A New Lu

by Laura Castoro

  Yes, that’s the voice, the gentle baritone that says everything’s going to be all right. Close up he’s even more attractive. And it’s not just because he remembers me.

  “Hello, Dr. Templeton.”

  He smiles. “How are you?”

  “Pretty well.” Better by the second.

  “And your children. You have two, right?”

  Oh, this man is unbelievable. Or, he actually read the paperwork I filled out before he came in.

  “Yes, Dallas and Davin. And you, a daughter, right?”

  He nods. “Married last year.” I don’t detect a single trace of emotion other than fatherly pride. That’s nice.

  “Dallas is getting married, in September.”

  “You and your husband must be very proud.”

  “We are. Separately.”

  He lifts a brow.

  “Common story. Divorce.” Oh, damn! Now he’ll think I’m coming on to him. “How’s your wife?”

  His fractional start is enough to ignite a furious blush that stings my face. “Oh, that’s right. Aunt Marvelle told me. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” That is a period to a subject if I ever heard one!

  He must be still grieving. Of course he is. He’s left-handed, and his wedding band can’t be missed as he flips open the chart he carries. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong today?”

  I go through my complaints and then answer questions about my medical history, repeating most of what’s on the form in his possession. He stops me occasionally to ask a question, really listening to the answers. He’s got a big head, a strong, wide face like a lion or a bull that seems to demand one’s full attention. He’s also got brown eyes, and a nose that’s pitched slightly to the right, a sign that it was once broken.

  While answering, I try not to think about the fact that he is going to examine me. For while I know he’s free and I’m free, it’s still not okay to let him know where my wayward thoughts are taking me. This is a professional situation. I don’t usually react this way to men, even handsome, flattering ones.

  At last he puts the chart aside. “Why don’t we take a look?”

  “I always get a bit nervous in an examining room.” I need a cover story for when he listens to my heart. “Probably why my blood pressure’s up.”

  He umm-hmms me and, as the nurse enters, sets to work examining me.

  The natural reserve of the physician is in place when he returns to the room after the preliminary exam. He’s holding the same clipboard. I try not to notice his hands. I’ve just banished the sensation of those warm fingers gently probing my abdomen. But the look on his face makes me take a deep breath. Something is not right.

  “There’s a problem?” I can’t take the suspense.

  “Not at all.” He looks at the board again and then at me, a bemused expression on his face. “I haven’t had a chance to say this since I left general practice. Congratulations, Mrs. Nichols, you’re pregnant!”

  “I’m what?” It’s a reflexive answer. Then I start to laugh. “Good one. You had me going.”

  He tilts his head to one side, watching me. “I assure you, I would not kid you on such a matter.”

  I start to speak but suddenly I can’t think of any words. Instead, laughter yowls forth from my open mouth; it’s loud and off-key, like a cat pulled backward through a screen door. I don’t blame him for the half step back. Me? Pregnant? Funniest line I’ve heard since…since…

  Gulping air, I try for control. “Jacob’s gone. Walked out a year ago. The divorce was final a week ago. So you see, it’s not possible.”

  He frowns and strokes his upper lip with thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know quite what to tell you, Mrs. Nichols.”

  Mrs. Nichols! Mrs. Nichols! The appellation mocks me. I’m not Mrs. anybody anymore.

  Then it hits me. The awful truth! Morning sickness and the overpowering sleepiness. My last period was in January. Sex for the very last time, February!

  I don’t cry often. I’m terrible at it. But the laughter is gone and tears are rising fast. “But I can’t be pregnant! I can’t!”

  He breaks into a tolerant smile. “I assure you, you can be.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Awful, lurching panic seizes me. “Yesterday. At lunch. It was at a going-away party. I drank three mar-tinis!” I’m so ashamed, but I can’t stop myself. “Oh! And I ate raw oysters. There’s the potential for botulism poison. Ohhh! Poor pickled poisoned baby!”

  I’m crying, in open-mouthed gulps. Tears race down my face and dribble onto my chest. A reasonable person would back off from the rabid-dog image I invoke.

