Rachel stiffened. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I wouldn’t think of charging a friend. Of Brian’s,” she added quickly. Too quickly, followed by a deep flush that fanned up her neck, turning her creamy pink skin an ugly mottled red.
Rose felt a twist of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach. Good. So she had an Achilles’ heel after all. And it was, as she’d suspected, Brian.
“I owe you then,” Rose said.
Rachel stopped at the door, and turned to give her a long look. And Rose thought, We are in a Fellini picture, seeing Rachel reflected in the pink mirrors, over and over, a dozen Rachels lined up like dominoes, tiny and golden with eyes like blue forget-me-nots. Once again, too, Rose had the eerie feeling she knew that face from somewhere else. ...
“You don’t owe me anything,” Rachel said, a thin smile pasted in place. “Consider us even.”
Not yet, Rose thought, her bitterness a cold thing now, not as long as you have Brian.
Chapter 22
Rachel checked her panties again, just to be sure.
No blood.
A wave of exhilarating relief swept over her as she sat huddled on the toilet in the tiny washroom at the back of the clinic.
Four days, she thought. And her period was almost never late. Still, it was too soon to let herself get excited.
Except she was excited. Hands shaking. Stomach fluttering. As she stood, pulling her panties up, smoothing her corduroy skirt, her knees felt a little rubbery. She flushed, then reached under her thin cotton blouse to adjust her bra. It had grown tight over the past few days, uncomfortably so; and her breasts felt heavy and tender, nipples sore.
All the signs are there.
Now, as she washed her hands in the rust-stained sink, Rachel could no longer contain her hope. Just suppose she were pregnant. After all these years. There was always that one in a thousand chance. She had seen a patient just the other day, a woman who’d been trying for years, and had finally given up, thought she was in menopause. Now, at forty-seven, pregnant with her first. A fluke. But they did happen.
Please, God, she prayed, let it be happening to me. To us. To Brian and me.
She thought of those painful fertility tests. The last time she’d even taken the morphine. And what did they prove, other than what she already knew? And how many years now, taking her temperature every morning, marking it on a curve chart, like a laboratory rat? And those thousands of trips to the bathroom, checking for suspicious stains. Feeling her breasts for tenderness. Hoping against hope. Praying.
And always, in the end, nothing.
[339] But what made it so awful, so much worse than just her own disappointment, was knowing she’d lied. She’d let Brian go believing there was no reason why they couldn’t have a child. If he knew—
Six years, she thought. After six years, she had not yet found exactly the right moment to tell him. Her fault, of course. Brian could not have been more tender, more understanding. She knew he would understand if she told him, but still she could not bring herself to say the words. And the longer she kept it from him, the worse it became, a betrayal all its own.
But, oh, those first years had been so good, she hadn’t had the heart to spoil a single day, a single minute. Back in New York, finishing her OB residency at Beth Israel—and Brian, working like a madman on his novel—they had had so little time that each hour together had become precious.
She recalled one snowy evening, dragging home after thirty-six hours on call ... and suddenly, in the cab, remembering Carnegie Hall, that the tickets for the Rubenstein concert were for that night. They had both been looking forward to it for weeks—a night of heavenly music, then dinner at the Russian Tea Room. But then ... all she wanted, ached for, was a hot bath, a night luxuriating in bed. Yet how could she let Brian down? He’d been so patient with her beastly hours, never complaining, never making her feel guilty. She owed him this.
But when she had arrived home, Brian, scrubbed and splendid in his best suit and tie, had taken a long look at her, and said, “I can’t compete with the Russian Tea Room on blintzes, but I make a pretty mean omelette. How about us staying home tonight, and I’ll throw something together?”
“Oh, Brian—” she had been close to tears with exhaustion and relief, “what about the concert? I know how much you wanted to go. ...”
“There’ll be other nights. Carnegie Hall isn’t going to collapse tomorrow. But it looks like you are. Anyway,” he said and grinned, that wonderful lopsided grin that warmed her so, “you’re a lot more fun to look at than old Rubenstein. And we can always put a record on.”
