This Fragile Life
While everyone is busy in the gym I go to Jim’s office and look through the registration files, find Ramon’s address. I’m working on instinct even as I’m wildly, savagely hoping that this is pointless, that it’s nothing. I feel a heavy certainty inside me that it isn’t.
Ramon lives in a housing project on Avenue D. In daylight it’s not really dangerous, but as the only white person I can see I feel both conspicuous and uncomfortable. Rap music blares from balconies, and a bunch of teen boys lounge in the doorway of Ramon’s building, drinking beer from forty-ounce bottles and laughing in a way that has alarm prickling between my shoulder blades. I have to squeeze by them, and they don’t move out of the way.
I’ve been to places like this before, but even so I am always astonished at how in just a few blocks I feel as if I’ve entered another country. I take the concrete stairs up to the third floor, and then down a narrow, urine-smelling corridor to Apartment 3F. The doorbell is broken and I knock.
No answer, and I knock again, my heart thudding in time with the loud raps on the door. Finally I hear someone shuffle to the door, open it with the chain still drawn across. My hope dies when I see Ramon’s mother glare at me from behind a tangle of dark hair. She has a black eye.
“I’m looking for Ramon,” I say, my voice croaky. “He didn’t show up to camp today and we’ve been concerned—”
She tries to slam the door in my face. I press my palm up against it, doing my best to keep her from shutting me out even as my heart rate skitters in sudden fear. “Please—”
“Go away.” Her English is thickly accented, but I can hear the helpless rage in her voice.
From behind her I hear a man’s voice, a low growl of Spanish. The chain rattles and the door swings wide open; a surly-looking man, no more than twenty-five, glares at me and I feel my heart pound in my chest.
“I’m looking for Ramon.”
“Véte,” he growls, which I know means something like ‘get the hell out of here’.
I swallow, make sure to still meet his eye. I am terrified of this man, of this situation, and of how vulnerable I am, with this fragile life pulsing faintly within me. The surge of protectiveness is sudden and undeniable, and I want to put a hand to my belly and shield my own child in a way I wasn’t able to shield Ramon. I resist the revealing gesture, but only just.
“Is he here?” I ask, and my voice trembles.
The man’s mouth thins. He takes a step towards me, one hand now clenched into a fist. “Rajá“
I take a step back and the door slams. I swallow, my mouth dry, and my stomach cramps. Swallowing again, choking back bile, I turn back down the corridor.
I keep my head down as I hurry down the stairs, through the projects, out onto Avenue D and then across to the center. The party is over, and the other staff are mopping the floor with its scattering of crumbs and pale puddles of spilled punch.
Jim glances at me from across the room, his face caught in a frown. “Alex—”
“I need to talk to you, Jim,” I say, starting towards him, but there is something wrong because he is shaking his head as he points to me.
That’s when I feel the stickiness on my thighs I hadn’t noticed before, and when I look down I see that my shorts are covered in blood.
Chapter 13
MARTHA
As soon as my cell phone rings at work I know it’s Alex. I set her number to a different ringtone, a soothing cricket chirp because God knows I’m tense enough already.
And I’m even tenser when I answer the call, because I hear the ragged note of tears in her voice.
“Martha—”
“Alex? Alex, what’s—?”
“I’m bleeding, Martha.”
“Bleeding?” Everything in me freezes. “What? What happened—?”
“It just started all of a sudden.” She makes a choking sound, as if she’s holding back a sob. “There’s a lot of blood.”
“Where are you?” My voice is high, sharp with anxiety. With terror.
“I’m at the center.”
Way downtown. I feel icy with adrenalin and shock. “Let me call the OB,” I say, striving for calm. “I’ve met with her before. I could get you an appointment today.”
“I’ll call,” Alex says after a moment, her voice still shaky.
“Okay. You have the number? You’ll call me when you hear?” My voice is sharp again.
“Yes,” she says, subdued now. “Yes, I’ll call you.”
I spend the next twenty minutes staring at my computer screen, simply waiting. Finally the phone rings and I snatch at it. “Alex?”
