Rosemary smiled and watched the snow. “This is why I wanted this apartment,” she said; “to sit here and watch the snow, with the fire going.”
Hugh looked at her and said, “I’ll bet you still read Dickens.”
“Of course I do,” she said. “Nobody stops reading Dickens.”
Guy came looking for her. “Bob and Thea are leaving,” he said.
By two o’clock everyone had gone and they were alone in the living room, with dirty glasses and used napkins and spilling-over ashtrays all around. (“Don’t forget,” Elise had whispered, leaving. Not very likely.)
“The thing to do now,” Guy said, “is move.”
“Guy.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to Dr. Hill. Monday morning.”
He said nothing, looking at her.
“I want him to examine me,” she said. “Dr. Sapirstein is either lying or else he’s-I don’t know, out of his mind. Pain like this is a warning that something is wrong.”
“Rosemary,” Guy said.
“And I’m not drinking Minnie’s drink any more,” she said. “I want vitamins in pills, like everybody else. I haven’t drunk it for three days now. I’ve made her leave it here and I’ve thrown it away.”
“You’ve-“
“I’ve made my own drink instead,” she said.
He drew together all his surprise and anger and, pointing back over his shoulder toward the kitchen, cried it at her. “Is that what those bitches were giving you in there? Is that their hint for today? Change doctors?”
“They’re my friends,” she said; “don’t call them bitches.”
“They’re a bunch of not-very-bright bitches who ought to mind their own God-damned business.”
“All they said was get a second opinion.”
“You’ve got the best doctor in New York, Rosemary. Do you know what Dr. Hill is? Charley Nobody, that’s what he is.”
“I’m tired of hearing how great Dr. Sapirstein is,” she said, starting to cry, “when I’ve got this pain inside me since before Thanksgiving and all he does is tell me it’s going to stop!”
“You’re not changing doctors,” Guy said. “We’ll have to pay Sapirstein and pay Hill too. It’s out of the question.”
“I’m not going to change,” Rosemary said; “I’m just going to let Hill examine me and give his opinion.”
“I won’t let you,” Guy said. “It’s-it’s not fair to Sapirstein.”
“Not fair to-What are you talking about? What about what’s fair to me?”
“You want another opinion? All right. Tell Sapirstein; let him be the one who decides who gives it. At least have that much courtesy to the top man in his field.”
“I want Dr. Hill,” she said. “If you won’t pay I’ll pay my-“ She stopped short and stood motionless, paralyzed, no part of her moving. A tear slid on a curved path toward the corner of her mouth.
“Ro?” Guy said.
The pain had stopped. It was gone. Like a stuck auto horn finally put right. Like anything that stops and is gone and is gone for good and won’t ever be back again, thank merciful heaven. Gone and finished and oh, how good she might possibly feel as soon as she caught her breath!
“Ro?” Guy said, and took a step forward, worried.
“It stopped,” she said. “The pain.”
“Stopped?” he said.
“Just now.” She managed to smile at him. “It stopped. Just like that.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and deeper still, deeper than she had been allowed to breathe for ages and ages. Since before Thanksgiving.
When she opened her eyes Guy was still looking at her, still looking worried.
“What was in the drink you made?” he asked.
Her heart dropped out of her. She had killed the baby. With the sherry. Or a bad egg. Or the combination. The baby had died, the pain had stopped. The pain was the baby and she had killed it with her arrogance.
“An egg,” she said. “Milk. Cream. Sugar.” She blinked, wiped at her cheek, looked at him. “Sherry,” she said, trying to make it sound non-toxic.
“How much sherry?” he asked.
Something moved in her.
“A lot?”
Again, where nothing had ever moved before. A rippling little pressure. She giggled.
“Rosemary, for Christ’s sake, how much?”
“It’s alive,” she said, and giggled again. “It’s moving. It’s all right; it isn’t dead. It’s moving.” She looked down at her brown-velvet stomach and put her hands on it and pressed in lightly. Now two things were moving, two hands or feet; one here, one there.
She reached for Guy, not looking at him; snapped her fingers quickly for his hand. He came closer and gave it. She put it to the side of her stomach and held it there. Obligingly the movement came. “You feel it?” she asked, looking at him. “There, again; you feel it?”
He jerked his hand away, pale. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I felt it.”
“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said, laughing. “It won’t bite you.”
“It’s wonderful,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” She held her stomach again, looking down at it. “It’s alive. It’s kicking. It’s in there.”
“I’ll clean up some of this mess,” Guy said, and picked up an ashtray and a glass and another glass.
“All right now, David-or-Amanda,” Rosemary said, “you’ve made your presence known, so kindly settle down and let Mommy attend to the cleaning up.” She laughed. “My God,” she said, “it’s so active! That means a boy, doesn’t it?”
She said, “All right, you, just take it easy. You’ve got five more months yet, so save your energy.”
And laughing, “Talk to it, Guy; you’re its father. Tell it not to be so impatient.”
And she laughed and laughed and was crying too, holding her stomach with both hands.
Six
As bad as it had been before, that was how good it was now. With the stopping of the pain came sleep, great dreamless ten-hour spans of it; and with the sleep came hunger, for meat that was cooked, not raw, for eggs and vegetables and cheese and fruit and milk. Within days Rosemary’s skullface had lost its edges and sunk back behind filling-in flesh; within weeks she looked the way pregnant women are supposed to look: lustrous, healthy, proud, prettier than ever.
She drank Minnie’s drink as soon as it was given to her, and drank it to the last chill drop, driving away as by a ritual the remembered guilt of I-killed-thebaby. With the drink now came a cake of white gritty sweet stuff like marzipan; this too she ate at once, as much from enjoyment of its candylike taste as from a resolve to be the most conscientious expectant mother in all the world.
Dr. Sapirstein might have been smug about the pain’s stopping, but he wasn’t, bless him. He simply said “It’s about time” and put his stethoscope to Rosemary’s really-showing-now belly. Listening to the stirring baby, he betrayed an excitement that was unexpected in a man who had guided hundreds upon hundreds of pregnancies. It was this undimmed first-time excitement, Rosemary thought, that probably marked the difference between a great obstetrician and a merely good one.
She bought maternity clothes; a two-piece black dress, a beige suit, a red dress with white polka dots. Two weeks after their own party, she and Guy went to one given by Lou and Claudia Comfort. “I can’t get over the change in you!” Claudia said, holding onto both Rosemary’s hands. “You look a hundred per cent better, Rosemary! A thousand per cent!”
And Mrs. Gould across the hall said, “You know, we were quite concerned about you a few weeks ago; you
