He put down the wand and reached for the Doppler. Last time Beth had been here, she’d heard the heartbeat for the first time—fast, like a horse galloping down the track—and she had wept with joy. He wanted her to hear it again today and he pressed the Doppler against her skin, trying to pick up the heartbeat. But in the contained space of Beth’s uterus, there was only silence. Andy felt the first prick of anxiety.
“Is anything wrong, Dr. Stern?” asked Beth.
Andy said nothing. Though he tried to be so careful, she quickly picked up on his apprehension. They all did. And of course this was the one time the husband wasn’t here. Shit. Even in the dim light he was aware of Pam watching intently; he did not want to catch her eye. He kept moving the Doppler. Nothing. He put it down and took a slow and exacting breath. “All right,” he said, touching her on the elbow. “You can get dressed now. I’ll see you in my office. We can talk there.” Pam shot him a look; it was filled with dread and pity. He took a quick look at Beth’s face; it was a mask of wordless panic.
Andy waited in the examining room, trying to compose himself. There had been a heartbeat two weeks ago, loud, clear, and steady. Those early fetal heart tones were much faster than those in an adult; they made a very distinct sound. So why couldn’t he hear them now? He knew the answer but could not admit it to himself. There was no heartbeat because the fetus was dead.
“Dr. Stern?” Pam poked her head in the room. “She’s waiting for you; I think she’s crying.”
He sighed, a massive, resigned sigh. “I’ll be out in a second,” he said.
“You couldn’t find the heartbeat. . . .”
“Because there was no heartbeat.” Goddamn it to hell. Why couldn’t this woman get a break? Why? She was doing everything right; he was doing everything right. There had been no bleeding, no spotting, no warning of any kind. But the little heart, no bigger than a pea, had stopped. Just like that. Nothing to do with her previous history. A vanilla miscarriage was the term. No particular reason. Statistically, a certain number of pregnancies ended that way. Though statistics would be of no consolation to Beth Klein.
When Andy finished delivering the crushing news, he was in serious need of a drink. He’d sat there while she got her husband—in Chicago on business—on speakerphone, and offered his support and sympathy during the tearful conversation that ensued. Then he’d had Joanne schedule Beth for a D & C. He did not want to discuss the next step yet. But he was not sure this woman could endure another pregnancy, and if he continued to feel that way, it would be his professional, to say nothing of ethical, obligation to tell her.
It was after five when he left the office, a mild and balmy evening. He was just deciding whether he wanted to stop in for that drink on his way home or wait until he got to the apartment when his phone buzzed. It was Xiomara. “I hate to bother you,” she began. “But I was wondering if I could see you? Like now?”
“Is there a medical emergency?” he asked. She’d been in fine shape the last time he’d examined her. But look at Beth—things could change quickly.
“It is an emergency,” she said. “Though I’m not sure it’s medical.”
“Well, I was just leaving my office. I could go back and meet you there. Are you nearby?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Andy walked to the office. It was not the first time he’d been “summoned” by a celeb patient. And it was not the first time he’d said yes. These women were used to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it. He’d had one who treated him like a glorified errand boy, another who berated him for the strict rules he’d imposed, never mind that they were for the safety of her baby. Xiomara wasn’t like that, though. She’d always behaved respectfully and seemed to value his expertise. He thought of the VIP suite he’d seen at the hospital the day before and supposed that a woman who thought it necessary to install wall-to-wall carpeting—and then pay to have it taken out again—in a room she’d be inhabiting for three days max would not think it excessive to tell her doctor she needed to see him right away.
Joanne and Pam were gone; the office was quiet and the waning light filtered through the windows in the waiting room. He went and sat down at his desk. When the doorbell buzzed, he went to answer it. And even though he knew who would be standing there, he was unprepared for the effect she had. To accommodate the girth of her very pregnant belly, she wore a long, loose dress of some crinkly, golden material; above the low-cut neckline, the column of her firm, brown neck rose splendidly. Her hair had been piled high on her head, and her lips gleamed. She looked at the burly bodyguard who stood by her side. “Wait in the car, Felix,” she said. “I’ll text if I need you.” Felix grunted in assent and turned to go. He was so muscle-bound that walking seemed like an effort.
“Come into my office,” Andy said. Jesus H. Christ, was he actually feeling the stirrings of a hard-on? She followed him inside and he took a seat across from her. The desk was a comforting buffer—wide, professional, and distancing.
“I appreciate your willingness to see me on such short notice, Dr. Stern. Especially when it’s not exactly medical.”
“The mind and the body work in concert,” he said. God, why did he have to sound like someone had shoved a pole up his ass? Because he was nervous, that was why. He was nervous sitting here alone with this goddess, only the desk between them. He had a sudden image of pulling her onto that desk and plunging his hand down the front of that golden, goddess dress of hers—
“They do, they do,” breathed Xiomara. “And though the body is fine”—she patted her belly lovingly—“the mind is not doing so well.”
“Are you feeling anxious about the birth?”
“A little. But more anxious about Badu.” Badu was her basketball star husband. Apart from their initial visit, he’d never been back to the office with her again.
