This had been a long day already, but the worst part of the day was just ahead.
Rebecca picked up her purse and, taking a deep breath, walked out to her secretary’s desk. She told Rose Marie that she was leaving and that she might not be back today. Just to take her calls and she’d return them in the morning. “Is everything set for the magazine people tomorrow?”
Rose Marie assured her that everything was ready.
St. Charles Avenue was not yet overtaken by traffic and she made it to Dr. Matlock’s office uptown with five minutes to spare. As she walked into the building where his office was located, the whole event seemed surreal. She’d made the appointment yesterday, but she’d banned it from her mind since. And now, here she was. She would get this over, and then move on with her life.
The examination had gone quickly. But now she had to wait. Dressed in the soft pink cotton gown the nurse had handed her, Rebecca sat at the end of the examination table, legs dangling, waiting for the doctor to return. The nurse—Alice Hamilton was her name—had said the lab test wouldn’t take too long. Alice reminded her of someone from an old movie in the 1940s, the years after the war. Mulling this over, she guessed the nurse’s age at sixty years old, or so. Her hairstyle fit that era, the old pin curls and finger-wavy hair just reaching her chin. And with the little white nurse’s cap, she could have been starring on the battlefields of France in a scene with Audie Murphy.
She liked this woman. Alice had helped her get through this ordeal.
The room was cold after the doctor and nurse had stepped out. She hugged herself, rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms, wondering if the chilly feeling was some kind of premonition. She’d been unable to read the doctor’s expression after the examination. She’d always prided herself on her ability to read faces, even under stress in negotiating sessions. But this. This was a kind of stress that she’d never had to face before. Usually, when she recognized tension, the tension rose from a situation over which she had some control.
But not now. She’d never felt so vulnerable to fate, so helpless, before.
She told herself to shake this off. Rebecca had always believed that worrying about something before it happened was a waste of time and energy, unless you could do something to prevent it. This in her mind was a universal dilemma: If nothing happens after all, you’ve worried for nothing.
Still. This time was different, she knew. Staring at the door she could almost see her perfectly ordered life coming apart. Cold fear radiated through her and she couldn’t bring herself—no, she didn’t want, did not want to name it. Because in the deepest part of her, Rebecca knew that if she was carrying a child, she had no answer. No plan, as Amalise had.
The fear turned to bitter impatience as Rebecca sat at the end of the examination table in the small room waiting for the verdict. The hands on the yellow clock on the wall pointed to numbers circling a happy face. But they seemed to have stopped. Four thirty-three and you’re stuck, the clock said. It seemed she’d been sitting here all day. Still hugging herself, she tore her eyes from the clock and looked about. The pale yellow walls—neutral for unknown gender, she supposed, were irritating. Such an optimistic color. The walls were covered with framed, glossy pictures of couples unlike her, unlike Peter.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together, wanting to pray and not knowing how. And, indeed, not knowing whether anyone was really listening. The thought slipped in—if Peter were here, he’d know the right words to pray; and he’d be certain that God was listening.
Opening her eyes, with a flash of irritation she dropped her arms to her sides and bracing her weight on her hands, leaning forward, letting her hair fall around her face as she looked at the floor. Second passed, and then she arched her back and her neck and tilted her head far to one side, then to the other. Where in the world was Dr. Matlock?
Just then she heard heels clacking down the hallway, and she froze as the sound stopped just outside the door. As the door handle turned, her heart began thumping. She sat up straight, fingers gripping the edges of the table, the paper crackling beneath her as she waited.
Dr. Matlock, stethoscope still hung around his neck, walked in followed by Alice. One look at their smiles told her the fear was real. The thumping in her chest became a drum beating double-time while she sat waiting, unable to breathe. She sat very still as Dr. Matlock turned to his right and tossed the clipboard onto the table near the door, and wheeled back to her, smiling, slapping his hands together. And then he said the word that she’d been dreading.
“Congratulations.”
She closed her eyes.
“You’re going to be a mother, Mrs. Jacobs.”
In his voice she heard the celebration, expectation—like the optimism of the yellow paint on the walls, the happy faces in the pictures. When she opened her eyes, she found him swinging his hands behind him, feet spreading apart, and then he planted himself before her with a wide smile on his face.
She had no backup. She had no plan.
From the corners of her eyes she saw that Alice was beginning to comprehend. Her expression remained blank, but her brows lowered until they were flat above her eyes. When Rebecca turned her head toward Alice, the nurse gave her a knowing look.
“I’d say you’re about eight weeks along.” Hands still caught behind him, he began rocking gently back and forth, brows lifting and falling as he spoke.
Shaken, she looked at him without moving, without saying anything as reality descended. Seconds passed before his smile began to fade. She saw his quick glance at the wedding ring on her finger, and she realized that she was an alien in his world.
