hard. But all she can do now is be grateful she is not pregnant. There is a closeness with the three boys, a love that is almost blinding at times. Relief floods her, and she feels a deep gratitude to the people and the clinic that made it possible for her not to have another child. No one who counts on her need be shortchanged, none of the people in her care need settle for less. Spread as thin as she now is, she still feels in control and able to divide her loveand energies equally. She will always remember this, even when grieving for her loss.