And so she had taken a long hot bath while Brian made dinner, then listened to Brahms while they ate. Afterwards, he led her into [340] the bedroom, and slowly, carefully undressed her. He licked her breasts, and the tender hollow between them, leaving the moist imprint of his lips in a trail along her belly. He threw off his own clothes, and pulled her down on the mattress.
“Now for dessert,” he murmured, grinning wickedly.
He entered her, and she was swept along the groundswell of his passion ... and her own, building swiftly, lifting her from her exhaustion, making her cry out, arch her spine to take in all of him she possibly could.
Drifting asleep in his arms, she had felt such bliss ... to think she was married to this wonderful man, that she had a whole lifetime of nights like this. And maybe someday, a miracle would happen and she would get pregnant—the specialists said it wasn’t impossible, just unlikely. It could be happening right now, at this very moment ... a baby ... Brian’s baby ... then everything would really be perfect. ...
God, when was the last time we made love? she wondered now, as she stood at the sink drying her hands. Weeks ago. That night he’d woken her from a sound sleep, with his caresses, his need was so great.
But she would make it up to him, soon—as soon as she could clear a few days, they would go away somewhere romantic, Antigua maybe. And this place was worth a few sacrifices, wasn’t it? Her own clinic, where she could somehow make up for, maybe even forget, the death she’d lived with in Nam, a place where poor women could get good prenatal care. God, it had been so hard, fighting through the red tape—lawyers, recommendations, interviews on interviews, mountains of applications and forms—just for their pittance of HEW funding. Then so hard, too, to find another doctor like herself, to wait for Kay to complete her nurse-midwife training, to find a suitable space.
She recalled opening day here at the East Side Women’s Health Center. The cheerful yellow paint just barely dry on the walls of what had been for sixty years a hardware store, the vinyl tile floor gleaming with new wax. And the waiting room—with its slightly lumpy second-hand couches, hanging plants, baskets of bright plastic toys—all day not a single person coming in the door, the place as deserted as a subway station at three in the morning.
And then Kay’s inspiration, a coffee maker. They stuck a big [341] sign on the window, in English and Spanish: FREE COFFEE AND DOUGHNUTS. Three women showed up that day. Shy, dark-haired ladies with lowered eyes and tentative smiles, balancing plump babies on their hips. By the end of the week, the waiting room was overflowing.
Now, after a year and a half, it was all coming together. These proud, strong-willed women had begun to trust her. She delivered their babies, listened to their problems, helped whenever and however she could. Of course she wanted to be with Brian more, but these people here, they so needed her. They were like her children in a way.
The doorknob rattled, breaking into her thoughts. “Rachel, are you in there?” Nancy Kandinsky called. “I’m on my way out. I know you are, too, but I think you should see this one. She asked for you. Lila Rodriguez. She ... well, you’ll see for yourself.”
Rachel sighed. It was after seven. She ached to go home. To feel Brian’s welcoming arms about her. She wouldn’t tell him what she suspected, hoped, not yet, not until she was sure. They’d both been disappointed too many times. But, oh, just to be with him
.
Then she remembered. Brian was speaking at the Veterans’ Administration tonight. So many requests for lectures, appearances on TV, and radio talk shows since his book, she couldn’t keep track. One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t be home until late. The third night this week she’d be crawling into bed without his long, warm body to cuddle next to.
And he doesn’t have to make all these speeches, go out all these nights. Could it be he’s tired of waiting? For me, for a child? And if I can’t give him that, isn’t it possible he might go looking somewhere else?
She remembered something else. The party two months ago in London. Rose. Beautiful, dark, with those haunted eyes. And the way those eyes looked at Brian. A cold sliver of fear wedged itself into Rachel’s heart.
She pushed the thought out of her mind.
If I’m pregnant, everything will change. We’ll be all right. We’ll be a family.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. I’ll leave early, make dinner for a change. Something scrumptious, to go with champagne and candlelight, the whole bit. And later, when we make love, it’ll feel like the first time.
“Tell Mrs. Rodriguez I’ll be with her in a minute,” she called through the door to Nancy.