Rebecca dipped her chin, blinking as tears pooled in her eyes and one slipped down her cheek. Immediately Alice—perceptive Alice—handed her a Kleenex. Crumpling it in her fist, she pressed it to the corner of each eye. When at last she looked up, her eyes fixed on the doctor behind him, as if by walking through she could undo the afternoon’s events, like rewinding a reel of film. The doctor gave her a final, quizzical look. But Alice met her eyes. Alice understood.
She heard a wooden creak and turned to see Doctor Matlock lowering himself slowly into the chair beside the little desk. Knees spread, he leaned forward, letting his hands dangle between them as he gazed at the floor, contemplating what had just begun to sink in. Seconds passed, and then lifting his head with a long sigh, he said, “Let’s have some straight talk, shall we?” Without waiting for a response, he picked up a calendar from the desk and studied it. “I take it this baby wasn’t planned?”
She shook her head. He looked up. She said, “No.”
“Would you like to have an ultrasound?”
“What for?”
He remained silent, watching her.
“How could this have happened?” she suddenly burst out. Flinging her hands in the air, she wiped tears from her cheeks. Alice handed over another Kleenex and she took it.
“We were always so careful; took precautions.” Her throat tightened and shaking her head, she looked at him for answers. “How could this have happened?”
He shrugged, holding her eyes. “I can’t answer that. Accidents occur. Now you must accept that this has happened.”
“But, when?” Her voice moved up the scale with the question. She fought to stop the tears, blinking them back, weak with this feeling that everything, everything now was beyond her control. “I mean, when is it due?”
“Let’s see,” Dr. Matlock’s voice turned gentle. He studied the calendar in his hand. “Today is May 18, so counting the date you gave on the forms as the beginning of your last menstrual cycle . . .” He pressed his lips together and flipped the calendar pages. “I’d say you’re due on December 15. That’s a Wednesday.” He looked up and his tone was decisive.
“How can you be so precise?”
“I’m usually very close on the date, but it’s not an ex
act science.” He gave her a look, then grasped the prongs of the stethoscope around his neck.
She could think of nothing but the fact that she, Rebecca Downer Jacobs, was two months pregnant. How could she not have faced the obvious? Thinking back she realized that for the last few weeks she’d been ignoring telling changes in her body; skirt waistbands feeling snug, jeans a little tighter, the nausea. “I’ll have to go on a diet,” she thought aloud.
“No diets.” Matlock wagged his finger at her. “And no alcohol or smoking. Not good for the baby.”
Baby!
She stared in disbelief as he went on about vitamins and things she couldn’t eat, or foods that she should, and the physical changes to expect in the weeks before her next appointment. The It girl’s feet might swell, and then what would she do with all those lovely high heels, and she’d be gaining weight, of course. And through this barrage of information and thoughts of the consequences tumbling through her mind, one question stood high above it all: How could this have happened?
As she sat silent, listening, gradually the doctor’s voice turned brisk. His smile had disappeared sometime during the last few minutes and now she saw the look of disappointment in his eyes. When he finished giving her the information that he thought she’d need and still she had no questions, at last his face went blank.
He pushed up and stood before her as he fingered the stethoscope and tightened his lips. “You’re still in the first trimester, Mrs. Jacobs. There are options, of course.” He said this as though the options were unthinkable.
She gave him a challenging look. The doctor averted his eyes, turning his wrist and checking the time.
“If I decide not to have it, do you . . . ?”
“No.” His tone was abrupt. His grip tightened on the stethoscope as he frowned at her. “I hope you’ll seek counseling before you make such a decision, Mrs. Jacobs. It’s the law, I know, but it’s a decision that you won’t be able to go back and change. You’ll talk it over with your husband, I know. But the two of you should really think that through before you make a decision.”
“Yes. I know.”
His brows met over his nose as he turned and plucked a colorful brochure from a plastic pocket hanging on the wall over the desk. He held it out and she took it.
“Take a look at this and if you decide to have the baby, come back to see me in two weeks. Or, make an appointment with your usual physician.” She said nothing and he pulled a large bottle of pills from the pocket of his white coat.
“In the meantime, these are neonatal vitamins. Good for you, and the baby.” He held them out, and she reached for them. He handed them to her and stepped back, nodding toward the bottle now in her hands. “That’s enough for one month, but you should see a doctor before then. You’ll need a prescription for the rest.”
She watched in silence as he turned toward the door and Alice stepped aside. As the nurse followed the doctor from the room, she turned and glanced over her shoulder, giving Rebecca a reassuring look that everything would be all right.
8
Driving home from the doctor’s office, Rebecca put the top down on her British Racing Green Jaguar convertible and let the wind blow through her hair. She switched on the radio to station WTIX and listened to music from the sixties, turning the volume up high. The news did not seem real.
Bracing her elbow on the windowsill, she raked her fingers through her hair and thought about the Spin-it interview scheduled for the next morning, and then considered what she’d look like in comparison by the time the article was published, and then she imagined how Raymond and Preston and Doug and everyone else at the firm would react to this situation, what they’d say when she wasn’t around. With only three women lawyers in the firm, she could hear it now—hire a woman, and that’s what you get.