“They’ll see me today,” she says quietly. “At four.”
“I’ll be there.” Too late I realize that Alex might not want me there. But I need to be there. Still I force myself to say, “Only if you want me to. If you want somebody to go to the appointment with.”
Alex is silent for a long moment and I wait, my breath held, my heart beating hard. “I’d like that,” she finally says, softly, and I try to let my breath out slowly, so she doesn’t hear my rush of relief.
I leave the office at three-thirty and run into my direct supervisor, Mark Sheehan, in the corridor. He sees me obviously on the way out and raises his eyebrows.
“Going somewhere, Martha? We’re meeting in five upstairs, I thought.”
Shit. There is a pitch meeting for our newest account. I gave the main pitch to one of my juniors but I absolutely should be there, backing him up and adding my own spin. But I can’t. I can’’t.
“I’m really sorry, Mark,” I say. “I have a family emergency.”
“Family emergency,” he repeats, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me, which pisses me off. I haven’t taken all of my vacation days in any of the last three years. And most of the ones I took were for IVF appointments.
“Yes,” I say firmly, and meet his eye. “Family emergency.”
His mouth thinning, he nods, and I hurry towards the elevators, everything forgotten except for Alex—and my baby.
Chapter 14
ALEX
Martha meets me outside the OB’s office on York Avenue; she looks pale and tense, but as soon as she sees me she gives me a quick, tight hug, lasting only a few seconds, which is still a lot for her. And I’m glad of it; I need the contact. When I realized I was bleeding she was the first person I thought of calling. I knew I needed her strength, her sensibility, and I’m glad she’s here now.
“You okay?” she asks and I shake my head.
“I don’t know.”
She catches sight of my shorts; I sponged the blood stains but they’re still visible. “Oh, God.” She goes even paler. “I’m sorry.”
I blink back tears. “Me too.”
She takes my arm and leads me inside. The OB’s office is plush, posh, the kind with comfortable chairs and potted plants and up-to-date, high-end magazines. The kind of office I haven’t been to in a long time.
I feel conspicuous in my stained shorts and camp tee shirt, and the receptionist’s silence is eloquent as she hands me a clipboard with space for all the insurance information I don’t have.
I’ve never really thought of myself as poor, maybe because it always seemed like a choice. I love my job, so it doesn’t matter if I don’t earn a lot of money. I’ve never wanted things, clothes or furniture or vacations. I suppose I’ve thought of myself, a bit self-consciously, as a bohemian. Whenever I’ve seenMartha with her power suits and smartphone and relentless drive, I’ve probably felt a little…smug.
Until now. Until pregnancy made me realize how transient and flimsy my life really is, without any foundations or safety nets. And right now I’m floundering, while if Martha brought a baby home tomorrow, she’d be fine. Fine.
Which is why, I tell myself as I fill in my name and address on the form, she’s going to be this baby’s mother and not me.
But maybe there’s no baby.
I gaze down at the spaces for health insurance provider, secondary health insurance provider, policy and group numbers, and put down my pen.
“I thought they didn’t take insurance,” I whisper to Martha.
“I think they just like to have it on file.”
So even when they don’t take insurance, you need it.
I’ve just finished the forms when my name is called. Martha and I both rise, and she goes first through the door and down the hallway to the examining room. It’s comfortable, with more potted plants and tasteful prints. And a table, of course, with stirrups and a sterile white sheet of paper. The nurse glances at the two of us with raised eyebrows.
“Alex Dimmerman?”
I raise my hand. “That’s me.”
“I’m just here for support,” Martha says with a shaky smile and the nurse doesn’t answer. I get up on the table, conscious of the dried blood still on my thighs. When I pulled down my shorts in the bathroom after Jim saw me, I was shocked by the bright red streaks in my underwear. And not just streaks; it had, after all, soaked through to my shorts. It terrified me. It still does.
“So you’ve had a little bleeding,” the nurse says, and I just nod. She takes my blood pressure and temperature; I’m clammy with sweat. She makes a few ticks on a form and then leaves the room with a murmured, “Dr. Cohen will be with you shortly.”
