by Joan Cohen
LAND OF LAST CHANCES
Copyright © 2019 by Joan Cohen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published August 2019
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-600-8
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-601-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019937406
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Bruce
“The dangers of life are infinite, and among them is safety.”
—Goethe
CHAPTER 1
When a gynecologist wears cowboy boots with his suit pants and white coat, who knows what’s going through his mind as he guides women’s heels into his exam table’s stirrups? Jeanne had been Dr. O’Rourke’s patient for twenty years, long enough to find his sense of humor questionable, but this joke was over the line: “Jeanne, forget menopause. Think pregnancy.”
She’d been wondering for the last couple of years if he was still with it. The guy had to be what?—eighty?—well past retirement age. She decided to indulge him. “Good one, Doctor.”
He rubbed his hands together in delight, his white brush mustache following the curve of his smile. “Joke about pregnancy? Never. A change-of-life baby—I know a lot of women who’d be thrilled to conceive at forty-eight. They take hormones, use IVF. Spend a fortune.”
Did they still call them “change-of-life” babies? The man was truly a Victorian. Jeanne’s eyes swept the examining room with its all-white counters, window trim, and blinds, looking for someplace to focus besides O’Rourke’s face, lit by an equally white, toothy grin. They settled on the ultrasound machine his smiling assistant wheeled out from the corner. Why was everyone so damn happy?
O’Rourke held the handle of what appeared to be a jump rope in his hand, only he called it a vaginal probe. “Just need to see your sonogram on the monitor.” He urged Jeanne to relax as he indicated a pulsing spot in the middle of the screen. Relax! Her heart was jumping out of her chest, keeping time with the phoom, phoom, phoom the doctor described as a nice strong fetal heartbeat. “About twelve weeks along, I would say. Why don’t you get dressed and come into my office so we can discuss next steps?”
She buttoned her silk blouse, pulled on her wool pantsuit, and stepped into her heels. The paper gown she discharged into the trash bin as though she bore it ill will. Her mother’s voice seemed to come through the paging system: “Whatever you do, don’t get pregnant. A baby will change your life.”
Her mother had made it clear Jeanne’s birth had changed hers, and not for the better, but she never seemed to think about the effect those words might have had on her daughter. To Mother’s credit, she always added, “Reach for the stars.” She made it clear reaching and having kids were mutually exclusive, so Jeanne reached and stayed single—single, but hardly celibate. What dismayed Jeanne was how hard it was to exorcise parental messages that had become internalized. By the time she’d realized her mother’s advice was bullshit, the only men she met were flawed marriage prospects. She tried not to ask herself if she’d simply gotten into the habit of writing them off.
The doctor was at his computer when Jeanne entered his office. She slipped into the leather chair in front of his desk and took a couple of deep breaths. “I gather from your reaction, Jeanne, this pregnancy was unplanned.”
She felt her face growing warm with embarrassment. “So many months had passed without my having a period—could have sworn it was a year—I stopped taking my birth control pills. I didn’t stop because I wanted a baby.”
“In that case, having an abortion could be a reasonable choice. You should consider, however, that a decision to terminate is likely irrevocable. At your age, I doubt you could conceive again, except perhaps with fertility treatments, and even then, the odds are low. Take some time to think about it. Would you consider discussing it with the father?”
“No point in letting the father know.” She tried and failed to imagine Vince cradling a baby—a 2005 Cabernet maybe, but not a baby.
“On the other hand, you should consider that after thirty-five, the risk of birth defects is greater than for younger women. Amniocentesis in your fifth month would be definitive, but my observation is”—he looked down at the sonogram on his desk—“your fetus may well be free of Down syndrome. I’m going by the size of the neck and the distance between the eyes, very preliminary, of course. Lucky for you, given your age. Your copy,” he said, extending his hand across the desk. Jeanne discovered her own hands were clenched around the armrests and unwound her fingers to accept the photo. She laid the picture of the smudgy white alien face down on her lap.
The doctor scribbled something on his prescription pad and tore off the top sheet. “These are the prenatal vitamins you should start. If you decide to continue with the pregnancy, and assuming you’re on good terms with the father, I’d suggest finding out about heritable diseases in his family.”
At her age, pregnancy was automatically categorized as high risk. Everyone over thirty-five was referred for genetic counseling to the Maternal Fetal Medicine Unit at Newford Wellman Hospital. She and the father would be advised which tests to undergo, including amniocentesis for her.
“We can talk about the sequence of visits when you make your decision. In the meantime, avoid these foods.” Reluctantly, she accepted the list, although she’d known enough pregnant women to anticipate the forbidden items. Raw fish was out (giving up sushi was a heartbreaker). Alcohol was a no-no, of course. Skip sitting with Vince at the bar at Legal Seafood, feasting on oysters and beer.
“I know this seems like a lot to take in at once,” O’Rourke said, “but you can call with questions.” He rose and helped her gather her instruction sheets. April 18 was her due date.
