made. Casey’s tiny boot prints surround them, and as she squeals with delight, he thinks to himself, This is the most perfect moment I will ever know.
“Silver?”
She is back, smiling uncertainly at him.
“You sure this is what you want?” he says, not because he sees an alternative but because it just feels like the kind of thing that, in hindsight, you’ll need to know you said.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No.”
“I’m early enough that they can use the aspiration method, which is basically the equivalent of inducing a period. There’s no pain and no recovery. I won’t feel a thing.”
“OK.”
“And this will stay our little secret, right?”
“Right.”
He has to admit, it feels good to share a secret with her.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not telling me I’m an idiot for having unprotected sex.”
“I guess I thought that was obvious.”
She laughs. Neither of them has made a move toward the front door of the clinic yet.
“Have you had a lot of sex?” he says.
She is momentarily surprised by the question, but seems to welcome it. “This was my first time.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
She takes a long time to answer. “It was actually very lovely,” she says, and then bursts into tears.
* * *
There aren’t a lot of forms to fill out, since E.I. doesn’t take insurance. And Casey wouldn’t have used insurance anyway, since she wants no explanation of benefits showing up in Denise’s mailbox. The price of an early intervention turns out to be six hundred and twenty-eight dollars. He supposes a round number would seem equally odd. He’s brought the cash with him, reducing his checking account roughly by half and giving the whole enterprise a whiff of the illicit. After paying, he joins Casey in a small private waiting room furnished with two leather couches, a water cooler, and two end tables covered with pamphlets, all trying to put a happy face on the situation.
Casey grabs a pamphlet and reads aloud to him. “‘The entire procedure takes less than ten minutes. Cramping during the procedure is tolerable, and only lasts for a few minutes. There is no recovery period. Women leave the office ready to resume their everyday activities.’”
“Sounds great,” he says. “Why doesn’t everyone do it this way?”
“You have to be between five and ten weeks. After that, you have to go hard-core.”
They sit in companionable silence for a few moments. He leans back on the couch and closes his eyes, experiencing a sudden, crushing wave of unearned exhaustion.
“Can you tell me something?” Casey says.
“What?”
“Anything. Just talk to me until they’re ready.”
“I don’t know what to talk about.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Right now?”
“In general.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“A fuck buddy?”
“I did bring a woman home the other night.”
“Go, Silver. How was it?”
“She just wanted to be held.”
“Oh, well.”
“It’s OK. Sex isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be . . .”
“He said to his pregnant daughter in the waiting room of the abortion clinic.”
Silver smiles. Despite his best efforts, she has emerged as a bright, witty, beautiful, and largely well-adjusted kid. Sometimes when he is with her, the sense of what he’s lost is powerful enough to flatten his lungs, which may be why he’s been so bad about being around in the years since the divorce.
The room is too warm, even sitting right beneath the central air vent, and the ringing in his left ear has reached the point where it is starting to crackle like a fire. He holds his breath and presses his palms to his ears, emitting a low hum from deep in his throat to counteract the whine in his ears. After a few moments, the whine recedes and then, to his surprise, it fades altogether. Blessed silence explodes across his head.
“Dad!”
She called me Dad, he thinks.
He opens his
“Silver?”
She is back, smiling uncertainly at him.
“You sure this is what you want?” he says, not because he sees an alternative but because it just feels like the kind of thing that, in hindsight, you’ll need to know you said.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No.”
“I’m early enough that they can use the aspiration method, which is basically the equivalent of inducing a period. There’s no pain and no recovery. I won’t feel a thing.”
“OK.”
“And this will stay our little secret, right?”
“Right.”
He has to admit, it feels good to share a secret with her.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not telling me I’m an idiot for having unprotected sex.”
“I guess I thought that was obvious.”
She laughs. Neither of them has made a move toward the front door of the clinic yet.
“Have you had a lot of sex?” he says.
She is momentarily surprised by the question, but seems to welcome it. “This was my first time.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
She takes a long time to answer. “It was actually very lovely,” she says, and then bursts into tears.
* * *
There aren’t a lot of forms to fill out, since E.I. doesn’t take insurance. And Casey wouldn’t have used insurance anyway, since she wants no explanation of benefits showing up in Denise’s mailbox. The price of an early intervention turns out to be six hundred and twenty-eight dollars. He supposes a round number would seem equally odd. He’s brought the cash with him, reducing his checking account roughly by half and giving the whole enterprise a whiff of the illicit. After paying, he joins Casey in a small private waiting room furnished with two leather couches, a water cooler, and two end tables covered with pamphlets, all trying to put a happy face on the situation.
Casey grabs a pamphlet and reads aloud to him. “‘The entire procedure takes less than ten minutes. Cramping during the procedure is tolerable, and only lasts for a few minutes. There is no recovery period. Women leave the office ready to resume their everyday activities.’”
“Sounds great,” he says. “Why doesn’t everyone do it this way?”
“You have to be between five and ten weeks. After that, you have to go hard-core.”
They sit in companionable silence for a few moments. He leans back on the couch and closes his eyes, experiencing a sudden, crushing wave of unearned exhaustion.
“Can you tell me something?” Casey says.
“What?”
“Anything. Just talk to me until they’re ready.”
“I don’t know what to talk about.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Right now?”
“In general.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“A fuck buddy?”
“I did bring a woman home the other night.”
“Go, Silver. How was it?”
“She just wanted to be held.”
“Oh, well.”
“It’s OK. Sex isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be . . .”
“He said to his pregnant daughter in the waiting room of the abortion clinic.”
Silver smiles. Despite his best efforts, she has emerged as a bright, witty, beautiful, and largely well-adjusted kid. Sometimes when he is with her, the sense of what he’s lost is powerful enough to flatten his lungs, which may be why he’s been so bad about being around in the years since the divorce.
The room is too warm, even sitting right beneath the central air vent, and the ringing in his left ear has reached the point where it is starting to crackle like a fire. He holds his breath and presses his palms to his ears, emitting a low hum from deep in his throat to counteract the whine in his ears. After a few moments, the whine recedes and then, to his surprise, it fades altogether. Blessed silence explodes across his head.
“Dad!”
She called me Dad, he thinks.
He opens his
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