“Okay. I’m off. See you in the morning.”
[342] Rachel, emerging from the bathroom, caught a flash of carrot-red hair disappearing down the narrow corridor that led to the examining room up front. Nancy never walked. Everything she did was on the run.
Now Rachel was hurrying too, unearthing Lila’s chart from the jammed file cabinet in her cubbyhole of an office, shouldering her way into the examining room.
Lila was slumped on the folding chair in the corner, beneath the iron-barred window that overlooked an alleyway. Tiny except for her enormous belly. Her face ghastly. Lumpy and bruised, like a rubber Halloween mask. Eyes swollen up to the size of doorknobs.
Next time he’ll kill her, Rachel thought, horrified, fury sweeping through her.
She sucked her breath in, and struggled to remain impassive. Why did this woman let her husband beat her? She even protected the bastard, last time saying she had hurt herself falling down the stairs. Like hell.
“Señora,” she asked, gently taking hold of a hand that felt horribly limp and clammy. “Digame que pasó.”
Lila shook her head, greasy black strands falling over her waxen forehead. “Mi niño? Está bien? Está bien mi niño?” She cradled her arms protectively about her pregnant belly.
“Let’s take a look. I’ll be very gentle, I promise.”
Rachel got her up on the examining table, and lifted her skirt. No vaginal bleeding, thank goodness. But there was a huge bruise just below her rib cage that worried Rachel. It might indicate trauma. The amniotic fluid would have to be tested for meconium.
“Your baby is probably fine, but I’d like to put you in the hospital overnight,” Rachel told her. “Just to be sure. Entiendes, señora?”
Lila understood. At the word “hospital” her face had gone from waxy yellow to gray, and her eyes rolled back in her head. She’s scared, Rachel thought, more frightened of the hospital than of going home to the man who beat her.
Lila shook her head, then eased herself off the examining table, moving with exaggerated care, like a very old woman balancing a crate of eggs.
“No,” she said with a stubborn wariness. “No hospital. They take my baby.”
[343] She was already at the door, tugging at the buttons on her ratty pink sweater, before Rachel could stop her. “Mrs. Rodriguez, please, listen. What happened before, when you had the miscarriage, that was different. ...”
But again Lila was shaking her head, politely, but firmly. “Gracias, Doctor. Gracias ... pero no.”
Rachel wanted to run after her, grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Don’t you know what you’re risking? Do you have any idea how many women would give anything for just one baby? One chance to be pregnant?
But it wouldn’t do any good. Lila wouldn’t understand. And she’d stop coming to the clinic altogether. Wasn’t half a doctor better than none?
Rachel, simmering down, went through the connecting door to her office, and fished among the folders on her desk, quickly finding the one she was looking for, SAUCEDO, ALMA. On her way home she’d stop at the hospital and check on Alma. Here, at least, was something she could do.
Kay stuck her curly head through the door. “I’m headed out. Can I get you anything before I go? Sandwich, coffee, a transfusion? You look beat, Rache.”
“I’ll relax once I get out of here. This time of night, I may even get a seat on the subway.” She dipped into an ashtray overflowing with rubber bands, paper clips, pencil stubs, and fished out a subway token. She tossed it at Kay. “Here. Have one on me. By the way, have we gotten the results back on Alma Saucedo’s blood work-up?”
“Not yet. Tomorrow morning, if I have to squeeze it out of them with fire tongs. You know those creeps at the lab—promises, promises. Want me to tell them it’s an emergency?” Kay looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, a bit thinner.
“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” Rachel decided. “ ’Night, Kay. And listen ... take care, hear?”
Minutes later, Rachel was locking up—two locks, dead bolt, double-padlocked accordion gate—then making her way up the no-man’s-land of East Fourteenth Street. The sidewalk a wasteland, literally, dog turds, broken bottles, overflowing trash cans, vandalized phone booths. The very air somehow rotten. Graffiti scrawled on the walls—VIVA LA RAZA! CHICO LOVES ROXY! DEATH TO THE PIGS! And [344] blasting from every window, it seemed, the relentless, hammering beat of Latin music.