Of course it isn’t shortly. It’s twenty long minutes, and I see Martha check her diamond-encrusted Bulgari at least eight times.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you missing some important meetings?”
“That doesn’t matter at all,” she says firmly.
We wait.
Finally the door opens and Dr. Cohen comes in. Somewhat to my surprise, I like the look of her. She has curly dark hair with a touch of gray and wears glasses. I think she’s probably about forty.
“Alex?” She smiles at me. “How are you? I’m Dr. Cohen.” She turns to a little stainless sink and washes her hands, glancing behind her shoulder as she talks to me. “So there’s been some bleeding?”
“Yes,” I say, and haltingly, conscious of Martha right next to me, I describe what’s happened.
Dr. Cohen nods. “Well, some bleeding can be normal in early pregnancy, but it can also be a sign of miscarriage, as I’m sure you know. Do you know the date of your last period?”
“I know the date of conception,” I say, and flush.
Dr. Cohen just nods. “All right, let’s go with that.” I tell her, and she takes out this little color wheel that looks like something from a child’s board game. She turns it and a second later she tells me, “March Twenty-Seventh.” She looks up and smiles, and I smile tremulously back, because even though nothing is certain, everything suddenly feels more real.
“Have you had any cramping with the bleeding? Stomach pains?” Dr. Cohen asks, and I shake my head.
“No, I didn’t even realize I’d been bleeding until…” I stop, and she nods, understanding.
“I think the easiest way to figure out what’s going on is to have an ultrasound.”
Hope breathes within me. “Can you do that here?”
“Yes, I have an ultrasound machine. Why don’t you scoot back on the examining table, and I’ll be back in two ticks?”
I feel self-conscious lying down on the crinkly paper with Martha right next to me. Neither of us speaks. Dr. Cohen comes back with this little machine on wheels and positions it next to me. She asks me to lift up my tee shirt, which I do. My stomach looks as white and soft as a fish’s belly.
“This will be cold,” she warns, and squirts some clear gel on my stomach, before prodding my belly with the ultrasound wand. “Sorry,” she murmurs, her eyes on the fuzzy black and white screen. “I know it’s a bit uncomfortable.”
Martha stands by my head, tense and unspeaking. Dr. Cohen moves the wand around, poking hard enough to make me wince.
“There we are,” Dr. Cohen finally says and I don’t know what she means. “Look.” She points at the screen, and I crane my neck but all I see is fuzzy white shapes and weird black circles.
“Can’t you see it?” Martha whispers, and I shake my head.
Dr. Cohen outlines a little white blob on the screen, sort of shaped like a kidney bean. “That’s your baby,” she says. “And this is its beating heart.” And I can see it then, no more than a speck, pulsing hard with life. Relief rushes through me, makes me dizzy. “Listen,” she says, and she turns up the volume on the ultrasound machine.
The sound fills the room, like a galloping horse, fast and determined. I let out a trembling laugh and Martha presses a fist to her lips. Dr. Cohen smiles.
“So baby looks fine for the moment,” she says. She hits some keys, waits a few seconds, and nods. “Measuring ten weeks, which is right on target.”
I’m so weak with relief it takes me a moment to speak. “And the blood?”
“It looks like you had some uterine bleeding early on in the pregnancy. The blood remained in your uterus here—” she taps at a black circle “—and that’s what you’ve been experiencing.”
“It was bright red,” I offer uncertainly and she nods.
“The color indicates the age of the blood, not the severity of the condition, although of course if you continue to have bright red bleeding and it grows heavier or you experience any abdominal cramping, you should call right away.”
“Is there anything she can do to prevent further bleeding?” Martha asks.
“Well, avoiding strenuous activity and staying off your feet can’t hurt,” Dr. Cohen says, directing her answer to me. She smiles, her attention still fully on me. “Would you like a photo to take home?”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Вы ознакомились с фрагментом книги.
Для бесплатного чтения открыта только часть текста.
Приобретайте полный текст книги у нашего партнера:
Полная версия книги