Read Out Of The Deep I Cry for Free Online

rock-hard lump of brown-and-gray snow that covered the curb and crunched up the salt-crusted sidewalk toward the historical society. She kept her head down and her hands jammed in her pockets to avoid having any pamphlets thrust on her.
    Don’t notice me, don’t notice me, she chanted in her head, but as she was the only other person within two blocks of the clinic, it wasn’t surprising that her incantation didn’t work.
    “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?”
    Clare lifted her eyes from the gritty walk. She couldn’t help it. A lifetime of conditioned politeness kicked in, and she pasted a pleasant expression on her face.
    You know what your problem is, Fergusson?
MSgt. Ashley “Hardball” Wright, her air force survival school instructor, had a tendency to leap into her thoughts at times like these.
You need to have a face that says get outta my way or I’ll kill you and eat your heart! Do you know what your face says, Fergusson? It says I’m a widdle bunny rabbit! Are you going to be a combat pilot or a widdle bunny rabbit, Fergusson?
    “Yes?” she said to the protestor.
Sir, a widdle bunny rabbit, sir
.
    The woman looked more like a member of the PTA than a political activist. She had a hand-knit tam pulled over long, curly hair, a heavy-duty parka, and sensible snow boots. She carried her placard and a clipboard in Scandinavian-knit mittens. “Would you be willing to sign a petition asking the aldermen to remove the current head of the clinic?”
    Clare raised her gloved hands. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with the director or what the clinic does.” She realized a split second after the words had left her mouth that she had made a serious mistake. She might just as well have invited the woman to proselytize her.
    “You must have health insurance,” the woman said, giving Clare’s expensive new coat a once-over.
    “It’s more because I’m fairly new to the area,” Clare said. “I moved here a little over a year ago.” She glanced past the woman, toward the sedate brick facade of the Millers Kill Historical Society. So near and yet so far. “I’m actually headed for the historical society over there…”
    “The clinic provides free health care to residents who fall in the gap between private insurance and Medicaid. In other words, the working poor. Do you think that lower-income people should have substandard health services?”
    Clare blinked. “No, of course not.”
    “Dr. Rouse has been running the clinic for thirty years.” The woman compressed her generous mouth into a flat line, as if there were a lot more she would like to say about Dr. Rouse. “I’m circulating this petition because he continues to stockpile and administer vaccines containing thimerosal to the children of Millers Kill.”
    “What?” Clare had braced herself for an antiabortion screed; this sudden shift into the chemical composition of vaccines left her way off in left field. “I’m sorry, I don’t-what’s thimerosal?”
    The woman dug into her parka pocket and pulled out a brochure that looked like the product of someone’s newsletter-and-greeting-card software. She handed it to Clare. MERCURY AND AUTISM-HOW TO PROTECT YOUR CHILD, it read.
    “Thimerosal is a preservative that’s commonly used in vaccination serums. It’s almost fifty percent mercury, a poisonous metal, and exposure in children under the age of three may cause autism.” She caught Clare’s gaze and held it. She had big brown eyes, intense but not fanatical. “Do you have kids?”
    “No. I’m not married.”
    The woman let out a laugh. “I wish I had been that smart.” She moved closer to Clare and poked at the homemade pamphlet with a mitten. You’ve probably never heard, then, that recommended schedules for vaccinations have infants going in for first shots at six to eight weeks. Can you imagine injecting a two-month-old baby with mercury?”
    “No,” Clare said, interested in spite of herself. “But surely we were all