Now I’m sitting on the exam table wearing nothing but a gown, trying to understand why it bothers me that people know I’m here. Why do I care that people know I went to the doctor? It’s just an annual. It’s not like I’m dying of cancer or suffering from some sort of unmentionable sexually transmitted disease.
“How do you know you’re not?” Thomas whispers in my head. “Unprotected sex, Elizabeth. That man could have any number of diseases. You could be infected with AIDS or hepatitis and not have symptoms yet. The wages of sin is death.”
Val’s gentle warning about Lance drifts into my head. I remember the way the waitress at the Acorn looked at him, her hand falling lightly on his shoulder. How many women has he been with since his divorce? I remember a poster I saw once that said every time you have sex, you are having sex with everyone your partner has ever slept with. How many women is that?
But Lance is a medical professional. An EMT. He would be responsible about these things. Surely I’m fine.
By the time Dr. Lerner steps into the room, I’ve worked myself up into a full-blown state of anxiety.
He was Thomas’s doctor, besides being mine, and we used to come in for our annual exams together. So his face is full of kindness and sympathy as he sits down on his rolling stool by the computer.
“I was so terribly shocked to hear about Thomas’s heart attack,” he says. “This must be very difficult for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, which is the simplest answer.
He smiles a professionally understanding smile and shifts his attention to the computer screen. “Is the Ambien working for you, helping you sleep? You look tired.”
I look tired because I’m sleeping on the floor, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I haven’t taken any,” I confess. “That was all Abigail’s idea. I prefer not to take medications if I don’t need to.”
“Good, very good. You’ve always been very healthy, and I see you have no other prescriptions. Let’s be sure to keep you that way. I’m ordering a mammogram and a colonoscopy for you. Do you want a flu shot?”
Exactly as predicted, and if I wasn’t harboring a secret fear of STDs, I’d roll my eyes. As it is, my mouth is dry and my heart is racing and I’m trying to decide whether to say anything or not. So embarrassing. What will he think about me if he knows I’ve already had sex with somebody so soon after my husband’s death? I try to tell myself his opinion doesn’t matter. Dr. Lerner is responsible for my physical health. Nothing more.
My self-talk isn’t working.
“We did a Pap last year,” he continues, oblivious to my turmoil. “Current guidelines say every five years is fine, so we don’t need to do one today unless you have had a new sexual partner.”
He looks up then. I look back, frozen. Unable to move or speak.
Dr. Lerner takes off his glasses. Pulls a cleaning cloth out of his lab coat pocket and begins to polish the lenses.
“It’s fairly common after the death of a spouse to search out comfort and love with another person.”
“It is?” I croak.
He puts his glasses back on and smiles at me. “I see it quite frequently. You would be surprised. Did you know that people of our age who find themselves suddenly single and dating are at a high risk for contracting sexual diseases? Teenagers are better informed. Did you use a condom?”
“We didn’t seem to have one handy.”
Dr. Lerner nods calmly, as if this isn’t surprising or shocking at all. “Of course. You might buy some. Or, if this is an exclusive relationship, ask your partner to get tested. I think we will do a Pap test after all, and I would recommend that we run STD tests just to be sure. Is that okay with you?”
“Great,” I say, although I’m thinking about the lab techs who will see my name on a label. The nursing staff who will see the order and handle the samples. I’m suffused with shame.
Dr. Lerner places the stethoscope on my chest, listens to my heart, and I take a breath of relief that we have moved into safer territory. He listens to my breathing and palpates my abdomen before inviting in a female assistant to act as chaperone while he performs a breast exam and the Pap smear.
“When was your last period?” Dr. Lerner asks as I flinch a little at the discomfort of his fingers pressing into the tender tissue of my breasts.
“I don’t know,” I confess. “Before Thomas died. Six months, maybe? Or seven.”
“Hot flashes?” he asks.
“A few.”
“So it sounds like you’re into menopause, which means pregnancy is unlikely, but there is still a small chance. Have you had any symptoms that might indicate that, other than this sensitivity in your breasts? Unexplained weight gain, fatigue, nausea?”
“None of that.”
“Good. Let’s go ahead with that Pap smear, then, shall we?”
I lie back, ready to endure the usual indignities, praying that all of these tests will come back normal.
When I emerge from the doctor’s office thirty minutes later, I feel utterly demoralized. I’ve been poked, prodded, and swabbed. I’ve peed in a cup and had my blood drawn. Funny how I felt healthy when I walked into the clinic, and now I feel old, decrepit, and shamed. Despite Dr. Lerner’s calm discussion of sexual behavior in women of my age, I feel absolutely humiliated knowing my encounter with Lance is now part of my medical record, that staff members are testing my body fluids for possible diseases.
Thank God Abigail took a job in the hospital instead of here, so at least I don’t have to worry about her eyes falling on something she doesn’t need to see.
