the usual spate of complaints from Old People, Angry, plus a collection of bitter missives from Howard Stern fans who were most displeased with the review I’d given his latest on-air venture. I was wondering whether I could simply come up with a form letter to the seventeen guys who’d accused me of being ugly, old, and jealous of Howard Stern, and signed themselves “Baba Booey,” when Gabby sauntered over.
“How’d it go with Maxi Whosit?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said, giving her my best bland smile.
Gabby raised her eyebrows. “ ’Cause I heard through the grapevine that she wasn’t doing any interviews with print reporters. Just TV.”
“Not to worry.”
But Gabby was looking worried. Extremely worried. She’d probably scheduled Maxi as the main item for tomorrow’s column – just for the sheer joy of undercutting me – and now she was going to wind up scrambling to fill the space. Scrambling was not something Gabby did well.
“So… you talked to her?”
“For about an hour,” I said. “Great stuff. Really great. We really hit it off. I think,” I said, drawing the words out to prolong the torture, “I think we might even be friends.”
Gabby’s mouth fell open. I could tell she was trying to figure out whether to ask if anyone had mentioned her planned chat with Maxi, or to just hope I hadn’t learned about it.
“Thanks for asking, though,” I said sweetly. “It’s so nice of you to look out for me like this. It’s almost like… gee!… like you’re my boss.” I pushed back my chair, got to my feet, and walked by her regally, my back straight, my head held high. Then I went into the bathroom and threw up. Again.
Back at my desk, I was groping through my drawers, searching desperately for a mint or some gum, when the phone rang.
“Features, Candace Shapiro,” I said distractedly. Thumbtacks, business cards, three sizes of paperclips, and not an Altoid to be found. Story of my life, I thought.
“Candace, this is Dr. Krushelevansky from the University of Philadelphia,” said a deep, familiar voice.
“Oh. Oh, hi,” I said. “What’s up?” I gave up on the desk drawer and started going through my purse, even though I’d already looked through there.
“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” he said.
That got my attention. “Yes?”
“Well, you know that last blood draw we did…” I remembered it well. “Something came up that I’m afraid makes you ineligible for the study.”
I felt my palms go icy. “What? What is it?”
“I’d prefer to discuss this with you in person,” he said.
I quickly ran through everything else that a blood test could reveal, each possibility more awful than the one before. “Do I have cancer?” I asked. “Do I have AIDS?”
“You don’t have anything life-threatening,” he said sternly. “And I’d prefer not playing Twenty Questions.”
“Then just tell me what’s wrong,” I begged. “High cholesterol? Hypoglycemia? Scurvy? Gout?”
“Cannie…”
“Do I have rickets? Oh, God, please not rickets. I don’t think I can stand being fat and bowlegged.”
He started laughing. “No rickets, but I’m starting to think you might have Tourette’s. How do you know all of these diseases anyhow? Do you have a physician’s desk reference in front of you?”
“I’m glad you think this is amusing,” I said plaintively. “I’m glad this is your idea of fun, calling up innocent reporters in the middle of the day and telling them there’s something wrong with their blood.”
“Your blood is fine,” he said seriously. “And I’ll be happy to tell you what we found, but I would prefer to do it in person.”
He was sitting behind his desk when I came in, and he got to his feet to greet me. I noticed, once again, how very tall he was.
“Have a seat,” he said. I dropped my purse and backpack on one chair and parked myself on another.
He fanned my folder out on his desk. “As I told you, we do a standard series of tests when we draw blood, looking for conditions that could possibly disqualify study participants. Hepatitis is one of them. AIDS, of course, is another.”
I nodded, wondering if he’d ever get to the point.
“We also test for pregnancy,” he said. I nodded again, thinking, okay, already, but what’s wrong with me? And then I realized. Pregnancy.
“But I’m not…” I stammered. “I mean, I can’t be.”
He flipped the folder around and pointed to where something was circled in red. “I’d be happy to arrange for another test,” he said, “but generally, we’re very accurate.”
“I… I don’t…” I stood up. How had this happened? My mind was whirling. I sank back into the chair to think. I’d gone off the Pill after Bruce and I had broken up, figuring it would be a long, long time before I had the need to contracept again, and it hadn’t even occurred to me that I was at risk during the shiva call. It had to have happened then.
“Oh, God,” I said, jumping to my feet again. Bruce. I had to find Bruce, I had to tell Bruce, surely he’d take me back now… except, my mind whispered, what if he didn’t? What if he told me that it was my concern, my problem, that he was with somebody else and I was on my own?
“Oh,” I said, slumping once more into the seat and burying my face in my hands. It was too horrible to even think about. I hadn’t even noticed that Dr. K. had left the room until the door opened and he was standing there. There were three Styrofoam cups in one of his hands, a fistful of creamers and sugar packets in the other. He set the cups down on the desk in front of me: tea, coffee, water. “I wasn’t sure what you like,” he said apologetically. I picked up the tea. He opened his desk drawer and produced a half-empty bear-shaped squeeze bottle of honey. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked kindly. I shook my head.
“Would you like to be alone for a bit?” he asked, and I remembered that this was the middle of a work day, that there was a world going on around me, and that he probably had other things to do, other fat ladies to see.
“You probably don’t do this a lot, do you?” I asked. “Tell people that they’re pregnant, I mean.”
The doctor looked taken aback. “No,” he finally said. “No, I guess I don’t do it a lot.” He frowned. “Did I do it wrong?”
I laughed weakly. “I don’t know. Nobody’s ever told me that I’m pregnant before, so I don’t have much to compare it to.”
“I’m sorry,” he said tentatively. “I take it this is… unexpected news.”
“You could say that,” I said. Suddenly, I was gripped with a vivid memory of the Cannie and Maxi Tequila Tour. “Oh, my God,” I said, imagining that the putative kid was probably pickled by this point. “Do you know anything about fetal alcohol syndrome?”
“Hang on,” he said. I heard him moving quickly down the hall. He came back with a book in his hands. What To Expect When You’re Expecting. “One of the nurses had it,” he explained. He flipped to the index. “Page 52,” he said, and handed me the book. I skimmed the salient paragraphs and learned that basically, provided I quit drinking to the point of incoherence for the duration, things would be okay. Assuming, of course, that I wanted things to be okay. And, at that moment, I had no idea what I wanted. Except, of course, not to be in this situation at all.
I put the book on his desk and gathered my purse and backpack. “I
