The tea I made, according to Nancy’s instructions, tasted like hot mud. I had to drink it three times a day on an empty stomach. It was a foolproof recipe, Nancy had said, though one woman she knew took three more months to miscarry. “But it wasn’t alive in her,” Nancy said. “It hadn’t been alive for awhile.”

I brought the herbs and an immersion coil with me on my Christmas visit home, where everyone consoled me on my divorce and wanted to know about my exciting new life in Manhattan. I avoided the nuts and eggnog and slipped away to my room to make and drink the tea. I was drinking death, I told myself. I felt death working its way through my stomach, into my veins. No one knew what these herbs really did. If they killed me as well as the fetus I was carrying, maybe that was the consequence I needed to face. Who was stupid enough to get pregnant twice in as many years? Who was too stupid and obstinate to take advantage of the abortion services we had all worked so hard to make legal and safe? Me, that was who.