“Due date,” she repeated in a daze, not the due date for paying her credit card bill, not a project’s required completion date. She’d had deadlines for three decades, but a baby wasn’t a product intro that could be slipped a month. This entry in her spreadsheet couldn’t be shifted by an Excel keystroke. Unplanned events were an anathema, and motherhood was nowhere on Jeanne’s planning horizon. She fought to maintain control, though her chest felt like an overcharged electrical panel.
O’Rourke’s waiting room was furnished with plump upholstered chairs occupied by even plumper pregnant women who radiated the serenity Jeanne lacked. As she hurried toward the exit, they seemed to regard her with faint knowing smiles, confirming she was part of their sisterhood. Had the medical building been on fire, she couldn’t have fled faster, but there was no leaving behind the doctor’s news.
When Jeanne pushed open the double doors of the medical building, the cold gust hitting her face felt like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers. Unfortunately, this was one trance from which she would not awaken. What a fucking mess. If she could just get back to her office, the world would be normal again. At the office, she knew who she was, a pers
on who saw menopause as anything but a change of life, just a temporary set of nuisance symptoms to be handled like some disruption in the business cycle or an increase in the cost of capital. Adding the word “baby” to “change of life” was like tacking on “holocaust” to “nuclear.”
Jeanne placed her hand over her heart as though that physical act could calm its agitated beat. Maybe she wasn’t ready to face everyone at the office as though nothing had changed. As she drove, the phrase “change-of-life baby” repeated in her mind until it seemed to be coming from her GPS, which took it upon itself unbidden to deliver her to her mother’s house.
When she visited this Newford Tudor, the home she’d been visiting nearly every weekend since her mother’s death in May, she took bittersweet pleasure in returning to an earlier time. Not so today. Her footfalls reverberated off the plaster, wood, and glass of the vacant house, but the doctor’s words followed her through the hollow gloom.
Jeanne’s mother had favored ponderous furnishings, a Jacobean dining room set and maroon-and-navy-upholstered pieces for the living room. She seemed to need reassurance they wouldn’t be swept away by an errant gust blowing past the draperies. In the end, they were swept away by an estate sale.
All that remained was the contents of the attic, where the daunting August heat had made expending effort unappealing. Now it was autumn, a season on a tight schedule. Foliage turned, peaked, fell, and blew down the streets as though hastily clearing a path for winter. Even daylight retreated. The season suited Jeanne. Thanks to Dr. O’Rourke, she understood why she’d felt so tired the last couple of months. No more. With purposeful steps, she ascended two flights of stairs to the unfinished space filled with her mother’s forgotten possessions.
The top flaps of each carton were interwoven. She shook the dust off a discarded lawn chair before sitting and frowned as her eyes fell on a dark corner where the roof met the beams supporting the attic floor. Tufts of insulation protruded from the space where the floor boards ended, perhaps deposited by nesting mice.
Jeanne shuddered. It was embarrassing to remain fearful of rodents. As a child, she’d been afraid bats inhabited those corners, even had nightmares where she found herself trapped in the attic with screaming, winged creatures, unable to reach the stairs. Mother had assured her nothing hung in wait in those corners. Now the attic held the only thing her mother had feared—a pregnant daughter.
Jeanne pulled her tablet out of her bag. In moments, the screen displayed a spreadsheet, its rows and columns the tidy reduction of all that had filled the house. No evidence of sentimentality resided at the end of those rows, where each item was relegated to trash or Goodwill. She exhaled. Spreadsheets calmed her. She could almost hear Vince laughing. “Only you, Jeanne, could find comfort in a bunch of numbers printed in little white spaces.”
What of it? The hairiest, most amorphous problem could be tamed by a spreadsheet. With the help of a few formulas, the numbers propagated themselves. The attic would yield to the same efficient approach, and the only thing left to shed would be the house itself. She sighed—and the baby. Apparently, propagation couldn’t always be controlled.
The cleaning-out process had dragged on longer than the time she’d allocated, an excess she would never have permitted herself at work. Business risks proliferated when projects ran late. There were financial consequences to holding on to the house—continuing expenses and delayed income—but the house had some kind of hold on her.
She descended to the second floor, where her bedroom door stood opposite or in opposition to her mother’s. The door wobbled a bit on its hinges, not surprising, given how often Jeanne had slammed it shut. Her childhood still existed within those rooms in another dimension. Scents from the past lingered in the corners, and the echoes of conversations seemed audible still.
When Jeanne was seventeen and excited about leaving for Cornell, her mother had stood in this doorway, actually leaned against the doorframe in a pose more casual than was her custom. “I’ve heard the rigorous academics at Cornell are accompanied by a pretty active social scene.” Jeanne wondered why she would make such an obvious observation, especially since Jeanne had never let social life get in the way of her studies. She braced herself for some pithy saying or piece of advice sure to deflate her. “There are actually people—gifted students, career-minded young women, even social butterflies—who have their tubes tied to eliminate all risk of pregnancy and avoid the bother of birth control.”
Jeanne stared. “At seventeen?”
“Uh huh . . . just think about it.”
