A New Lu (7 page)

8

“What would you do if this happened to you?”

“It wouldn't.”

“But what if…?”

“It wouldn't.”

C'mon.

“Dios!
Okay.” Andrea takes a breath, the usual indication that her considerable brainpower is kicking into fifth gear. “First I'd track down the soon-to-be-unemployed pharmacist who sold me the defective birth-control patch. Then I'd find out the brand of the condom that went wrong. Then I'd inform my partner that he has bills coming due from a doctor of my choice. Meanwhile I'd line up one of those sleazy no-payment-till-we-win-the-case-type attorneys to sue the pharmaceutical company, the condom manufacturer and the sperm donor for reckless disregard for my health and extreme mental anguish. After that, I guess I could retire to San Juan to write the novel I carry around in my head.”

My mind boggles at her ability to home in on the essentials. “A condom.”

“You did use a condom, right?” Andrea is watching me like a hawk.

Now, why didn't I think of that? Because I'm a married—ex-married woman who hasn't had to think of that particular accessory since…

“I've been on the pill. So when my doctor suggested that I give my body a rest last year due to what we thought were premenopausal signals, I didn't hesitate. Jacob had already walked out. My next scheduled checkup—jeez, it's next week!—we are supposed to discuss hormone patches, not birth-control patches. I'm turning fifty next month, for crissakes.”

“Lu! You didn't use protection?” Andrea is getting agitated, which means she's using her hands to talk. “I mean, forget getting pregnant. A man who takes a woman to bed just like that, he's going to be doing a lot of screwing around.”

“I don't think so.”

“You better believe it. So what, you've been married more than half your life. You've got to know STD and HIV aren't cable stations.”

I reach for my yogurt smoothie and take a long pull on the straw. Nothing. A blueberry is caught inside. I shove it away. Here's the harder admission. “I know this guy. Really well.”

“That's what all nice women think.”

“No, really,
reeeally
well.”

I've finally managed to shock Andrea. “You've been sleeping with your ex!” I shush her. She doesn't shush. “What were you thinking?”

“Remember the weekend getaway? Well, one thing led to another.”

“Uh-huh.” Andrea is waiting for the lead-in that will be worth the punch line that's already been delivered.

I stare at her for a second and see only a beautiful brilliant younger woman who, if I wasn't such a balanced person most of the time, I could dislike with jealous intensity. Two men in the booth across from us have taken turns staring at her while the other one talks. Andrea is aware but she doesn't play up to them. She's such a guy-magnet she takes it in stride. A woman like her cannot imagine the thoughts of an average middle-aged female. Sex for the very last time will occur to her about five minutes after she's inside the Pearly Gates. But we are friends, because Andrea sees no difference between us.

That complete faith in her sparks the truth. “I was thinking it might be the last sex I will ever have. Did you know that I have a better chance of being struck by lightning than meeting another seriously-interested-in-fifty-year-old-me male?

“That's some WASPy
menudo!
You believe that? Look at you. Any man here would be glad to take you to bed.” I know she means well, but she's in her “Your Honor” mode, and her delivering voice has half the diners staring in our direction.

“Thanks.”

“No, let me prove it.” Andrea gets up and walks over to the two guys in the booth who grow tremendous grins at her approach. She puts a hand on the shoulder of the lucky one, then aims a prosecutorial finger at me.

“Look at my friend. Doesn't she look like someone you could take to bed? I'm not suggesting you ask, you understand. This is a survey, so don't get any filthy ideas or nothing. I'm an attorney, so what you say can and will be used against you, if I have to. Now tell me, don't you think she's sexually attractive?”

The poor guys can't help giving the answer she wants to hear. “Sure. Sure!” they say, and glance at each other, then at the server who's come up behind Andrea holding
a pitcher of water hoping, I suppose, that he has something useful to contribute.

“I'd do her!” a lanky, complexion-challenged youth calls from a back booth. His two friends hoot and stomp for emphasis.

“Thank you very much,” I reply in a smothered tone as Andrea comes back to her chair. “Now I'll have to find a new place to get smoothies.”

Andrea is unfazed. “I just want to prove a point to you. You can do better than Jacob Nichols.”

“At the moment, I have other, more pressing issues.”

It hits Andrea all over again.
“Dios!
What if he's been fooling around?”

“Jacob?” I had thought about that, a lot, during the first months he was gone. And then, well, I didn't see or hear anything that would seem to confirm it.

“You really think he'd go a year without? You know him better than I do.”

