expecting mother is stress. It makes sense not to be stressing about your physician, whatever the reason.”
“Thanks.”
“So, back to your daughter. Was she healthy? Any problems with the pregnancy or delivery?”
“No, Alexa was easy. I had minimal morning sickness and a four-hour labor. She was a healthy baby and a healthy child. She ran a really high fever when was six months old, and she cracked her forearm once when she fell off the jungle gym. Other than that, she was fine.”
“Good. How about you? Have you developed any health problems since then?”
I take a deep breath and tell her what only a handful of other people know. “I had an abortion not long after my rape.”
She takes it in stride, not even looking up from my chart. “Any complications from that? Infection, more bleeding than usual?”
“No.”
“Have you been going to your gynecologist regularly?”
“Yearly pap.”
“Excellent.” She looks at me directly now. “Were there any physical complications resulting from your assault that I need to know about?”
“Just the scars. Everything he did was exterior.”
“Okay. Now, I notice you didn’t put down any medications, but I always ask. Some patients are more private than others. Are you on any antidepressants?”
“No. Thought about it, but no.”
“What about birth control?”
“We were using the sponge. Can’t recommend it now, I guess.”
“So you’re not on the pill?”
“No.”
“What’s the medical history in your family?”
“My mother and father both died of cancer.”
“What about miscarriages, difficult childbirths, genetic defects?”
“I heard something about a great-aunt who gave birth to a son with a cleft palate. Other than that, no.”
She makes a few notes and puts my chart aside.
“You sound like an ideal candidate for a healthy childbirth, Smoky. You’re in good shape, at a good weight, with no history of blood pressure or heart problems, you don’t smoke, and your first birth went well, with no eclampsia, diabetes, or clotting.” She smiles. “There’s no reason to expect you’ll have any difficulties with this pregnancy. We’ll keep a close eye on things due to your age, but I’m not concerned.”
“What are the risks because of my age?”
“There’s an increased risk of chromosomal disorders as the mother gets older, primarily Down syndrome. The statistics are debated. The worst-case scenario I’ve heard presented is as follows: at age twenty-five, a woman has roughly a 1 in 1,250 chance of having a baby with Down syndrome. At age thirty it’s 1 in 1,000. At age 40 it’s a 1- in-100 chance, and above forty-five it drops to 1 in 30.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m giving you this in fair disclosure, but keep in mind, seventy-five percent of all babies born with Down syndrome are to mothers under the age of thirty-five. We’ll also, if you like, do a blood test that will look for markers associated with having a Down syndrome child.”
“When would we do that?”
“It will depend entirely on you. The test is most accurate between the sixteenth and the eighteenth weeks, but there’s no need to wait that long. First-trimester screens, when done properly, are ninety-five percent accurate.”
“So I’d have plenty of time to decide, if it did have Down syndrome, whether I wanted to keep it.” I sigh. “Great.”
She reaches out to briefly touch my arm. “Smoky. There’s no reason for you to think your baby is going to be anything other than healthy. I’ve delivered quite a few healthy children to women over forty years of age.”
“And a few that weren’t, right?”
“Yes. But those few women had all been tested and knew that they were going to be giving birth to a Down syndrome child. It was their choice, and they were no less happy about their babies than anyone else.”
“Really?”
“Think about …” She hesitates. “Think about your daughter. Would you have regretted bringing her into the world, even if she’d had a birth defect like Down syndrome?”
It shouldn’t be a startling question, but it certainly hits me that way. I think about it, about Alexa, my sweet girl. Would she still have been her, if she’d been born with a handicap? I close my eyes for a moment and her face comes to me, as I saw it on that last morning. I see her smile, I hear her giggle; most of all, I see the essence of her shining in her eyes.
Yes, I think. Alexa would always have been Alexa, in whatever form. I open my eyes. “No, I wouldn’t have regretted it. She would have been my baby, and I wouldn’t have loved her any differently.”
“Well, there you go.”
This is a woman who chose her profession not because it would make her the most money, not to avoid the pressures of other medical disciplines, but because it was her calling. She loves what she does and has no choice about doing it; it’s her fate to help bring new life into the world.
I think about Douglas Hollister strangling his own son. A parent killing his own child has never seemed more alien to me than right here, right now, in this woman’s office. I touch my belly, and search for understanding, but it’s unfathomable. How could I ever kill this baby?
“It won’t matter.” I say it as I know it, and I feel a surge of relief. “We’ll do the test, but it won’t matter. I want this baby, Doctor.”
I’m mortified to find that I’m crying. I thought I’d put all these tears behind me. I’d settled into a new life, a new love, a new marriage. I’d recovered my ability to be flip and to let fly, to laugh on a dime and damn the torpedoes. The river of sorrow that had haunted me for so long had turned into a stream and then had dried to a puddle.
Apparently, some things can still bring the rain.
I thought I’d never have this chance again, and now I do, and I’ve just understood how much I want it, how deep that need, how great the ache.
“Sorry,” I choke, unable to keep the tears from coming.
“Don’t be silly.”
I let the tears come.
I think about my search for the soul on the drive home. Everyone has their own answer. Father Yates, the priest at Callie’s wedding, has his. The Buddhists have theirs. When I was a girl, I had mine. I had it with a certainty and innocence too powerful and too pure for me to consign to mere naivete. Is there something we know when we’re young that we forget when we’re older, or is it all just a process of looking behind the curtain, finding that what the young call cynical the old call reality?
The question I’ve been asking myself most is: Why do I care?
I rub my belly, trying to sense the life growing there, to commune with it.
Nothing answers me, but I am content that I’m getting closer.
I consider going by the office but decide against it. Alan will call me if Dali contacts them again. James and Callie will call me if anything else develops.
“Screw it,” I say out loud, and laugh. I’m a little giddy. Once again, my hand finds that spot on my tummy. “I’m going to be a mom again, baby. Young again at forty-plus. Can you believe that?”
We need milk, and I pull into the supermarket parking lot, humming “Blackbird” by the Beatles. Mom always