It used to put her on edge. She remembered how at first she felt as if she were an astronaut setting foot on a strange and dangerous planet. Or Margaret Mead among the aborigines. What were they thinking as they watched her from their windows—was she just another uptown do-gooder in their eyes, did they only want to steal her purse?
But now she thought with a smile, This is my planet. She waved to a woman sitting on a grungy stoop with a stroller parked beside it. Anita Gonzalez. Seven months ago, she’d delivered that baby now in the stroller. A difficult pregnancy, she remembered. And at the end of it a little shrimp of a thing, all black hair and not much else. But now he looked big, healthy, popping right out of his clothes. Rachel’s heart lifted.
The wail of an ambulance siren broke through her thoughts.
Soon she found herself at the entrance of a huge, ugly brick building. Spray-painted red letters alongside the big glass doors read: MARIO GET FUCKED. Someone had also pried off most of the brass letters that once had spelled ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S HOSPITAL. What was left was ST. BAR, and then a red F scrawled beside it. ST. BARF.
Rachel rode the creaky elevator to the sixth floor, jammed between a sleepy-eyed intern and a cleaning lady with an enormous laundry cart piled high with dirty sheets.
Alma Saucedo was in Ward C, the bed closest to the door. Asleep. Her face like a lovely ivory cameo, dark hair fanning across the pillow. Only sixteen, Rachel thought. She should be studying for a history exam, dating boys, going to parties, not having a baby.
Rachel remembered how her heart had gone out to Alma the first time she had shown up at the clinic. A shy, pretty girl wearing a navy-blue school jumper that had grown too tight. After the examination, which showed her to be about four months pregnant, the whole tearful story came tumbling out. Her first boyfriend. He’d said he loved her. And he promised nothing would happen. Now he wanted nothing to do with her. She didn’t want the baby, either, but her parents would not allow an abortion. They were Catholics, and killing it would be a mortal sin.
Now, four months later, it looked as if this baby might be killing Alma.
[345] Rachel glanced at the chart. Blood pressure up from this morning: 140 over 110. Edema unchanged despite the magnesium sulfate. Alma was getting lactated Ringer’s solution, but her urine output was way down. Damn. I’ll have to induce soon if she doesn’t improve.
I could lose them both, Alma and the baby. Tomorrow morning, as soon as I see those blood results ...
“Doctor Rosenthal! Oh, I’m so glad you came!”
Rachel, startled, saw Alma was awake. She looked upset. Tears welling in her sleep-puffy brown eyes, then running down her cheeks.
Rachel sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Alma’s hand. “Feeling pretty rotten, huh?”
“That man,” she whispered, so low Rachel had to bend close to hear. “Please ... don’t let him touch me again.”
Had Alma been dreaming? “What man?” Rachel asked.
“A doctor, I don’t know his name. Tall and ... well, some girls would say, good-looking.” She screwed up her face; clearly, she didn’t share that opinion. “He came with a bunch of doctors, just a little while ago. ...”
Rachel nodded. “Evening rounds. It’s routine.”
“No, no.” Alma shook her head. “He ... he wasn’t like the other doctors. Not just ... you know, examining me. He was so cold. Like I was something for sale in a store. The way he touched me. I felt so—” She buried her face in her hands, and spoke through her fingers, a hollow choked sound. “He didn’t even ask. He just pushed my legs apart and ... and ... in front of everyone ... with that metal thing ... all the time talking about me as if I wasn’t there ... oh God, I wanted to die.”
Rachel felt anger like a coal burning in the pit of her stomach. Bastard. I’d like to string him up by his thumbs, whoever he is. Better yet, turn a sadistic proctologist loose on him.
It was a subtle war she fought every day, against the insensitive doctors who treated patients with as much concern as the cadavers they dissected in medical school. Less, even.
Especially here, on the labor and delivery ward. The general assumption among the intern and resident staff seemed to be that any woman who got herself pregnant deserved to have her privates on display like apples and bananas on a grocer’s shelf.
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