She pulled her bedroom door shut. It had been a mistake going back there today. The house—the attic—needed her full attention, but her pregnancy was all-consuming. She couldn’t stay.
Jeanne reached the Grand Grille that evening before Vince and asked the hostess to seat them in a booth, where she hoped they’d have a modicum of privacy. She’d deliberately come early so she could think about how to break the news to him. She slid into the booth and settled herself next to the wall, a position which felt secure from doctors dropping bombshells. Maybe she shouldn’t drop one on Vince. She was going to have an abortion anyway, and he’d be shocked, maybe even pissed. There was no upside.
In spite of their seeing each other for a year, longer than she’d expected, the ground rules were clear. Neither of them was in the marriage market. Vince wanted to live together, but Jeanne didn’t want anyone to know that she, a vice president, was sleeping with a key investor in her company—too cozy, too risky. Yet sleeping in Vince’s arms was too cozy to give up.
That was the conundrum, like the pregnancy. She had no interest in becoming a mother, but she didn’t like the idea that she would never again have the opportunity. Dr. O’Rourke had made it clear she was in the land of last chances.
She wanted to make her dilemma Vince’s fault, wanted to be angry at him, felt the summoned anger rising from her chest, curling her fists, though she knew better than to target him. She was in no mood for fairness. Use your head, Jeanne. Only unsullied logic yields good decisions.
The waitress approached and asked if she’d care for a cocktail while she waited. “Yes,” she said eagerly, uncurling her fists. “I’ll have a glass of your driest white.” She tried to settle her nerves by smoothing her napkin across her navy slacks. The napkin left lint on her pants, so she focused on brushing it away. The wine appeared, but still no Vince. She pulled the glass toward her and pushed away her momentary guilt. Alcohol would be bad for the baby. Baby! Jeanne, what are you thinking? It’s not a baby. It’s a bunch of cells dividing, no different than a cancer.
She lowered her head, ashamed, even though she hadn’t spoken the words aloud. Okay, it’s an unwanted complication in my life, and it will soon be gone. The kid will be lucky, to boot. Who’d want to be born to me? My most successful long-term relationship is with my dog. She put down her glass. Didn’t really want a drink, anyway.
Vince strode down the aisle. He was a couple of years older than Jeanne but could have passed for five years younger. She loved his perpetually tan complexion and the cleft in his chin and noted how sharp he looked in his dark gray suit, light gray shirt, and black jacquard tie. This was the other Vince, the astute assessor of business opportunities. If Jeanne hadn’t seen him in a red gingham apron, there would be no way to conjure that picture from her imagination. He bought his clothes at the elegant Mr. Fred’s in Newford, so he was careful to shield them from cooking spatter.
Not only did Vince love to cook, he’d happily wipe down refrigerator shelves when Jeanne hadn’t noticed their opacity or climb on a chair to dust the brass dome of her kitchen light fixture. You had to love a guy like that. At the moment, though, Jeanne was not in a loving mood. She wanted to rail at the gods and seek retribution for her predicament. The gods, however, were unavailable. Only Vince was within range.
“Another exciting day?” He leaned in for a mini-kiss and slid along the bench opposite her.
“You ha
ve no idea,” she responded with a wry twist to her mouth. Laughing, he beckoned the waitress. First things first: a Chivas straight up. His bright mood felt like an affront to Jeanne, and she had trouble keeping the acid out of her voice. “Must you be so cheerful?” She was slipping into bitch mode. A small voice in her head warned her not to pick a fight.
He observed her for a moment. “I know that look. What’s eating you? Did I forget your birthday or something?”
She decided she would need the wine after all and took a good-sized swallow while the waitress centered Vince’s scotch on a cocktail napkin. He thanked her by name after glancing at her ID tag. Ever the charmer, Jeanne thought, and debated waiting until they had ordered to deliver her news. The words had a momentum all their own. “I’m pregnant.”
He stared for several seconds and then smiled in his quirky asymmetrical way, revealing more of his perfect teeth on one side than the other. Jeanne wondered if the baby would have teeth like that or her own orthodontist’s dream of an overbite. “Right,” he said. “That’s a good one.” She sat mute, and his smile faded. “Okay, that’s not funny.”
Why did he have such a confused expression? She wasn’t his knocked-up teenage girlfriend with Daddy holding a shotgun. “Don’t panic, Vince. I’ve only known for a few hours. I’m planning to terminate the pregnancy.”
“Wait a minute. Give me a chance to absorb this.” He took a sip of his drink. The furrows between his brows relaxed as his face took on a benevolent expression. “Why the hasty decision?” He put his hand over hers. “I think you should have it. In fact, I think it’s great.”
She withdrew her hand. “A minute ago, you looked like you were eying the fire exit.”
“Not true—I was just surprised. When are you planning to abort?”
She had a vision of frantic mission-control engineers, alarms blaring in the background, exhorting astronauts to abort. The waitress returned to their table, ordering pad in hand, but he waved her away. Jeanne ignored his question. “You know, you could have asked how I’m feeling.” She bit her lip in frustration. She knew she needed to stop.