  Dr. Templeton does the most extraordinary thing. He plucks several tissues from a box and begins dabbing at my chin. Mortified, I snatch them from him and try to muffle my crying.

  To his everlasting credit, he smiles and opens his arms.

  To my everlasting shame, I go into them and sob until his green lab coat has a three-inch soggy patch just above his name tag.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Quite. Thank you.”

  When I ran out of tears, Dr. Templeton left me to dress and collect myself. Then a nurse led me to his private office, a woman of my years whose manner told me she knows all too well what’s wrong with me. I’ve had a strong cup of real coffee while I wait. Now he’s here, smiling that imperturbable smile.

  As I perch on the edge of the chair before his desk, I am so sober and self-contained my eyes ache, and my head feels so hot and tight it may explode.

  “I’m very sorry for my earlier behavior. Truly. I can’t think—” Well, maybe I can. “I am deeply embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.” He sits down and leans forward, the desk safely between his fresh lab coat and me. “I understand how this news could come as a shock…at this time.”

  “You mean because I’m about to be fifty.”

  He takes his time. “Among other things. Yes. It’s rare but not unprecedented.”

  “You’ve had other cases?” Okay, the “fool factor” may be mitigated if he delivers this kind of news occasionally to other hysterical women.

  But instead of an easy reply, he blushes beneath his cedar tan. I wonder what accounts for that particular shade? Italian? Jewish? Portuguese? “Actually, we don’t see cases of this kind here. Collapsed uteruses, yes. Ripe ones, no.” His smile edges back. “To be perfectly frank, Mrs. Nichols, I had to send across the street to the pharmacy for a pregnancy-test kit.”

  “One of those over-the-counter do-it-yourself job-bies?” I can just imagine what the nurse had to say about that errand!

  He nods. “We’re not equipped here for that sort of testing.”

  “So you could be wrong.” Lifeline, thank you! “This isn’t your field. It could be a false positive. A menopausal thing.” That last statement drives me to my feet, giddy with the possibility.

  “See a specialist.” His expression is meant to be reassuring as he stands and offers to shake my hand. But the tender amusement playing at the edges of his smile says he knows he’s right.

  If so, I’m screwed. Twice.

  6

  It’s Sunday evening. I sit on the edge of my garden tub amid the crumpled boxes and paraphernalia of pregnancy kits. The line, the stripes and a window with Yes in some cheerful script have all looked out at me with proof. The “EPT”—evidence proven true—of my indiscretion makes it “ClearBlue Easy” to see now that the “First Response” of my libido should never have been “Answer” - ed. I am preggers.

  The image of myself in the wall of mirrors above the vanity is of a woman deflated. Her shoulders are hunched into a spine curled in defeat. Her hair—I look as if I’m wearing a skunk that’s been run over. While I don’t quite qualify as Amazonian, I stand five nine in my bare feet. The scale will say I’m twenty-five pounds overweight. Dressed as I am in oversize gray sweats, it looks like more. Okay, it was thirty pounds before permanent morning sickness set in. I’m sallow. Looking at me I now u
nderstand what that word means. A bloodless beige. Even my lips, one of my better facial features, look drawn and pale. It’s as if I’m staring at a very old Polaroid, fading before my eyes.

  I keep picturing Dr. Templeton’s sweet-sad expression as I left his inner office, as if he wanted to tell me that everything would be all right. But he knows better. No matter the outcome, a certain amount of damage has been done, if only to my sense of how the world should work. The good doctor might never know squat about my future, but he knows it won’t be quite as simple as before.

  Aunt Marvelle was suspicious of my bloodshot eyes and quivering lip, but she didn’t say a thing when I told her the diagnosis was bad shellfish. As quickly as I could, I loaded up my car and headed into the sunset of New York City-bound traffic on Friday afternoon.

  Then the real torture began. Every thought in my head was a double-entendre or pun. Even with my fertile imagination I could barely conceive the truth of what I’d been told. One thought begot another. The crawling highway traffic mocked my efforts to outdistance the news that had been delivered. Like how I’d been laboring under the false assumption that the menopause stork was on my doorstep. I jammed one of Davin’s forgotten CDs, by Run DMC, into the player just to stop the noise in my head. But when they began singing “Walk This Way,” I envisioned a line of ninth-month mothers-to-be, waddling like fattened Christmas geese through the aisles of Toys “R” Us.