“He went the last six months of our cohabiting without.” He better have. “He's not dating anyone. Dallas checked.” Who knew that would turn into a comforting thought?

Andrea shrugs. “A year is plenty of time for him to find a meaningless hump, or even pay for it. My cousin required only a weekend to get into trouble, when his wife was out of town last month. Lu, tell me you did think of that?”

“I'm beginning to believe I haven't had a rational thought in years.”

“I could smack you around a little, if it would make you feel better. But, truly, you better see your doctor,
pronto!”

“Any other advice?”

She nods. “Don't have it. That's what I'd do. But I'm not you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that if you're sentimental enough to forget to use protection, you're crazy enough to think this is your just deserts, and won't even ask Jacob to foot the bill.”

“Well, of course not. I—”

“Or!”
She knows how to break a train of thought. “You're hoping he will come running back on his own to cheerfully take care of the little baby you're going to provide as proof of his enduring
machismo.”

The way she slurs that last word really hurts. “I didn't deliberately get pregnant.” I'm whispering because the full company of diners now seems to think our conversation is open for public consumption. “It was an accident. Like a car wreck. With an ambulance and fire truck and everything. Okay?”

Andrea's beautiful face hardens in glorious disdain. “You're a fool.
Estupida!
You're lucky you got me for a friend because most people would just nod their heads a bit for your benefit, and then run out so they could talk about you behind your back. I'm talking to your front, Lu.
Estupida!
You hear me?”

“Conversation with you is always edifying.”

But I know she's nearly as shocked as I was, am. Despite her spitfire delivery of abuse the look in her gaze is one of pained sympathy. Clear-eyed bias is her strong point.

I stare out the window for a long moment. “I didn't think of getting pregnant. The furthermost thought from my mind. You think it was an unconscious desire. It doesn't feel like that.”

I look back at her. “It feels like I made a mistake.”

Andrea shrugs. “All I can say is, with this divorce it's like you just got outta jail. Why go and commit another crime?”

“You mean by having a baby?”

“You catch on quick. Let's look at the facts.” Up goes the first finger. “One, you are single. Single parenting
is hard. Two, you're employed part-time. Even that income is in jeopardy because you have job issues with your boss. Three, you've earned some Me time. You're at an age when you should be taking long leisurely weekends in the country, curled up in a B and B canopy bed with a good book or a stack of DVDs or, let's be honest, a man who's your equal in intelligence and culture, and sexy as hell.”

“I had visions of that, yes.” Didn't know how it would happen, but a girl can dream.

Andrea throws up the hand she was counting with. “Do you see any of this happening if you're constantly on call to change stinky diapers, scoop pablum into a toothless mouth and walk the floor all night with a colicky baby?”

“Dallas and Davin were colic free. Mostly.”

Andrea is unimpressed. “For the next three years you'll go everywhere burdened with diaper bags, bottles of formula, jars of baby food, car seats, strollers, sippy cups and the twenty-four-seven demands of a tiny tyrant. Do you remember Dallas at sixteen?”

I can't help but gasp.

Andrea nods. “That's what I'm talking about. This time you'll be sixty-six, Lu. Sixteen and sixty-six!”

Andrea attacks her salad with renewed vigor, chewing like a heavy-equipment grinder. It's easy to see this discussion is chafing her determination to never long be burdened by life's difficulties.

Her cell rings. She checks the number and smiles before answering. “Andrea, you got her. Yes. No, not tomorrow. No. No good. What about tonight? Isn't it? I'll meet you. Where? Ah, I like that place. Bye!” She grins. “Our doctor friend has the whole day off. Isn't that cute?”

“I thought you said he was a nonstarter?”

“It's a date, not a lifetime commitment.”

I can't help it. She's mauled me pretty good. “Isn't he a little young?”

She arches a brow. “As long as you can reel them in, they're legal size.” She has a point.

As we exit the restaurant a sudden cramp catches me down low. Could this be the beginning of the end? I feel a sickening lurch near my heart. Not morning sickness, but fear. Despite Andrea's reasoning, I'm not sure I want it to end like this. I slow my steps as my heartbeat accelerates.

Reluctant to put any strain on my lower back, I lower myself carefully into her car and lift my legs in one by one after me. Maybe that yoga class wasn't such a good idea. The seat belt now seems a hostile device so I slip my hand between it and me, and surreptitiously rub the stitch in my side.

Andrea laughs at one of her own remarks, throws the car into gear and pulls away from the curb as though she's been at a pit stop.

