Lessons in Chemistry(43)

“Excuse me?”

“Your stork. Why, in an obstetrician’s office? It’s almost as if you’re promoting the competition.”

“It’s meant to be charming,” the receptionist said. “Room five.”

“And since every patient of yours is one hundred percent aware that a stork isn’t going to spare them the pain of labor,” she continued, “why perpetuate the myth at all?”

“Dr. Mason,” the receptionist said, as a man in a white coat approached. “This is your four o’clock. She’s late. I tried to send her to room five.”

“Not late,” Elizabeth Zott corrected. “On time.” She turned to the doctor. “Dr. Mason, you probably don’t remember me—”

“Calvin Evans’s wife,” he said, drawing back in surprise. “Or no, I apologize,” he said, dropping his voice, “his widow.” Then he paused, as if trying to decide what to say next. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Evans,” he said, covering her hands with his and giving them a few shakes as if mixing a small cocktail. “Your husband was a good man. A good man and a good rower.”

“It’s Elizabeth Zott,” Elizabeth said. “Calvin and I weren’t married.” She paused, awaiting the receptionist’s tsk and Mason’s dismissal, but instead the doctor clicked a pen and tapped it into his breast pocket, then took her by the elbow and led her down the hallway. “You and Evans rowed in my eight a few times—do you remember? About seven months ago. Good rows, too. But then you never came back. Why was that?”

She looked at him, surprised.

“Oh, forgive me,” Dr. Mason said in a rush. “I’m so sorry. Of course. Evans. Evans died. I apologize.” Shaking his head in embarrassment, he pushed open the door to room 5. “Please. Come in.” He pointed to a chair. “And are you still rowing? No, what am I saying, of course not, not in your condition.” He took her hands and turned them over. “But this is unusual. You still have the calluses.”

“I’m erging.”

“Good god.”

“Is that bad? Calvin built an erg.”

“Why?”

“He just did. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” he said, “certainly. It’s just that I’ve never heard of anyone erging on purpose. Especially not a pregnant woman. Although now that I think about it, erging is good preparation for childbirth. In terms of suffering, I mean. Actually, both pain and suffering.” But then he realized pain and suffering had probably been a constant in her life since Evans died and he turned away to hide his latest gaffe. “Shall we take a quick look under the hood?” he said gently, gesturing to the table. Then he closed the door and waited behind a screen while she put on a dressing gown.



* * *



—

The examination was quick but thorough, punctuated with inquiries about heartburn and bloating. Was sleep difficult? Did the baby move at certain times? If so, for how long? And finally the big question: Why had she waited so long to come in? She was well into her last trimester.

“Work,” she told him. But that was a lie. The real reason was because she’d quietly hoped the pregnancy would take care of itself. End as these things sometimes do. In the 1950s, abortion was out of the question. Coincidentally, so was having a baby out of wedlock.

“You’re also a scientist, is that right?” he asked from the other end of her body.

“Yes.”

“And Hastings kept you on. They must be more progressive than I thought.”

“They didn’t,” she said. “I’m freelancing.”

“A freelance scientist. I’ve never heard of such a thing. How does that work?”

She sighed. “Not very well.”

Registering the tone in her voice, he finished up quickly, tapping her belly here and there as if she were a cantaloupe.

“Everything looks shipshape,” he said as he stripped off his gloves. And when she didn’t smile or say anything in return, he said in a low voice, “For the baby at least. I’m sure this has been enormously difficult for you.”

It was the first time someone had acknowledged her situation, and the shock of it caught in her throat. She felt a cache of tears threatening escape just behind her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, studying her face the way a meteorologist might watch a storm develop. “Please know you can talk to me. Rower to rower. It’s all confidential.”

She looked away. She didn’t really know him. Worse, she wasn’t sure, despite his assurances, that her feelings were allowable. She’d come to believe she was the only woman on earth who’d planned to remain childless. “If I’m being perfectly honest,” she finally said, her voice heavy with guilt, “I don’t think I can do this. I was not planning on being a mother.”

“Not every woman wants to be a mother,” he agreed, surprising her. “More to the point, not every woman should be.” He grimaced as if thinking of someone in particular. “Still, I’m surprised by how many women sign up for motherhood considering how difficult pregnancy can be—morning sickness, stretch marks, death. Again, you’re fine,” he added quickly, taking in her horrified face. “It’s just that we tend to treat pregnancy as the most common condition in the world—as ordinary as stubbing a toe—when the truth is, it’s like getting hit by a truck. Although obviously a truck causes less damage.” He cleared his throat, then made a note in her file. “What I mean to say is, the exercise is helping. Although I’m not sure how you erg properly at this stage. Pulling into the sternum would be problematic. What about The Jack LaLanne Show? Ever watch him?”