  And yet, between the fits of fear and disbelief that have accompanied my discovery, and every sane argument against it, I keep finding myself inexplicably smiling.

  Pregnant! A new life. The beginning of something wondrous, and enormous, and special! Who would have thought this was an option at my age? Fie on Tai’s opinion of me as in need of drastic measures to stall my slide down into doddering wrinklehood. The fertility goddess has winked at me!

  And then reality slaps me like a wet mackerel in the face. Pregnant. Babies. Diapers. Midnight feedings. Diapers. Colic. Croup. Diapers.

  Okay, I’m smart enough to know the difference between being pregnant and having a baby. At best, a significant portion of the treacherous territory of the first three months of pregnancy still lies ahead. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that, at my age, the chances of losing the pregnancy are high.

  I suppose I should take Dr. Templeton’s advice and see a specialist.

  I feel sick again. It’s not hormonal this time. Of all of events of the past two and a half months, two of the ten minutes I’d most like to take back are those at the Bridgehampton Geriatric Clinic. The other eight? What else?

  The first attractive man I encounter as a single woman, and what do I do? Come to him with the news I’m pregnant, blurt out what sounds like a lurid lifestyle to explain it, and then do a bimbo number by crying about it on his shirtfront. Where was that accumulated sophistication of fifty years of living that should have allowed me to merely lift an eyebrow at the startling news, then shrug it off with a enigmatic, “Do tell?”

  He might have thought I was mysterious or coy. He didn’t have to know I was so pathetically foolish as to give my ex a clear parting shot at me, so to speak.

  Jacob. No. I can’t even think about that conversation just yet. First, I need to know how deep I’m in. And what this means.

  The math is easy. Acted a fool in February. It’s April. Seven weeks, two days, and two hours into the gestational period—give or take seventy-two hours. Sometimes the details matter. I need information, from a reliable source. Google!

  I rush to my computer and type in the most obvious search: Late-Life Pregnancy.

  Okay, I’m now officially freaked. The first site that comes up is a notice about how couples will have to agree to sterilization if they want to be cohabitants because some health-care facilities can’t be responsible for the complications of “late-life pregnancy.”

  I didn’t know there were such places with such rules, or that people would agree to them in exchange for a place to stay. But as my mother likes to say about any idiot-sounding offer, they must have some takers or they wouldn’t be advertising it.

  It’s pretty much downhill after that.

  “You look so good I don’t know what! And who’s lost a few pounds?” Babs is eyeing me with motherly pride as the rest of the staff within hearing distance looks up with smiles or smirks. She shoots up alongside me, her motorized vehicle purring. “Didn’t I say what a week at the shore would do for you?”

  “You were right.” That and the one-hundred-and-forty-five-dollar color job I had yesterday instead of showing up for work. My gray is now cellophaned in shades of almond, toffee and butterscotch. I feel like a very expensive candy bar.

  Babs’s gaze lingers, searching, then she smiles. “That’s a new skirt.”

  “I thought I needed an update. Like it?”

  She nods. As I said, The Radish doesn’t miss much. She knows that I know we’re talking about my hair, but Babs is old school. The only woman who mentions in public the dye job of another is your mortal enemy.

  I do feel better. I don’t know why I ever hesitated with the hair color. It’s nothing dramatic, but the face that looked back in the mirror this morning seems younger, more vivid. More like me. The faded Lu has retreated, for the moment.

  As for the pounds, I’ve been on a saltine-and-herbal-tea diet for the past four days, that and big, fat prenatal vitamins Dr. Templeton prescribed for me until I could see an ob-gyn. Could the pills be any bigger? The one this morning turned sideways in my throat. I thought I’d have to give myself the Heimlich maneuver before it dislodged. Even then, with the coating dissolved, it scraped down my esophagus like a Roto-Rooter tool. I soothed the raw feeling with live-culture organic yogurt. Thankfully it all stayed down.

