“Not yet. And it’s not that unusual. If the baby is small, we may not hear any heartbeat for another few weeks. But Justine”—he leaned forward to stress the urgency of his advice—“you’ve got to take better care of yourself—for the sake of the child, if nothing else. You’re taking the vitamins?” She nodded. “Good. Now, I want you to get rest—bed rest—for the next two days.”
“But I have to go to work—”
“The work will wait! Someone will have to cover for you. You need to be off your feet. You need to sleep.”
A sense of defeat crept through her. Now, she mused, she was to be deprived of even her onetime means of escape. “Shouldn’t I be … getting … fat?” she asked timidly.
“Plump,” the doctor corrected gently. “You will. But you have to eat properly. And, I want to see you next week.”
“Next week? So soon?” The sharp loden tinge of her eyes mirrored her alarm.
“It’s all right, Justine,” he quickly soothed her. “I just want to make sure you’re following my instructions. And, maybe then we’ll hear that heartbeat you’ve been waiting for.” His smile was meant by way of encouragement, hiding a deeper concern. He followed her departing form before lifting the phone.
Justine’s return home was met by a very solicitous and particularly officious Susan, who hustled her instantly to bed before setting off for work herself. “Now, I expect to find you here when I get back in the morning,” she instructed firmly, disturbed herself by her roommate’s lack of resistance. “See you later!”
The patient stayed in bed that night and the whole of the following day, insisting on communicating with the office by phone, dozing only occasionally between calls. Her mind was in a strange void, as though waiting for something to happen. It did. That night. While Susan was at work.
It began slowly, gently at first, with a dull ache in her back. The pains were nothing more than a cramp, and she promptly ignored them. There was, she reasoned irrationally, no way there could be anything wrong with her baby. After all, it was all she had left.
Through the night she refused to admit a problem. By morning, however, the matter was taken out of her hands. “Justine! My God! You’re positively ashen!” Susan’s trained eye took in her friend’s tucked-up position on the couch, the hand that lay weakly on her abdomen. “What is it? Cramps?”
Justine sighed and lay her head back against the upholstery. “It’s nothing, Sue. Really. A twinge now and then. I’m sure it’s perfectly normal.”
But Susan had heard enough. Her hand went instantly to the phone; her voice carried moments later in disjointed phrases to Justine. “Sure, Tom. We’ll be there in about … twenty minutes.” The receiver hit its cradle as the nurse whirled into action. “Come on, hun. We’re meeting Tom at the hospital. He’s going to take a look at you.”
Justine sat up quickly, feeling suddenly faint. “But there’s nothing wrong. Honestly. I’m fine.”
“You may be a great lawyer”—the determined Susan had disappeared into Justine’s room for her clothes—“but you’reno doctorand a very lousy patient!” Having returned, she stood before Justine. “Now, will you come willingly, or do I call an ambulance?”
Strangely frightened, Justine allowed herself to be led through the motions of dressing, then found herself in a cab with Susan, and, moments later, at the emergency room of the hospital, where they were met by a somberfaced Tom, who whisked Justine off.
For Justine, the world and its happenings took on unreal distortion. It was as though, having admitted to herself the possibility of a problem with the baby, she released a floodgate of activity about her. Nurses and technicians came and went; her doctor stayed with her, examining, probing, questioning. The sedative he administered gave further chimerical quality to the happenings. Few things retained meaning; most shimmered above and beyond her. At the mention of Sloane’s name, however, her senses cleared.
“Should I call him, hun?” Susan asked gently as Justine was wheeled toward the elevator that would take her into the deeper womb of the hospital. “He should be here—”
“No!” Her voice seemed distant, foreign. “No! Not Sloane!”
“Is there anyone you want me to call?” The elevator door was about to close as Susan bent over her friend for a last moment.
Justine’s whisper was barely audible. “Tony. Tell Tony I’m here.”
Tony was beside her, sitting on the edge of her bed when she awoke from a doze that evening. His eyes were warm, despite their concern. “How do you feel?” he murmured softly. The lights in the room, a private one, were dim, creating the restful atmosphere the doctor ordered.
Reorientation was something that had taken Justine time during the late afternoon hours as the anesthesia had worn off. Now she struggled to surface again. “Kind of numb. Empty.” Her hand reached out for his, and he offered it, his grip strong and supportive.
“Why didn’t you tell me before, Justine? You should have shared this with someone.”
The lump in her throat made speaking difficult. After a few minutes’ wait, it eased. “Susan knew. I … didn’t want to … burden anyone else.”
“Burden? Justine, I’m your brother! If you can’t rely on me, whocanyou rely on?”
At that instant Justine knew something she had avoided facing for countless years. Blooddidflow thicker than water—an old adage, but very true. In the moment of recognition, her eyes filled with tears. “Thanks for … being here, Tony.” Her voice broke. “I need …”
Gently, Tony gathered her into his arms, rocking her trembling form as she wept against him. “I’m here, Justine. I’ll always be here.” His mind was on another man, as was hers. Through her tears she saw him standing there at the door, tall, straight, silver-haired, and debonair in his finely tailored suit with a trenchcoat thrown over his elbow. But when she blinked, he was gone, a fleeting figment of her strained imagination.
“I wanted the baby so, Tony. You have no idea.” With the quieting of her body came the need for release. Her eyes glistened a deep emerald as she unloaded her heart to this person closest, now, to her. “I never thought—or planned—to have children.” Her breath hiccuped between words. “But, once it happened, it was as though there was no other way to live.” Again, she thought of Sloane, of his child she would never have. “I feel so … alone …” Her eyes filled again; Tony let her cry freely.
A counselor by profession, he knew of her need for self-expurgation. “Tell me about the trip,” he asked, watching her face light slowly in memory. As her body rested back against the pillows, she talked quietly, telling him everything that had happened since she had seen him last, before her departure for Alaska. Details of the last three days of the trip were unnecessary; the glow in her eyes, suddenly clear and sharp and vital amid the pallor of her skin, elaborated fully. Tony knew enough, however, not to venture into a deeper discussion of Sloane, considering Justine’s shaky emotional state. To his dismay the life that had crept into her features during her discourse faded instantly at its end. There was a finality to her silence, a strong depression hovering about her.
