All You Have to Do Is Call

  • Author: Kerri Maher
  • Publisher: Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House (New York)
  • Publication Date: September 19, 2023
  • Genre: Historical Fiction; Women’s Friendship Fiction
  • Pages: 368
  • ⚠️ Content Warning: abortion; reproductive rights

About the Book

A dramatic and inspiring novel based on the true story of the Jane Collective and the brave women who fought for women’s right to choose, from the USA Today bestselling author of The Paris Bookseller.

Chicago, early 1970s: Who does a woman call when she needs help? Jane.

The best-known secret in the city, Jane is an underground women’s health organization composed entirely of women helping women, empowering them to live lives free from the expectations of society by offering reproductive counseling and safe, illegal abortions. Veronica, Jane’s founder, prides herself on the services she has provided to thousands of women, yet the price of others’ freedom is that she leads a double life. When she’s not at Jane, Veronica plays the role of a conventional housewife—which becomes even more difficult during her own high-risk pregnancy.

Two more women in Veronica’s neighborhood are grappling with similar disconnects. Margaret, a young professor at the University of Chicago, secretly volunteers at Jane as she falls in love with a man whose attitude toward his ex-wife increasingly disturbs her. Patty, who’s long been content as a devoted wife and mother, has begun to sense that something essential is missing from her life. When her runaway younger sister Eliza shows up unexpectedly, Patty is forced to come to terms with what it really means to love and support a sister.

In this historic moment when the personal was nothing if not political, when television, movies, and commercials told women they’d “come a long way, baby,” Veronica, Margaret, and Patty must make choices that will change the course of their lives forever.

All You Have to Do Is Call – Excerpt (used with permission)

The last thing Veronica saw before the blindfold went on was how blue Siobhan’s eyes were. Blue and translucent, like the water she’d swum in with Doug on their honeymoon. Incredibly, they also gleamed. Thank you for being here with me, her friend’s eyes said.

The volume on her surroundings—twittering birds, passing cars, a distant siren through the cracked windows of the Oldsmobile—turned up to an almost deafening blast as the efficient woman with the Italian accent who wore a brown wool skirt tied one bandana, then another, over Veronica’s eyes, tugging the material down so that it almost occluded her nostrils, obliterating any possibility of pin-the-tail-on-the- donkey cheating in that sliver of light and sight on either side of the ridge of her nose.

Then she heard the brisk knotting of fabric as Siobhan was blind- folded; her friend’s hand tightened around hers, and she felt a sudden dampness in their mingled palms and fingers. Veronica pulsed Siobhan’s hand. I’m here.

“Va bene,” the Italian woman said, sliding herself out of the back of the sedan, the wool of her skirt producing an obscene noise against the leather of the seat. Then, after a series of thuds and creaks and clicks, Veronica felt the engine of the car rumble and vibrate beneath her, and Siobhan’s hand became a fist inside hers.

“Siamo pronte,” said the woman as the car began to move, pinning Veronica’s body to the back of the seat.

She wondered how Siobhan was feeling and if she was thinking about shouting, Stop the car! and changing her mind. The abortion itself was enough to be scared of, enough to make anyone get cold feet. But add to that the illegality and the unknowns—will the doctor be as gentle and thorough as their friend had promised, nothing like the equally thorough but thoroughly shitty doc their other friend had gone to who’d told her to keep her legs crossed next time; how much bleeding; how much pain; how much how much how much—and Veronica could completely understand why a woman, even one who’d already walked through as much fire as Siobhan, would stop the car.

But Siobhan said nothing.

She’d been single-minded and determined for two weeks, ever since she had secured this appointment, but feelings could change, especially in a situation like this, now that it had ceased to be a concept and was really and truly happening. Even Veronica had begun to feel nauseous, and she wondered if she was somehow taking on some of Siobhan’s overflow. She hoped so. If she could siphon off all Siobhan’s fear, she would; she’d carry it for her so that her friend could just be a shell for the next few hours. At least she was allowed to go with Siobhan; this doctor was the only one of the three choices who allowed someone to accompany the woman to the appointment.
For crying out loud, doing this alone is unthinkable.

The ride was shockingly short. They couldn’t have gotten much farther than the northern edge of Hyde Park, or the other side of the University of Chicago campus, or maybe the end of the Midway Plaisance, where seventy-six years ago women in corsets and bustles had strolled through the White City, ridden the very first Ferris wheel, and watched a belly dancer called Little Egypt gyrate in a mortifyingly named routine called the hootchy-kootchy.