“What’s been going on?” Andy asked, leaning a little closer.
“Nothing!” she said. “Just about a big, old nothing. He won’t touch me, Dr. Stern. Won’t even get near me. You’d think I had the plague. The last time he saw me stepping out of the shower, he said, Would you please cover yourself.”
“Some men are made uncomfortable by pregnancy, particularly in the latter stages. It’s not admirable, but I hear it from a lot of my patients.” He tried not to think about her stepping out of that shower—now he really did have a hard-on, damn it.
“What about you, Dr. Stern?” she demanded. “Is that how you did your woman after you’d gone and knocked her up?” She gestured to the photo of Rachel that was still on his desk.
“My wife is dead,” he said stiffly. “It’s been almost three years since I lost her.”
“Oh!” Xiomara’s lovely, ring-bedecked fingers flew to her lips. “I am so, so sorry.”
“You were talking about your husband—”
“So after months of acting like I’m this, this freak, this monster, I begin to get annoyed, you know? I began to rag on him. Pick fights.” Andy nodded sympathetically. “And after one fight, he didn’t come home all night. I made Felix track him down; he found Badu with some other girl, Dr. Stern. Some tramp he’d picked up. And when I called him on it, and broke down crying and told him how much he’d hurt me, he turned around and told me it was my fault. My fault! Can you believe it? For pushing him into someone else’s arms.”
“You must have been very upset,” he said.
“I was,” she said. “I am. I just want a little affection, Dr. Stern. A little tenderness. You understand, don’t you? I know you do. I can feel it.” She leaned forward so that the desk was a bridge, not a barrier. And then she kissed him.
Andy reacted to that kiss as if a gun had gone off in the room. He was astonished, aroused, intoxicated—but mostly he was horrified that the fantasy had stepped out of his head and into his office. Yes, she was the most gorgeous woman God ever made—but she was his patient; to
give in to her would be to violate everything he’d ever believed in, worked for, achieved. “Xiomara,” he began, waiting for his heart to stop its insane throbbing. “You are a beautiful and desirable woman—”
“Even like this?” She waved a hand over her belly.
“Especially like this,” he said. “But I’m your doctor. And as your doctor, I have a professional obligation to you and to your baby. You don’t want me—”
“You’re wrong—I do. I do!” She tried reaching for him again, but he moved away.
“No, you want to hurt Badu the way he’s hurt you. But you’ll regret it. You’ll regret it and you’ll blame me for not stopping you. So I’m going to save you all that regret and blame.” He stood up. “I want you to go home and talk to your husband. Tell him you’re going to forgive him—but once and only once. And tell him he’s on notice. As for you—you’re going to stop picking fights to get his attention. You have something to say to him, you say it—right out in the open.”
“I just wanted . . . I mean, I just thought—” She fluttered her lashes, which, though obviously false, still made for a highly effective gesture.
“I know what you wanted and I know what you thought.” He came around the desk to see her out. “And it’s all right. It really is. We never have to mention this again. It will be our secret.” Amazingly, he was even able to smile. “You text Felix and tell him to come in here and get you now.”
She placed her finger on his mouth and gently touched his lips. “Dr. Stern?” she said. “You’re a good man. A good man. And good men are hard to find.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I try.” He didn’t feel like a good man. He felt like he’d dodged a bullet. One minute more alone with her and who knows what he would have done?
“There’s a woman in your life now?”
“There was,” he said, suddenly scorched by the image of Christina, hair spread out across the pillow and reaching her arms up to him. “But not now.”
“Well, you deserve a woman,” she said firmly. “You deserve the best.”
Andy opened the door and there was massive Felix, impervious as a tank. “I’ll see you next week,” he said, determined to sound professional and in command. God knew what Felix thought; he’d seen it all—and more—before.
“Thank you again, Dr. Stern,” Xiomara said. She had one hand on Felix’s arm; the gold cloth shimmered as she went. But in one swift, fluid movement, she turned and deposited a last, lingering kiss on Andy’s mouth. Felix didn’t even blink.
THIRTY-FIVE
Although it was a mild late April morning, Christina woke shivering and almost too weak to make it out of bed. She got to the bathroom just in time; another minute and she would have thrown up all over the floor. She rinsed her mouth thoroughly and shakily reached for the thermometer. No fever. Well, that was a relief. And once she had showered and vigorously brushed her teeth, she was fine—at least physically.
She didn’t feel the same sense of shock and outrage she’d felt when Will died; that grief had been vicious, attacking her with claws and talons. No, breaking up with Andy had just anesthetized her. Despite the relentless advent of spring—tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths bursting from window boxes and planters all over the neighborhood, ordinary city trees made briefly glorious by their clouds of pink or white lacy blossoms, the madly twittering sparrows and cooing doves in her own garden—she herself was a figure carved from ice.
Over and over she replayed the scene in the hospital cafeteria. Could she have done anything differently to change the outcome? But what? Pointed out that his failure to tell her about Jordan’s eating disorder was no different from her not telling him about Oliver and the pot? In the end, it would have done no good. His mind was made up.
