The Truth About Stacey by Ann M. Martin Page A

asked.
    â€œHeavens, no,” said Mom. “It’s not bad news … exactly.”
    â€œYou’re pregnant!” I cried. “You found out you can have a baby after all!”
    â€œShhh!” said Dad. “People are turning around.”
    â€œWell,
what?”
    Mom cleared her throat. “It’s just that we’ve scheduled the tests with the new doctor I mentioned to you a couple of weeks ago, remember?”
    â€œHow could I forget?”
    â€œStacey,” said Dad warningly, his voice rising on the last syllable.
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œThey’re going to be a little later in the month than we had thought.”
    â€œNear
Christ
mas?” I asked, dismayed.
    â€œWe’ll leave on Friday, the twelfth, and probably return on Wednesday, the seventeenth.”
    â€œBut—but that’s five days!” I sputtered. “You said it would only be three days.”
    â€œWell, you’ll still miss just three days of school,” said my father. “When we found out the tests would take longer than we realized, we scheduled them over a weekend. That’s why we didn’t go to New York for Thanksgiving. Two long weekends there so close together are too many.”
    â€œAm I going to be in the
hospital
for five days?” Being in the hospital when you feel fine has to be the most boring thing in the world.
    â€œYou’ll spend a lot of time at this doctor’s clinic,” replied Mom, “but you’ll be an outpatient…. Look, in the evenings we can havefun. And we’ll have Sunday free. We can visit your cousins and go Christmas shopping—”
    â€œAnd,” said Dad, grinning, “I got tickets to the Sunday performance of
Paris Magic.”
    â€œParis Magic
!” I cried, momentarily forgetting doctors and clinics. “You’re kidding! I can’t believe it! Oh, thank you!”
Paris Magic
was a musical I’d been dying to see.
    â€œAnd we’ll go to Rockefeller Center and look at the Christmas tree,” Mom went on. “Think of it, Stacey. Christmas in New York. You always liked the city best at that season.”
    â€œI guess,” I replied, returning to earth. Tickets to
Paris Magic
didn’t make up for what Mom and Dad were doing to me. “So what does Dr. Werner think of … what’s the name of the new doctor?”
    â€œDr. Barnes,” said Dad.
    â€œWhat does Dr. Werner think of Dr. Barnes?”
    â€œShe doesn’t know about Dr. Barnes yet,” replied my mother.
    â€œMo-om, I’d like to check with Dr. Werner first.”
    â€œStacey,” said Dad. “You are not in charge here. Your mother and I make the decisions.”
    â€œDecisions about
me, my
body.”
    â€œThat’s what parents are for,” he said wryly.
    â€œSo what’s so special about Dr. Barnes?” I asked. “Why do we have to see him … or her?”
    â€œHim,” said Mom. “He’s a holistic doctor.”
    Holistic … holy? “A
faith
healer?” I squeaked. “You’re taking me to a religious person for a miracle?” Mom and Dad had considered some pretty desperate things over the months, but nothing like faith healing.
    â€œStacey, for pity’s sake. No,” said Dad. “Calm down. Holistic medicine deals with the whole body, with a person as a whole, made up not just of physical parts, but of mental, emotional, environmental, nutritional—”
    â€œI get it, I get it,” I muttered, embarrassed.
    Dad drained his coffee, Mom sipped her wine, and I stirred my soda with the straw.
    â€œWell,” said Dad at last, “we just wanted you to know what to expect. And to keep those days open for our trip.”
    â€œWhat about my schoolwork?” I asked.
    â€œWe’ll talk to your teachers before we leave. Maybe you can bring some of your homework with you and do it at the clinic,” said Mom.