When she reached home, she parked the car on her side of the two-car garage. Inside, holding onto her purse and the booklet that Dr. Matlock had given to her and the vitamin bottle, she walked up the stairs to the master bedroom suite. There she kicked off her shoes. She took off her suit jacket and tossed it on the foot of the bed. She slipped the booklet into the drawer of the table on her side of the bed and deposited the vitamins in the cabinet behind the mirror over her sink in the dressing room.
For a moment Rebecca studied her reflection in the mirror, wondering if she was still looking at the same person she’d looked at this morning as she’d readied herself for work. At last she turned away and walked back into the bedroom.
Slowly she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, hands on her lap, feet flat on the floor. She could feel her heart beating, pounding as she opened the table drawer and pulled out the brochure. Opening it quickly, before she could change her mind, she began paging through it, looking at the pictures and descriptions underneath. Each page had a photo of a blurry sonogram with captions underneath for week one, week four, week eight . . . she stopped there. She couldn’t make out much from the sonograms, but there was an artist’s rendering on the page opposite that gave detail.
She began studying the picture, and without thinking, dropped her hand down over her midsection. She studied the spine curving protectively, tucking in for the adventure. She studied the tiny arms and legs, and feet with toes already distinct. So soon? The fingers curled near the mouth and nose. And she could see an ear growing on the side of the profiled head.
She looked at the picture for a long time. It was a personal choice, she’d always replied when asked what she would do. Her own personal choice. Then she shut the booklet and stuck it back into the drawer.
There are options, Dr. Matlock had said.
She went downstairs to the kitchen and pulled a Tab from the refrigerator, then wandered back through the living room, drinking from the bottle. Crossing the living room and the hallway, with the stairs to her right, she stopped in the doorway of the study that she and Peter shared. She leaned against the doorframe drinking the Tab, looking over the room without really seeing it as she tried again to absorb the news and what it meant. There was a choice to be made now, or so she told herself.
When does life begin?
She closed her eyes, not wanting to think of this.
And, whose choice was this to make—hers, or theirs?
Peter loved her as she loved him. But, as she stood there staring into the gloom, slowly, slowly the truth rose—who was she kidding. Peter had gone along with her choice not to have children so far, but now she was pregnant, all bets were off. His entire career was devoted to protecting the innocent, to the sanctity of life in all its forms. There was no choice now to be made. Not if she wanted to hold on to Peter’s love.
Shaking her head, she pushed off the doorframe and turned, walking slowly up the stairs, holding onto the neck of the bottle as she ascended, wishing that the trip to Italy this weekend were still possible. She needed to get away; needed time to think.
In the bedroom she set the bottle down and sat once again on the edge of the mattress. Her entire life was turning upside down—her relationship with Peter and their marriage, her ambitions and career; in her mind she saw all of this flittering away like feathers on a breeze. She sighed. Consumed as she and Peter had been by their careers for the past two years, neither had ever contemplated this situation. And even now, still, it didn’t seem real.
She fell back on the bed, arms flung out to her sides and stared at the ceiling. Peter was the only man she’d ever really loved. And once she told Peter the news, this would all be real. What would happen after that? Her life would be forever altered. That bitter resentment that had begun in Dr. Matlock’s office now filled her. This was her body, her career at risk—and regardless of his good intentions, Peter would leave her behind with the baby every morning when he left for work.
She would be the one responsible for raising their child.
Responsible.
With a groan,
she scooted back on the mattress, pulled the pillow toward her, and stretched out. There she lay until at last, she fell asleep.
The sound of the front door opening downstairs woke her. She squinted into the dim light of the bedroom, confused, then abruptly sat up and looked about, remembering. A cloud of gloom enveloped her as she sat there without moving, absorbing the news all over again as it rose new and shocking.
Slowly she realized that Peter was home.
“Rebecca?”
“Up here,” she called.
Her stomach lurched. Should she tell him now?
She looked at the clock and saw that it was early, still. He couldn’t find her like this, disheveled, half-asleep at a time when she was usually downtown working. Scrambling for her shoes, she slipped them back on, and tucking her blouse into the waist and smoothing her skirt, she looked about. She needed time to think. She couldn’t tell Peter just yet, not yet.
Time. She needed time to think things through before everything came tumbling down around her.
“What are you doing home?” His voice came from the bottom of the stairs and then he started up.
Hurrying into the bathroom, she flicked on the lights in passing and sat at her dressing table. She picked up the hairbrush and swiped it once through her hair. When he walked in, she was holding it midair watching him in the mirror.
“My calendar was free,” she said. “So here I am.”
He braced his hands on either side of the doorway and looked at her. She resumed brushing her hair.
“That’s not like you, Rebbe. Did they clear the building for some reason?”
She tilted her head and looked at him in the mirror. “It’s not that early.” She put down the brush and turned to face him. “How’s the trial coming along? Any chance we’re going to Italy this weekend?”
He grinned and circled his finger and thumb. “They took a plea, looks like we’re on. I’m ready if you are.”
Accidental Life Page 5