She had thought of calling him, writing to him, even showing up at his door. She did none of the above. She wasn’t going to beg; she had her pride, even though Sister Bernadette had railed against pride as one of the worst of the seven deadly sins. Since then, she’d gone through her days like a sleepwalker, even though she was busier than she’d been in months. The Web site had brought in a couple of new jobs; those jobs in turn had spawned others. Her reach was beginning to extend beyond Brooklyn: she was working on a loft in Tribeca, a pied-à-terre on the Upper East Side, and a little cottage in Sag Harbor that belonged to friends of Stephen. Good jobs all, and she was grateful to have them.
The next morning she awoke again with that horrible, nauseated feeling, but it wasn’t until the third day that its true meaning finally hit her. On her way back from the loft in Tribeca, she stopped in a Duane Reade to pick up the pregnancy test and used it as soon as she got home. The stick turned instantly and emphatically blue.
Pregnant. Holy Mary, Mother of God. She was pregnant. There was a loud and vigorous thumping, which could have been the sound of her own, frantic heart. But it was only Jordan’s rabbits, steadily beating their hind legs against the bottom of their cage. As if in a trance, she went to the refrigerator, pulled out some lettuce leaves from the crisper, and placed them in the cage. The rabbits fell upon their treat with rabbitlike delight, which is to say, they methodically and steadily consumed the leaves until they were gone. Then they both remained close to the front of the cage, nostrils flaring delicately, as if waiting to see what she would do next.
She left the room. It was almost six, time to start dinner. Since her illness, Jordan was eating a bit more, and Christina made every effort to entice her at mealtime. It was like having a picky toddler all over again, but at least her daughter no longer looked so painfully gaunt. The doctor who had treated her at the hospital had suggested a therapist who specialized in eating disorders and stipulated that she not be allowed back to ballet class unless she agreed to see her.
Tonight Christina was preparing chicken, brown rice, and asparagus she’d purchased on Saturday at the local farmers’ market. With any luck Jordan would eat small portions of everything. The asparagus stalks were a bit thick; she decided she would shave and then steam them. The chicken would be roasted and she’d perk up the rice with the skillful deployment of herbs and spices rather than butter or oil. She performed these tasks on autopilot, her hands moving efficiently despite the chaos in her head.
How could she be pregnant? She had thought they were being careful; evidently they had not been careful enough. Thinking back, she tried to calculate how far along she might be. Eight weeks? Ten? That meant she could still have a first-trimester abortion, though the idea filled her with sorrow. Even though she’d left the Catholicism of her girlhood behind and believed in a woman’s right to choose, that did not mean she would choose an abortion. But how would she manage with a baby at this point in her life? She wouldn’t be able to work; who would support them? And how would a new half sibling affect Jordan?
She looked down. She had been so diligent in peeling the asparagus stems that there was virtually nothing left of them; on the counter was a pile of the clustered buds. She scraped the shavings into the covered enamelware pot she kept for compost; her hands were shaking. Abandoning the asparagus, she sat down at the table. She would have poured herself a glass of wine, but under the circumstances that did not seem like the most prudent idea. Under the circumstances. What was she thinking? That she was going through with the pregnancy? If she did, she would have to tell Andy. But wouldn’t she tell Andy in any case?
When Jordan called to say that she would not be home for dinner after all, Christina was relieved. She finished preparing the meal and then, overcome by a sudden ravenous urge, ate it all. She had to force herself to take a plate and sit at the table; otherwise, she would have stood at the stove, shoveling the rice, chicken, and what remained of the asparagus right from the pots and into her mouth. After she finished, she went prowling through the cabinets in search of something sweet; an open box of amaretto cookies was tucked in the far reaches of a top shelf. Stale as they were, she finished them, a
long with the ice-crystal-encrusted remnants of a pint of dark chocolate gelato. Afterward, she had to lie down. She remembered those surges of hunger from her first pregnancy; they were like a feeding frenzy.
But she couldn’t remain still for long. She had to do something, talk to someone. Andy? No, not yet. Stephen. Of course. She did not bother to phone, but trotted up the stairs to knock on his door. “Hi, doll,” he said. “Misha and I were all set to watch a movie. Want to join us?” Mutely, Christina shook her head. She had not yet said the word pregnant out loud; she almost couldn’t bear it. “Are you all right?” he added.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
“One sec.” He disappeared for a moment and then returned. “Misha’s going to start without me; you and I can go to your place to talk.” He followed her downstairs and as soon as they had reached Christina’s parlor, she turned, put her head on his chest, and started to sob. He must have been startled; in all the years they had known each other, she had never done such a thing. But he did not ask any questions and instead patted her back until she was calmer. It was only when they were seated on her love seat that she began to talk.
“So you’re sure he doesn’t know?” Stephen asked when he’d heard the story.
“Positive.”
“And what are you planning to do about it?”
“I don’t know. But whatever I decide, I think I have to tell him. Don’t you?”
“Yes. Only . . .” He looked down.
“Only what?”
He lifted his gaze again. “There’s something you should know before you do. Something I was going to tell you about; Misha and I were just trying to figure out the best—that is, the kindest—way to do it.”
“Tell me now,” she said. “I need to know.”
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