answer. No plan, as Amalise had.
The fear turned to bitter impatience as Rebecca sat at the end of the examination table in the small room waiting for the verdict. The hands on the yellow clock on the wall pointed to numbers circling a happy face. But they seemed to have stopped. Four thirty-three and you’re stuck, the clock said. It seemed she’d been sitting here all day. Still hugging herself, she tore her eyes from the clock and looked about. The pale yellow walls—neutral for unknown gender, she supposed, were irritating. Such an optimistic color. The walls were covered with framed, glossy pictures of couples unlike her, unlike Peter.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together, wanting to pray and not knowing how. And, indeed, not knowing whether anyone was really listening. The thought slipped in—if Peter were here, he’d know the right words to pray; and he’d be certain that God was listening.
Opening her eyes, with a flash of irritation she dropped her arms to her sides and bracing her weight on her hands, leaning forward, letting her hair fall around her face as she looked at the floor. Second passed, and then she arched her back and her neck and tilted her head far to one side, then to the other. Where in the world was Dr. Matlock?
Just then she heard heels clacking down the hallway, and she froze as the sound stopped just outside the door. As the door handle turned, her heart began thumping. She sat up straight, fingers gripping the edges of the table, the paper crackling beneath her as she waited.
Dr. Matlock, stethoscope still hung around his neck, walked in followed by Alice. One look at their smiles told her the fear was real. The thumping in her chest became a drum beating double-time while she sat waiting, unable to breathe. She sat very still as Dr. Matlock turned to his right and tossed the clipboard onto the table near the door, and wheeled back to her, smiling, slapping his hands together. And then he said the word that she’d been dreading.
“Congratulations.”
She closed her eyes.
“You’re going to be a mother, Mrs. Jacobs.”
In his voice she heard the celebration, expectation—like the optimism of the yellow paint on the walls, the happy faces in the pictures. When she opened her eyes, she found him swinging his hands behind him, feet spreading apart, and then he planted himself before her with a wide smile on his face.
She had no backup. She had no plan.
From the corners of her eyes she saw that Alice was beginning to comprehend. Her expression remained blank, but her brows lowered until they were flat above her eyes. When Rebecca turned her head toward Alice, the nurse gave her a knowing look.
“I’d say you’re about eight weeks along.” Hands still caught behind him, he began rocking gently back and forth, brows lifting and falling as he spoke.
Shaken, she looked at him without moving, without saying anything as reality descended. Seconds passed before his smile began to fade. She saw his quick glance at the wedding ring on her finger, and she realized that she was an alien in his world.
Rebecca dipped her chin, blinking as tears pooled in her eyes and one slipped down her cheek. Immediately Alice—perceptive Alice—handed her a Kleenex. Crumpling it in her fist, she pressed it to the corner of each eye. When at last she looked up, her eyes fixed on the doctor behind him, as if by walking through she could undo the afternoon’s events, like rewinding a reel of film. The doctor gave her a final, quizzical look. But Alice met her eyes. Alice understood.
She heard a wooden creak and turned to see Doctor Matlock lowering himself slowly into the chair beside the little desk. Knees spread, he leaned forward, letting his hands dangle between them as he gazed at the floor, contemplating what had just begun to sink in. Seconds passed, and then lifting his head with a long sigh, he said, “Let’s have some straight talk, shall we?” Without waiting for a
The fear turned to bitter impatience as Rebecca sat at the end of the examination table in the small room waiting for the verdict. The hands on the yellow clock on the wall pointed to numbers circling a happy face. But they seemed to have stopped. Four thirty-three and you’re stuck, the clock said. It seemed she’d been sitting here all day. Still hugging herself, she tore her eyes from the clock and looked about. The pale yellow walls—neutral for unknown gender, she supposed, were irritating. Such an optimistic color. The walls were covered with framed, glossy pictures of couples unlike her, unlike Peter.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together, wanting to pray and not knowing how. And, indeed, not knowing whether anyone was really listening. The thought slipped in—if Peter were here, he’d know the right words to pray; and he’d be certain that God was listening.
Opening her eyes, with a flash of irritation she dropped her arms to her sides and bracing her weight on her hands, leaning forward, letting her hair fall around her face as she looked at the floor. Second passed, and then she arched her back and her neck and tilted her head far to one side, then to the other. Where in the world was Dr. Matlock?
Just then she heard heels clacking down the hallway, and she froze as the sound stopped just outside the door. As the door handle turned, her heart began thumping. She sat up straight, fingers gripping the edges of the table, the paper crackling beneath her as she waited.
Dr. Matlock, stethoscope still hung around his neck, walked in followed by Alice. One look at their smiles told her the fear was real. The thumping in her chest became a drum beating double-time while she sat waiting, unable to breathe. She sat very still as Dr. Matlock turned to his right and tossed the clipboard onto the table near the door, and wheeled back to her, smiling, slapping his hands together. And then he said the word that she’d been dreading.
“Congratulations.”
She closed her eyes.
“You’re going to be a mother, Mrs. Jacobs.”
In his voice she heard the celebration, expectation—like the optimism of the yellow paint on the walls, the happy faces in the pictures. When she opened her eyes, she found him swinging his hands behind him, feet spreading apart, and then he planted himself before her with a wide smile on his face.
She had no backup. She had no plan.
From the corners of her eyes she saw that Alice was beginning to comprehend. Her expression remained blank, but her brows lowered until they were flat above her eyes. When Rebecca turned her head toward Alice, the nurse gave her a knowing look.
“I’d say you’re about eight weeks along.” Hands still caught behind him, he began rocking gently back and forth, brows lifting and falling as he spoke.
Shaken, she looked at him without moving, without saying anything as reality descended. Seconds passed before his smile began to fade. She saw his quick glance at the wedding ring on her finger, and she realized that she was an alien in his world.
Rebecca dipped her chin, blinking as tears pooled in her eyes and one slipped down her cheek. Immediately Alice—perceptive Alice—handed her a Kleenex. Crumpling it in her fist, she pressed it to the corner of each eye. When at last she looked up, her eyes fixed on the doctor behind him, as if by walking through she could undo the afternoon’s events, like rewinding a reel of film. The doctor gave her a final, quizzical look. But Alice met her eyes. Alice understood.
She heard a wooden creak and turned to see Doctor Matlock lowering himself slowly into the chair beside the little desk. Knees spread, he leaned forward, letting his hands dangle between them as he gazed at the floor, contemplating what had just begun to sink in. Seconds passed, and then lifting his head with a long sigh, he said, “Let’s have some straight talk, shall we?” Without waiting for a
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