  The vitamins are just a precaution. It’s clear to me after a weekend on the Web reading about my “condition” that nothing need be done, as it is more than likely to resolve itself any day now. I’ve waded through case histories of women in their thirties and forties who went to incredible lengths to conceive, and lost. I feel chastised and grateful all over again to have two children of my own.

  By comparison, Dallas and Davin were a breeze, only the usual pregnancy stomach heaves, and first-trimester migraines with Davin. But I was still practically a kid myself. Strong as an ox, as my grandmother fondly called my statuesque physique. This is entirely new territory.

  In fact, at my age I’m an anomaly at seven weeks and counting. I don’t need to think about a baby. I’m too old to sustain one. This pregnancy is a passing fancy.

  To be honest, I’m relieved.

  After all, it isn’t as if I’d been on any special regimen like those women a decade or three younger than I am are admonished to begin months before they try to conceive. Since Jacob left, good nutrition and I have also been estranged. I’m not physically prepared to carry a child. Mother Nature has been temporarily fooled. And you know what they say about fooling Mother Nature.

  I will do nothing harmful—drinking and shellfish are two of the items off my diet for the time being. Yet there’s no sense in preparing myself psychologically for the nearly impossible—that I will remain gestational. Soon, this will be one of those memories one doesn’t share, even with a best friend.

  I stop short at my office door. Well, what was my office. It now looks like the warehouse of a cosmetics company. Boxes are piled knee-high on the floor and chest high on my desk, bearing names like Body Bistro, Aveeno, Clinique, Botanicals and a dozen other names less familiar but obviously pricey.

  “We’ve been busy in your absence.”

  I’m beginning to hate the way Tai appears like a hologram in my life. This time she’s materialized just behind me, wearing a thigh-high shift embroidered and beaded in a vaguely ethnic pattern. “You’re just in time for the editorial meeting.”

  It’s clear from the opening comments that the editorial staff has as many concerns about this change of approach at Five-O as I do.

  “I’ve been canvass
ing a focus group,” says Rhonda, our style editor. “Long-time subscribers say they stay with Five-O because we’ve made them comfortable with who they are.”

  “We can always strive to be better,” Tai answers matter-of-factly.

  “If we go all Lucky on them at once, they will scatter,” predicts Crescentmoon, our resident aging hippie and health editor. Her impressive silver-fox ponytail reaches down to the middle of her back. She can still tuck her ankles behind her ears, and cuss like a drill sergeant. But most of the time, she speaks in the soft, measured tones of a young girl. “We’ve been in service to our readership’s desires. We must not now appear critical of their choices.”

  “Easing the passage of maturity is our mission,” adds our beauty editor, and youngest staff member, KaZi. At twenty-seven, KaZi’s already had a varied and successful career. Assisting her father, a leading Broadway makeup artist, she’s helped make up most of the stars over forty treading the boards today. She has a gift of making complexions look—dare I say it—younger. Why she insists on the Kabuki look for herself, I’ll never know. The orange-sherbet hair is cute, though.

  “In these tight times, with pensions and IRAs drying up faster than a box of prunes, we should be pushing the new economics of aging,” declares Gwendolyn, our financial columnist, and occasional business-and-finance feature writer. With her tied-back brindle dreads, she looks more like Toni Morrison than Toni herself. She’s just as unapologetic about her opinions. She’s got the financial chops to back it up. She came over last year from Fortune as a bridge to her own retirement from the magazine business, and stayed. Even Tai realizes how lucky we are to have her.

  “Give me six ideas on how to rebuild a broken nest egg,” Tai responds quickly. “I’m looking for a year-long approach to re-solvency.”

  “I did get a request for another article about older women with much younger men. It’s been two years.” Rhonda chuckles. “I, of course, volunteer for the research.”

  Crescentmoon nods. “And more on sexual preferences of the mature. So long as it’s not a crass ‘Sex In Senior City’ type article.” I smile at her because that’s the title of a tongue-in-cheek article I wrote my first year here.