The ache quickly subsides. I don't feel any wetness in my panties as we zip along. But I'm brooding about what that pain could mean, only half listening to Andrea's speculations on how her date will be with Dr. Yummy.

Finally, even she notices. “I'm trying to keep it light, here. What? You don't look so good.”

I meet her gaze, letting her see just how seriously un-light I feel. “Did you really mean it when you said you wouldn't have the baby?”

She shrugs. “I take care of business every time because I'm too shallow to deal with exactly what you're into. But you?” She shakes her head, her profile etched with impatience. “Do you believe everything I say?”

“Pretty much.”

“Dios!
You're really considering having it!”

She pulls into my driveway, leans back at an angle and folds her arms across her gorgeous bosom. “So, what are you going to do?”

“I don't know. See a doctor.”

“Good.” Andrea straightens up. “You call me after you do that, then we'll talk again.”

Once in the house, I practically sprint into the bathroom to check on things. Nothing.

I'm so overwrought I slump down on the tile floor. After a moment, my eyes focus on the grout around the toilet bowl, which looks suspiciously mildewy. Soon, I'm on my knees with Jacob's old toothbrush and a spray bottle of bleach. I do this for me, for the unknown, for the future.

9

“Another vacation?” Cy frowns as he speaks.

“To work. I do my best work away from my desk. Friday gets me a start on a marathon work weekend.”

“But why out of town?”

I shrug. “You know how it is.”

He nods, his balding head peeking like a baby's bottom through the cotton fluff of his thinning hair. “Too many memories in the house.”

“Yeah.”

We've just been to see Harrison Ford's latest, not his greatest, movie. It doesn't matter. It's a warm mid-May evening. The lengthening of the days adds to my pleasure, for the sky is still violet at the western edge. We took in the 6:00 p.m. showing, and now amble up the block toward a local Italian place. A crowd is there ahead of us, waiting on the sidewalk.

“It's okay to go away.” Cy shrugs. “Just don't hide.”

“I'm not hiding from Tai.” I've explained to him while
we waited for previews to start all about my new boss, and what Tai expects of me.

“I'm not talking about work. I'm talking about life.” He jingles the change in his pocket with a hand, a sign that he's thinking deeply. “You need the company of a man.”

I grab his arm and squeeze it. “I have the company of a man at this very moment.”

He blushes, pleased. “Me, you don't have to worry about. My libido isn't dead, but these days my body doesn't often get the memo. You need the kind of man who can be trouble.”

From anyone else, I would have a hot and ready answer to this “you just need a good screw” advice. But Cy means relationship trouble, not just a hot lick. “Maybe we should get more serious.” I say this lightly as we come to a halt at the back of the line of patrons.

“Promises, she makes me.” He winks at me. “At least I can take you out in public without my children squawking.”

“I'll bet you can't say that about all your sweet young things.”

The couple just ahead, clearly past forty and clearly working hard to keep that taut, overly tanned look of money, possibly just returned from a Miami holiday, turns to glance at us.

“It's not what you think,” I say brightly, and cuddle closer to Cy. “It's September/November, not May/December love.”

The woman gives me a quick smile that's more like a muscle tic. The man simply looks away.

“How is it you've remained single?” I lean in to Cy this time so I won't be overheard.

“Lucky for you, I am still single,” he answers with a broad grin. “These days, who else can afford your tastes?”

He means my addiction to calzones. Since the morning sickness subsided, they're all I want. But the curious woman ahead of us half turns again before her companion says something under his breath that stalls her.

“You're just too generous—that's your greatest fault,” I say a bit loudly, and then when she can't resist turning her head, I plant a big squeaky kiss on Cy's cheek. In flats, I top him by two inches.

“Don't I know you?” The woman's voice is a contralto with a dollop of cream as she smiles at Cy. “Of course, you're the architect! Schelgel, right? I'm Pam Jeffrey.” When this doesn't get a reaction from Cy, she fakes hurt. “You don't remember me.”

I'm getting all kinds of gold-digger vibes from her. The jewelry is a little too much for a New Jersey bistro on a Thursday night. Her makeup, done with an expert hand, creates a face she doesn't own. The possessive grip she's had on her companion until she recognizes Cy, a well-known rich prospect, slackens. “The autumn soiree benefit for the hospital last fall! You were with—” Her eyes cut my way. “Someone else.”

“My daughter,” Cy offers in what I know is perfect truth. I had the gig until I came down with the flu.

