had twinkly braces, too, forcing myself to smile. "Gotta go!" I said, and hurried across the lunch room, trying to make it to my friends before the bell rang again.
F IVE
A t two o'clock on a slushy gray February afternoon, Dr. Stanley Neville's waiting room was full of pregnant women. Pregnant women with their bellies bulging under loose smocked tops or encased in skintight Lycra, pregnant women with their husbands' hands resting on their bumps, pregnant women by themselves, working their BlackBerries while they waited. I could look at them only with fast glances--too long, and I'd find myself staring in a way that had to be a little creepy.
"Do you think they're shills?" I whispered to Peter after we'd taken our seats underneath a reproduction of a Mary Cassatt portrait of a mother and child. If I were a reproductive endocrinologist trying to pique the curiosity and pry open the checkbooks of over-forty hopefuls, I'd stock my waiting room with expectant ladies. Or maybe I'd hire actresses. Stick them in pregnancy pillows, have them sit in the chairs, maybe rub their backs every once in a while and groan convincingly.
I looked away from the knocked-up chorus line and turned my attention to the forms in my lap. Age. Address. Height. Weight. Ugh. Previous pregnancies. I wrote, One. Previous surgeries. I wrote, C-section and hysterectomy, and the date: Joy's birthday.
"Mrs. Krushelevansky?"
I got to my feet and proceeded to the exam room, where I stripped from the waist down, draped myself in three different cotton robes (one to cover my front, one to cover my back, and one on top of those two in case there was any stray flesh peeking out), and arranged myself on the examination table, my legs in stirrups. I lay back, eyes closed, and practiced my pranayama breathing. I breathed in, and Joy appeared before me, eyes averted, face cast down, hands shoved in her pockets and shoulders hunched as if steeled for a blow, hurrying across the school yard. I breathed out, imagining my reaching for her, feeling my hand on the soft wool of her sweater. Baby, what's wrong? Tell me. I'll help you. I'll fix it. Breathe in, and the image dissolved. Breathe out. I should call that child psychologist, the one the synagogue brought in last month to talk about the overscheduled child, the stress of pre-adolescence. Breathe in. If she'd just talk to me. Breathe out. Where had I put my copy of Reviving Ophelia ? Breathe in. Maybe there was an explanation for her behavior other than "throes of adolescence." Maybe she actually did have a crush on some boy who'd spurned her. Breathe out. I could help with that. I'd take her out somewhere special: maybe the chocolate buffet at the Ritz-Carlton. I'd sit her down and tell her that having your heart broken is a part of growing up. I'd share with her some of the less lurid examples from my own life, and then I'd point to Peter and tell her that everything happens for a reason, that every heartbreak serves a purpose, and that it all works out in the end.
There was a brisk knock, then the door swung open. "Hello there!" said Dr. Neville, who turned out to be a black man in his sixties, with close-cropped iron-gray hair. Peter wheeled over a stool and sat by my side as Dr. Neville stood at the counter with his back to me, squirting gel from a squeeze bottle onto...oh my God.
"Is that...are you..." I gestured vaguely at the probe in his hands, which bore a disturbing resemblance to the item Sam had given me for my bachelorette party. "Shouldn't you at least buy me dinner first?"
Peter and Dr. Neville shared a collegial chuckle. As they "ho ho ho'd," I closed my eyes and tried to relax. The nurse dimmed the lights and tilted the monitor so that I could see it. I sucked in my breath as the probe slid inside of me.
"And...look! There we are."
I turned my head toward the screen and saw a swirling mass of gray--and then, against it, tiny circles like glowing nickels, like little moons.
"Those are your
F IVE
A t two o'clock on a slushy gray February afternoon, Dr. Stanley Neville's waiting room was full of pregnant women. Pregnant women with their bellies bulging under loose smocked tops or encased in skintight Lycra, pregnant women with their husbands' hands resting on their bumps, pregnant women by themselves, working their BlackBerries while they waited. I could look at them only with fast glances--too long, and I'd find myself staring in a way that had to be a little creepy.
"Do you think they're shills?" I whispered to Peter after we'd taken our seats underneath a reproduction of a Mary Cassatt portrait of a mother and child. If I were a reproductive endocrinologist trying to pique the curiosity and pry open the checkbooks of over-forty hopefuls, I'd stock my waiting room with expectant ladies. Or maybe I'd hire actresses. Stick them in pregnancy pillows, have them sit in the chairs, maybe rub their backs every once in a while and groan convincingly.
I looked away from the knocked-up chorus line and turned my attention to the forms in my lap. Age. Address. Height. Weight. Ugh. Previous pregnancies. I wrote, One. Previous surgeries. I wrote, C-section and hysterectomy, and the date: Joy's birthday.
"Mrs. Krushelevansky?"
I got to my feet and proceeded to the exam room, where I stripped from the waist down, draped myself in three different cotton robes (one to cover my front, one to cover my back, and one on top of those two in case there was any stray flesh peeking out), and arranged myself on the examination table, my legs in stirrups. I lay back, eyes closed, and practiced my pranayama breathing. I breathed in, and Joy appeared before me, eyes averted, face cast down, hands shoved in her pockets and shoulders hunched as if steeled for a blow, hurrying across the school yard. I breathed out, imagining my reaching for her, feeling my hand on the soft wool of her sweater. Baby, what's wrong? Tell me. I'll help you. I'll fix it. Breathe in, and the image dissolved. Breathe out. I should call that child psychologist, the one the synagogue brought in last month to talk about the overscheduled child, the stress of pre-adolescence. Breathe in. If she'd just talk to me. Breathe out. Where had I put my copy of Reviving Ophelia ? Breathe in. Maybe there was an explanation for her behavior other than "throes of adolescence." Maybe she actually did have a crush on some boy who'd spurned her. Breathe out. I could help with that. I'd take her out somewhere special: maybe the chocolate buffet at the Ritz-Carlton. I'd sit her down and tell her that having your heart broken is a part of growing up. I'd share with her some of the less lurid examples from my own life, and then I'd point to Peter and tell her that everything happens for a reason, that every heartbreak serves a purpose, and that it all works out in the end.
There was a brisk knock, then the door swung open. "Hello there!" said Dr. Neville, who turned out to be a black man in his sixties, with close-cropped iron-gray hair. Peter wheeled over a stool and sat by my side as Dr. Neville stood at the counter with his back to me, squirting gel from a squeeze bottle onto...oh my God.
"Is that...are you..." I gestured vaguely at the probe in his hands, which bore a disturbing resemblance to the item Sam had given me for my bachelorette party. "Shouldn't you at least buy me dinner first?"
Peter and Dr. Neville shared a collegial chuckle. As they "ho ho ho'd," I closed my eyes and tried to relax. The nurse dimmed the lights and tilted the monitor so that I could see it. I sucked in my breath as the probe slid inside of me.
"And...look! There we are."
I turned my head toward the screen and saw a swirling mass of gray--and then, against it, tiny circles like glowing nickels, like little moons.
"Those are your
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