As compensation, I treat myself to a milkshake from Ronnie D’s, pure chocolate therapy delivered via straw. I drive myself and my frozen bit of heaven to the park and drink it at a picnic table, letting the spring sunshine flow over me while I lose myself in the world of my current novel. Bella, the main character, has a lot more to worry about than social diseases, and by the time I’ve read a couple of chapters and sucked up the last few slurps of milkshake, my encounter with the clinic seems far away and much less important than the fact that I have a house to buy.
Bernie’s office is on Oak Street, part of a section once zoned for housing but now converted to businesses. There’s a For Sale sign out on the lawn, with SOLD layered over the top in giant red letters. What was once the living room is now a waiting area with comfy chairs and a selection of upper-end magazines. There’s a Keurig and a selection of cups in the kitchen beneath a cross-stitched invitation to make myself at home.
I have just enough time to make myself a cup before Bernie takes me back to a large, light-filled room with a solid oak desk and two visitor chairs. All of her usual joking behavior has gone on vacation, and she’s pure business, setting a stack of papers in front of me.
“Your buyers have already signed,” she says. “They’re going to need a mortgage, though, so it will take a little time before we can be sure that will go through. The bank will want an assessment and an inspection of your property, besides background and credit checks and all that. You can apply for a mortgage, too, but your seller has offered a substantially better price for a cash payment.”
As Bernie lays out my possible options, including sums of money that seem improbable to me, anxiety starts to creep in, and with it doubt. Before Thomas died, he paid all of the bills, managed the bank accounts, took care of all of our financial concerns. I got a weekly allowance that included grocery money and other incidentals. If I needed more, I always had to ask, to explain why and how I had mismanaged my budget.
“These are not the sort of transactions you’re equipped for,” Thomas whispers to me now. “You know you have no head for business or math. Walk away from this foolishness before you lose everything.”
“Take a breath,” Bernie says.
I do as she instructs, then ask, “Does it show that much?”
“Let me guess. Hubs handled all of the money, and this is the biggest decision you’ve ever made on your own.” She grins and leans for
ward a little. “You’re a smart woman. You can handle this. Take your time. Ask questions.”
So I do. I ask all of the questions about loans and assessors and inspectors. And then, when I think I’ve got all of that down, I ask the most important question of all.
“How long will this all take?”
Time is my enemy. Time means Abigail’s resistance can wear me down, the way an ocean reduces shell and stone to sand. Doubt and Thomas can erode my confidence. Earlene can continue to spy on me from across the street, pray over me in person, and inform the church about my every movement.
“It varies. Depends how busy the inspectors are. Whether or not you go with your own mortgage or pay cash when your buyer’s mortgage comes through. A month or two to close, usually.”
Bernie opens a drawer and withdraws a familiar item, a key attached to a horseshoe. “Your seller presented another offer. I want to tell you that I would advise you not to do this.”
“Do what?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the key to the house. My house.
“You can take possession immediately, today, if you are willing to clean up after the renters who were there previously. Sign the papers, and you’re in. You pay when your buyer’s mortgage comes through.”
“And you think it’s a bad idea?” I touch the horseshoe, my fingers tracing its arc.
“There’s no guarantee that your buyer’s mortgage will be approved. However, when I mentioned that to your seller, she indicated that surely you would be able to sell your house to somebody else. She said, and I quote, ‘We’re sick of bad renters, and we want Liz to have the house.’”
“But?” I lift the horseshoe and settle it into my lap, taking possession of it.
“Does my opinion matter?” Bernie asks. “Looks like you’ve already made your decision.”
“Tell me, anyway.”
“I just prefer to have everything lined up to avoid unexpected mess later. It’s good business to have all of the boxes checked and the money in hand. This is an unorthodox arrangement, and it makes me nervous. They are just a little too eager to get somebody into that house. You should have it inspected.”
What she says is logical and makes perfect sense.
I’ve spent over half of my life doing things that seemed logical and made perfect sense, and look where that got me. This time, I’m taking a gamble. I’m saying yes to this house and this opportunity.
“Where do I sign?” I ask.
Five minutes later, I walk out of the office a changed woman, on top of the world. Everything is going to work out. My courage will be an inspiration to Abigail, and the two of us will sort things out. She’ll go to medical school after all, and live up to her full potential. I have the keys to my castle, and nothing is going to stop me from creating a life that I want to live.
Before doubt has a chance to roll back in, I send a text to Abigail.
Liz: Meet me for dinner at Rancho Chico?
Abigail: Why?
Liz: Because Mexican food is your favorite.
I wait for a long moment, my heart in my throat, watching for the little dots that mean she’s sending me an answer. Just when I start to give up, she responds.
Abigail: Okay, but you have to buy me fajitas.
I take a huge breath of relief and hope. If Abigail sees dinner as an unspoken apology, she’ll be more open to listening. She’ll be a captive audience, and I’ll have the chance to make her understand. In my currently elated mood, I can even believe she’ll be excited about the house and want to move in with me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I walk into the restaurant feeling like a gambler on a winning streak. It’s my lucky day. I’ve made a deal to buy my dream house. Things will totally work out with Abigail.