Veronica felt the car loop into a parking place, and when their chauffeur opened the door, she scooted off the smooth leather seat, feeling Siobhan follow her out the same door. She emerged into air that felt shady, cool, and damp. It smelled damp, too, like a basement, tinged faintly with rotting banana. A covered parking lot? She couldn’t hear any other cars; all traffic and street noise was far in the distance. The Italian woman took Veronica’s hand in her dry, efficient one, and tugged her away from the car. Veronica pulled Siobhan along with her, their shared nausea ramping up with each unsure step in the dark.

Soon they were in an elevator, the doors closing on them. Veronica’s ears popped with the change in pressure. She tried to swallow, but her throat was so dry, the trickle of saliva burned.
Up, up, up they went, driving Veronica’s feet, legs, stomach, into the floor. Veronica held tight to Siobhan’s hand and pulsed a few times. Siobhan pulsed back.

Ding!

Her feet hit carpet the moment they stepped out of the elevator. She felt it squish under her huaraches, heard it let out a nearly in- audible sht with each step. Soon the Italian woman stopped, dropped Veronica’s hand, gripped her at her waist, then turned her slightly but roughly; she did the same to Siobhan, or so Veronica assumed be- cause she felt her friend twist, though she didn’t loosen her hold on her hand.

“Sit,” the woman commanded, though it sounded almost musical in her Italian accent.

Veronica pulsed Siobhan’s hand, then gently let go in order to squat and feel behind her. Lo and behold, there was a smooth wooden chair. She eased herself down, then felt to the side of her, and there was Siobhan’s leg. Their hands found each other again, and this time, Siobhan took Veronica’s one in her two.

“Are you okay?” Veronica whispered.

“No. But I will be.” Siobhan’s voice was clear and steady. Amazing.

“I’ll be here. I’m so proud of you.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Veronica thought she heard some sort of quiet motor and a faint bubbling noise. A fish tank? She tried to picture exotic blue and orange fish swimming lazily through seaweed and water, hiding in some coral.

Then there was the unmistakable flush of a toilet, and some running water. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… At least whoever it was had washed their hands. A door opened and closed. More soft footsteps.

“The doctor is ready,” said the Italian woman.

Veronica’s hand was suddenly free, suddenly cool, unbinding itself from her friend’s clasp.

“I’ll be right here,” Veronica said, and Siobhan did not respond.
As soon as a door closed, separating her from her friend, there were a few minutes of muffled noises, indistinct words and creaks and shuffles, and then there was only the fish tank. Veronica waited.

A week went by, and Siobhan got stronger. She told the women in their consciousness-raising group about her experience, and everyone marveled, congratulated, clapped, and nodded.
Then, ten days later, Veronica’s phone rang. Jenny from the group needed the phone number for the doctor Siobhan had gone to.

A few days after that, a stranger named Blaire called Siobhan. With increasing frequency, Veronica and Siobhan found themselves accompanying women, or sending them, to the Italian woman and her unseen doctor. Once, that doctor hadn’t been available and so Veronica had given out the name of another doctor, and he turned out to be one of the bad ones, who’d lectured the woman about God and sin and hell, and told her she didn’t need tetracycline, which only landed her in the ER with a fever three days later, where the nurses hooked her up to an IV full of antibiotics and told her not to be so careless next time. And even though most of them were what could only be called “good abortions,” every time the blindfold went on and a woman was rendered powerless, Veronica found herself thinking, There has to be a better way.

Excerpted from All You Have to Do Is Call by Kerri Maher Copyright © 2023 by Kerri Maher. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

My Thoughts

Since the United States Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022, eliminating the constitutional right to an abortion, this timely novel provides a stark reminder that countless women in several states where abortion is banned today are having to make hard choices, not unlike the fictional characters in All You Have to Do Is Call, which is set in the late ’60s/early ’70s.

While the contentious topic of abortion can be polarizing, the novel doesn’t force the reader to pick a side, which I liked.

What I didn’t like was the distracting number of extra characters, especially in the first half of the book. Maybe it’s just me, but at times it was unclear who was saying what and I had to reread some passages.

What does come through loud and clear is the strength of the friendship the three main characters, Veronica, Margaret, and Patty share.

Of the three, Patty appears to have changed the most in terms of her attitude toward abortion. Patty’s pivotal moment happens when she has a revelatory conversation with a priest, but not in a way that one might expect.

About the Author

Photo by Peter Su

Kerri Maher is the USA Today bestselling author of The Paris Bookseller, The Girl in White Gloves, The Kennedy Debutante, and, under the name Kerri Majors, This Is Not a Writing Manual: Notes for the Young Writer in the Real World. She holds an MFA from Columbia University and lives with her daughter and dog in a leafy suburb west of Boston, Massachusetts. Learn more online at http://www.kerrimaher.com.

Thank you to Berkley/Penguin Random House for inviting me to join the blog tour and read All You Have to Do Is Call by Kerri Maher. I received an advance digital review copy of the book via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

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