“You two married?” Cy inquires.

“Oh, no.” She answers too quickly to be polite, a fact reflected in her companion's expression. To compensate, she pat-strokes his arm as if it's a lap dog. “This is Rick—Richard.”

“How you doin'?” Rick-Richard is Jersey through and through.

Cy reluctantly shakes the hand he offers. When Pam offers hers, Cy says, “You should be married. You act married.”

I laugh because I cannot help it. It infuriates the woman, amuses the guy, and Cy, well, Cy has started reading the menu posted in the outside window. “I've a
taste for lamb,” he says after a moment. “I hope it's nice and tender. I don't like mutton.”

And that's why no one messes with Cy Schelgel.

Aunt Marvelle is in the city for the weekend. She and the Marvelous Matrons have tickets to Ralph Fiennes's latest foray onto Broadway. Then on Saturday they plan to hit the newest exhibition at the Guggenheim. Lunch at Café des Artistes, and then a jazz concert at Lincoln Center.

“I sure was glad to hear his name pronounced ‘Ray-
ff
' because I surely would have thought his mother lacked sense, naming a boy that pretty some old ugly ‘Rall-
ff
.' But you come on and use the place, anyway. You have a key and know where everything is.”

I do. Including the ob-gyn clinic where I've made an appointment for 2:00 p.m. today. This time I used my own connections on the island and still had to wait nine days to be worked into a too-full schedule.

I wasn't about to see my own doctor. Not only because I'm likely to run into someone I know there, nor do I care what people say about the confidentiality of doctors, but because the nurses are a problem. I love Sue, Dr. Bernard's nurse, dearly. She talks to patients as though they are personal friends. And friends do discuss friends. I could about count the minutes from the time she learns I'm pregnant until I'll hear about it on the street. Didn't we all know that Joan Dawson had caught the clap before her straying husband learned he'd been busted? That's because Ellen Jenkins, the unofficial town crier for Upper Montclair, overheard Sue talking to the receptionist about Joan's situation as Ellen walked up. Next thing you know, we all know. Nurses can't keep a secret. Okay, so maybe most of them do, perhaps ninety-five percent. I can't afford to be outed by the leaky five percent. I'm going back out to the island to have the pregnancy
confirmed. If Aunt Marvelle finds out, well, that's a chance I'm willing to take.

The bad thing about being worked in is that you get worked over first in the waiting room. No chatty elders this time. The ob-gyn shares waiting-room space with one other, and two pediatricians.

Over the next hour, it's clear that playing block-and-check with the preschool set is a young chick's game. Mothers are in constant motion while they wait to see the physician. The kids must all be here for wellness checkups. I haven't seen so much unconstructive energy confined in a single space since I once wandered into the locker room of Davin's lacrosse team to bring the jersey he had forgotten. Though the waiting room does smell better.

When my name is finally called, I shake my head slightly and pick my way past children and strewn toys, heading for the peace and quiet of another meat-locker-temperature examining room.

I've heard the heart beat! It's strong and fast as a squirrel's! The image looks like a bigheaded shrimp in a blurry Jacques Cousteau film, but that's enough for me. I've met my child-to-be via sonogram.

“You are correct in your assumptions.” Dr. Reynolds is curt, nothing touchy-feely in her approach. “You are approximately twelve weeks pregnant.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. It's official.

“This is an unnecessary risk to your health, at your age. You do understand that?”

With the help of the nurse I've levered myself into a sitting position. “Are you saying I'm not strong enough to bear a child?”

Dr. Reynolds looks impatient. “You may make it through the pregnancy with minimal effects, if you take excellent care of yourself. But you must consider the child, and the next ten or twenty years.”

“You mean my life expectancy?”

She glances at me over the tops of her narrow-framed reading glasses “You'd be sixty-five with a teenager.”

“Now, there's a deal breaker.” I say it with a laugh, but she doesn't crack a smile. Andrea was a friendlier opponent.

“You should consider your options seriously, Mrs. Nichols, for the good of all parties involved.”

So far, if I count correctly, that's a total of one. Me.

She hands me a brochure. “I'll give you a moment to look this over, and then I'll be back.”

It's titled “Middle-Age Childbirth: A Commentary.” I've read a lot on the subject, but I scan the essentials.
For many, middle age is the beginning of chronic illnesses that can make it difficult for a woman caring for a toddler. Mothers of late-life children will require support, financial and emotional, and even help with child-rearing at a time when she may well be living on a reduced income, or even assisted living.
Jolly thought!

