Anne is sitting at her office desk leafing through the physicians listings in the Queens Yellow Pages. She comes across a women’s health center-Dr. Milton Halpern, gynecologist-obstetrician, director.
There’s a tap on the door. Anne quickly shuts the phone book and pushes it aside. “Yes.”
Trent pokes his head in. “I’m off to lunch. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Trent.”
When he’s gone she calls the state medical board to see if Dr. Halpern has had any complaints lodged against him. None. She dials his office and requests an appointment.
“Have you seen the doctor before?”
“No.”
“How is next Tuesday at ten-thirty?”
“Could he possibly fit me in this afternoon?”
“The doctor is fully booked.”
“It’s something of an emergency.”
“All right, I’ll book you in at the end of the day. Five-thirty.”
“Thank you.”
“Your name?”
“Kathleen Brody.”
“Your phone number?”
Christ! Anne forgot they’d be asking for a phone number. Her mind races. She considers hanging up, then looks down at her phone. She reads the number aloud, transposing the last two digits.
“All right, we’ll see you this afternoon. Do you know how to get here?”
“I’ll find it.”
Anne leaves the office at four, telling Trent she’s getting a facial. She stops at an ATM and withdraws five hundred dollars and then walks briskly down Sixth Avenue to Thirty-fourth Street. Wedged between an electronics store and a McDonald’s is a tiny wig shop. The interior is poorly lit and crowded with wigs on Styrofoam stands. The owner is an East Indian with a bored, leering manner. Anne points to a short brown wig cut in a pixie-ish Shirley MacLaine bob.
“Very nice wig,” he says.
“May I try it on?”
“No. New York State law.”
“Well, do you think it will fit me?”
“Okay, try it on.”
Anne hastily pins up her hair and pulls on the tight cap and looks in the mirror. For a moment she doesn’t recognize herself
“Beautiful,” the man says.
Anne pays for the wig and leaves the store with it on. She hails a cab and gives the driver the Queens address. As the car makes its way across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, Anne takes out her compact and with deft strokes applies foundation to her face. Then she darkens her eyebrows and puts on deep red lipstick.
The clinic is in Jackson Heights, a neighborhood Anne has never visited before. She’s surprised at how charming it is-tidy tree-lined streets, graceful brick apartment houses. As they drive, Anne picks out a suitable building and notes its number. The clinic is in a low-slung building just off a slightly seedy shopping street.
The waiting room-worn gray carpeting, plastic chairs, posters of Monet’s water lilies-is a long way from Dr. Arnold’s, with its burnished wood and framed lithographs. Anne is glad there’s no one else waiting. The receptionist is a preoccupied Hispanic woman. Anne quickly fills out the medical history form, listing the address she noted on Elm Street. A dazed young Asian mother, carrying one child and leading two others, comes out of the doctor’s office and stops at the receptionist’s desk. Anne begins to sweat. Hillary Clinton is on the cover of People, but Anne barely has time to pick up the magazine before a heavyset nurse with a brusque maternal air leads her into an examining room. Anne sits in a chair.
“What can we do for you today?”
“I’d rather discuss it with the doctor.”
The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Are you pregnant?”
“I really would rather talk to the doctor.”
“In that case, why don’t you take off your clothes and put on this gown?”
The nurse leaves. Anne has no intention of taking off her clothes. The walls of the examining room are covered with bilingual posters extolling proper pre- and postnatal care. There are photographs of happy families enjoying their newborns. Anne wonders if she’s doing everything she should be in terms of nutrition and exercise. Oh, Christ, women have been having children for thousands of years. She looks in the wall mirror, pats her dark hair. There’s a soft knock on the door and then it opens.
Dr. Halpern looks to be in his early sixties, with curly gray hair and exhausted eyes. His shoes are scuffed.
“Milton Halpern.”
“Kathleen Brody.”
The doctor crosses his arms and leans against a counter. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Brody?”
Anne hears a baby crying in another room. She thought she was the last patient of the day. “I’m pregnant.”
“Yes?”
Anne looks down, runs her fingers along the edge of the chair seat, exhales sharply. “I’m a married woman, and…”
Dr. Halpern takes a pen out of his breast pocket and starts to fidget with it. She looks at him. He holds her eyes and leans forward slightly.
“More than one man could be the father.” Anne looks down at her hands. The polish on her left index finger is chipped.
The doctor takes a paper cup from a holder and fills it with water. He hands the cup to Anne. “These things happen,” he says.
The clinic is overheated. No wonder she’s sweating. She takes a drink of water. It’s been ages since she’s tasted tap water.
“I’m considering an abortion.”
The doctor gives a small nod. “Do you have a regular gynecologist?”
“I do, but it’s complicated…” Anne finishes the water in a gulp. “Oh, Christ, how could I have done this to myself?”
“Are you taking anything for your anxiety?”
“Just something I picked up at the health food store.”
“Does it help?”
“You should have seen me before.”
The doctor chuckles.
Anne stands up. There isn’t much room to move in the office. She sits back down. “I’d like DNA testing of the fetus. I want to know who the father is before I make any decisions.”
“It’s an expensive process. Does it really matter that much?”
“Yes. Will you help me?”
The doctor looks at Anne, studies her face. For a moment she’s afraid he recognizes her.
“You’re in your first trimester?”
“Yes.”
“Well, chorionic villus sampling is not without risks. I won’t recommend it without performing an examination and getting a full medical history.”
“Fine. How soon could we schedule it?”
“Next week. As I’m sure you know, the lab will need a blood sample for DNA matching.”
Anne nods. After her exam, she dresses and leaves, giving the receptionist the five hundred dollars as a deposit.
Anne walks into the apartment at 6:45 and heads for the master bedroom. In her closet, she pulls down an