I’m a few minutes early and ask for a table, not a booth, so that we’re right in the middle of the room and highly visible. Abigail has been taught to never make a scene in public. She’ll have to listen to me, and neither one of us will be able to yell. If she’s a captive audience, if she has to listen, I’ll find a way to make her understand.
But when she stalks in, perfectly put together as always, despite coming here directly from work, I can feel the edge to her before she’s fully cleared the door. She sits down, looks at the basket in the center of the table and then at me. “Were you going to leave any for me?”
“We can get more.”
She has a point. There are only two broken chips left in the bottom of the basket. The salsa bowl contains only a little clear juice. I was ridiculously hungry when I got here, happiness fueling an unusually big appetite. I still feel like I’m starving, in fact.
The waiter comes over, and I request more chips and salsa and order an enchilada platter. Abigail peruses the menu with all of her formidable attention, as if we don’t already both know what she’s going to order.
“I’ll take the fajitas. Steak and shrimp. And bring me a margarita.” She rattles this off, as if she orders drinks every day, then turns to me with exaggerated innocence. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is not a ‘nothing’ face.”
Another basket of chips appears on the table, and I snag one immediately. “I’ve never seen you order a drink,” I say, dipping.
“So, you get to have this whole new life, and I’m supposed to be the figure in the wax museum now?”
“That’s not fair, and you know it.”
“Do I?” She dips a chip with so much vehemence that it breaks into multiple pieces, leaving her with a tiny fragment while the rest floats in the salsa.
“Honey.” I put my hand over her free one and squeeze. “I want for you to have a full, big, wonderful life. Do what you love. Live where you wish. Travel.”
My phone rings. I have no intention of answering it, but it’s sitting right there on the table and my eyes go to the call display. And stay there. It’s the clinic calling. My brain spins through various disaster scenarios, wondering which of the many diseases they are calling me about. It must be something horrible to warrant a call after hours.
“I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
She shrugs and goes back to eating chips, probably grateful for a pause in our less-than-stellar conversation.
“Elizabeth?” It’s Dr. Lerner’s voice. His assistant always calls with test results. This can’t be good.
“This is me.”
“Are you sitting down?”
I feel for my chair with my free hand and anchor myself, bracing for what must be even worse news than I was expecting. I glance up at my daughter, who is staring at me, and I turn away to screen my face.
“Most of the test results won’t be in for a day or two, but there is one finding I felt you should know about immediately.”
“And that is?”
“It appears that you are pregnant.”
“Pardon me, I’m what?”
“I ran a blood test, just to rule out the possibility. Your HCG is elevated to a level consistent with pregnancy.”
“But that’s not possible.”
“I’m sure this is quite a shock,” Dr. Lerner says. “Now, there is a slight possibility that the test could indicate a tumor of some kind, but the timing of your sexual liaison is consistent with the numbers. I don’t have anybody here to schedule you now, so call in first thing tomorrow and get an appointment so we can discuss your options.”
“I have options?”
“There are always options. Goodbye, Liz. We’ll talk in a few days.” The phone goes silent.
I am frozen. This isn’t possible. This isn’t true. It’s a dream or an elaborate hoax or an enormous mistake.
“What was that all about?” Abigail asks.
I stare at my daughter, aghast. I’m pregnant? This is infinitely worse than gonorrhea, or even AIDS, which is at least a treatable condition these days. Dear God, if I’m pregnant, can I still move into that house? It’s half an hour from town in good weather. That’s a long way from the hospital.
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br /> “Mom?”
I cannot tell Abigail that I am pregnant out of wedlock.
“I won a sweepstakes,” I say brightly. “Didn’t even know I’d entered.”
I hold my breath, sure she’ll see right through the lie, but she takes the bait.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Mother. It’s a scam! They prey on people your age. Do not give them your address or your bank information. You didn’t, did you? Give them your banking information? Or your Social Security number.”
“I know better than to give out that information over the phone.”
“Don’t mail it to them, either. Tell you what, maybe you should just not ever give out any info unless you run it by me first. There are some really good scam artists out there.”
Abigail’s drink arrives, and I wish it were mine.
Only, if I’m pregnant, I can’t drink.
How can I possibly deal with this situation? If telling Abigail is impossible, how do I break the news to Lance?
Abigail reaches across the table for my phone. “I wonder what would happen if we hit call back? Probably not even a working number.”
My heart knifes sideways in my chest. I should have put my phone in my purse, should have deleted the call, should have done something, anything, to cover my tracks. Of course my lies were too easily believed, and now comes the retribution.
Abigail scrolls through my phone with one hand while dipping a chip in salsa with the other. She freezes. Our eyes meet and hold across the table.
“Give me my phone, please.” I hold out my hand.
“The clinic called you? After six? Why would they call you after hours?” Fear replaces her irritation and anger. “Mom. What are you not telling me?”
“Have a drink,” I say. “You’re going to need it.”
“Mom.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll beat it.”
And now, given that she thinks I have some terminal diagnosis, I have to tell her. “Well,” I say. “I’m sure it will all turn out to be a mistake, but Dr. Lerner called to tell me that I’m pregnant.”
A Borrowed Life Page 18