It goes on, this euphoria-inducing read, to list the financial cost for nannies, nurseries, day care, surrogate care, after-school care and summer programs, with the presumption that a late-life parent is a working parent. Then there is mention of the problematic only-child syndrome. I thought we'd kicked that theory to the curb years ago. A brat by any other name is still a brat. This is a diatribe, not a presentation of options.

Turn the page and the real fun begins. The risks of late-life birth. Birth defects. Low birth weight. Brain damage. Gestational diabetes. Difficult delivery. Down's syndrome. Spina bifida. There's the recommended diagnostic testing for late-life pregnancies: chorionic villus sampling, amniocentesis and percutaneous umbilical blood sampling. Each procedure is followed up by cost analysis, which it says are not always covered by insurance.

I toss said brochure in the wastebasket. But I'm rattled.

“So then,” the doctor says, returning as though our
conversation had been put on pause, “what do you think?”

“I think that so-called helpful-hints pamphlet paints a broad target for people's fears. I have no chronic illnesses, and last time I checked my medical insurance was fine.”

She quirks her mouth. “You've got good genes. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But senior citizens use up a disproportion of medical and hospital resources as it is. If women your age continue to become regular consumers of obstetrics care, that will finish us. The risks are too high, and my malpractice insurance couldn't stand the inevitable suits from high-risk pregnancies that should never have been encouraged in the first place.”

Whoa! When did I become an object of Medicaid (or is it Medicare?) scorn? I don't even qualify yet.

“I really didn't think I had a chance that the pregnancy would take. But seeing the sonogram, and hearing the heartbeat—” I can't help it, I'm smiling so hard my face hurts “—I'm going to be a mother, again!”

“You know the odds are against you delivering a normal child?” She pauses. “At your age.”

Just like that I'm chilled to the bone, as if she's injected ice water into my blood. “Have you noticed something wrong?”

“No. The sonogram looks fine. Of course, we'll need to do an amnio to check. But why wait for expensive test results? It's best to end what you've told me was a mistake. I can set up an appointment with a nearby clinic. Is next week soon enough?”

Soon enough? The only “soon enough” I can think of is the need to leave here. The only mistake is that I won't be able to get out soon enough. “Let me think on it.” I slide off the examining table and reach for my clothing.

“Don't wait too long. Ten to fourteen weeks allows for the least complications.”

I stop trying to dress and turn to look at her. “There's nothing ‘least' in any of the complications of my life. But thanks for handling it with such tact and discretion.”

She looks faintly offended. “I'm offering you my medical opinion. That's my ethical duty.”

“And here I thought you were playing god—small
g
—with patients' lives.”

She smacks her lips in the time-honored fashion of a superior being who realizes she's dealing with an unenlightened but stubborn inferior. “I think we're done here. Please see the receptionist on your way out. You may leave an address to have your records forwarded to a physician of your preference.”

I let her have the last word because I can't fasten my bra for trembling hands. Damn hooks.

Okay, so I got the doctor from hell. Nearly everybody comes up against one eventually. Burnout, clearly. From malpractice suits? Maybe she'd just opened her new insurance statement before she saw me. I've heard the premiums are running ob-gyns out of business nationwide.

I'm walking stiff-legged into town, after a quick stop at Aunt Marvelle's to change into drawstring-waist pants and an oversize linen shirt. The days of normal clothing are dwindling rapidly. Furious with myself for letting the doc throw me for even an instant, I decided to work off my anger with exercise.

But the doctor has thrown me. I drove back to Aunt Marvelle's in a white-knuckled fury. Thank goodness she was off staring at Ralph, or I would have told her everything on the spot. Instead, I'm in pursuit of comfort in the form of something sweet, cold and gooey, and preferably chocolate.

My thoughts swing wildly as I realize traffic in town has picked up considerably, with city license plates sprouting
everywhere. That's the trouble with Paradise. Everybody wants a piece of it.

Who will take care of my child if something happens to me? I hadn't thought of that. Is it genuinely more of a concern than for a parent of twenty or thirty? My life expectancy is seven-five years. For the very first time, I lay my hand on what is still a fairly flat stomach and sense that I am not alone. Twenty-five years would give this tot the chance to grow up, marry and make a grandmother of me…. I don't smoke, or drink heavily. I could lose the rest of the damn excess thirty pounds, if I wanted to. I do exercise. Well, I will exercise more. Eat right, too.