“Even when properly taken, the pill is not one hundred percent effective,” he said, giving her a look that clearly indicated maybe you should have stayed in medical school longer, Miss Fancy Pants Ph.D.
“Right,” Nirupa said tartly, knowing this but somehow apparently believing that it would always work for her. It always had before, after all. “I know that.”
“Do you have any other questions?”
“Can you tell how far along I am?”
“We can run some tests. We’ve got one of those ultrasound machines, big damn thing. Admin figured we’d need one, might as well be the first around here to get it. When was your last menstrual cycle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, less and less impressed with her. “Well. Best guess, if you want to skip the machine, you’re first trimester. But could be six weeks along, could be ten.”
Still time enough to take care of it.
“Do you want to schedule the ultrasound?” The doctor asked.
“No,” Nirupa said, decision made. “I’ll—call my own doctor.”
“Your own doctor.” His words were doubtful, but his look only mildly probing. He had other patients to see and had run out of patience for this one. He might have guessed her plans, was likely judging them, but did not care enough to comment on them if so.
“That’s right,” Nirupa said, dismissing him.
“All right, ‘Dr.’ Agrawal,” said the doctor, and left.
Nirupa sat for a moment on the stiff plastic exam table, gathering her ricocheting thoughts. She considered calling Michael. But what would the point be? Telling Michael wouldn’t change a damn thing. Michael was facing his first major publish-or-perish deadline. He was busy. He wouldn’t want to hear this news.
Though Michael and Nirupa had discussed marriage, and would make their relationship legally official down the road, neither academic had any interest in children. They had their research, their ambitions, their goals; things they discussed as passionately as other people discussed more emotional things, late at night, in bed, legs tangled. They talked nakedly about the legacies they wanted. Legacies of the mind, not of the flesh. They could enjoy each other’s bodies, but they would not add to the world’s overall body count. No children. Not for them, not now, not ever.
So she knew what she had to do.
She picked up her carpet bag of a purse and walked confidently out of the examination room. She stopped briefly at the billing desk, confirming her insurance information, declining again the offer of scheduling a follow-up appointment. She walked through the waiting room, where women in various stages of pregnancy or anticipation were sitting in uncomfortable chairs, awaiting their own appointments.
Nirupa had almost reached her clean yellow Volkswagen when she was halted by a familiar, cutting voice.
“What’ll it be, then, Nirupa?”
She turned to see Catherine O’Brien Hess. Michael’s mother. The stout, short Irish woman was planted firmly on the concrete, standing in the parking lot with arms crossed, looking unwaveringly at Nirupa.
“Catherine. What are you doing here?”
“Easy question, easy answer,” Catherine said, her lilting Irish brogue taking a decidedly less musical tone. “I’m here to see you. So now you answer my question, that’s the more important one: what’ll it be?”
“What are you talking—”
“Are you gonna tell my son you’re carryin’ his child, or will it be me that’s tellin’ him?”
“Did you follow me here?”
“I did.”
Nirupa glared at Catherine. This woman was as good a reason as any to never marry Michael. A pushy, Irish-born, Boston-hardened, old-school- Catholic mother-in-law was the stuff of nightmares.
“You shouldn’t have done that. This is none of your business.”
“Isn’t it? My own grandchild?”
“There is no child,” Nirupa said firmly.
“I’ll help you with him.”
“There is no child.”
Catherine’s eyes widened, and her fingers reflexively flew to her neck, stroking the small gold cross permanently nestled above her collarbone.
“You best not be sayin’ what it sounds like you’re sayin’.”
“Go home, Catherine,” Nirupa said, opening the door to her Volkswagen.
But Catherine did not move.
“You tell Michael, or I’ll be tellin’ him.”
11
Chapter 10: CATHERINE
If looks could kill, the expression on Nirupa’s face would’ve dropped Catherine O’Brien Hess straight to the ground. But Catherine’s life was not the one at stake here, and she answered the younger woman’s expression with just as deadly a look.
“Don’t you dare say a word to Michael.”
“I will. You know I will,” Catherine said, swallowing the sharp profanity she wanted to insert between the words I and will. She was working on cursing less. Now that she was about to be a grandmother, she’d be watching her mouth even more. And she would be a grandmother. She would not let this cold, rude woman end the life of that baby.
“Fine,” Nirupa spat. “I’ll talk to Michael. But it won’t change anything.”
“Sure about that, are ye?”
Nirupa did not reply further to Catherine. She got into her odd little bug-car, slammed the door, and peeled out of the lot, leaving Catherine standing on the pavement.
Catherine swelled with righteous pride. She’d made it in time, stood up for what was right in the eyes of God. Staved off the relentless flames of hell for at least a few minutes. Long enough to make a difference.
Catherine knew her son would make that woman see reason. See mercy. He was rebellious, sure, but his soul was pure. He had morals. He was raised in the church. He would propose to that woman, they’d have a quick and quiet little shotgun wedding, and when Catherine held her grandchild, all would be right in the world.
Catherine didn’t believe in prophecy or visions in modern times. Old Testament seers were long extinct. (Not that Catherine O’Brien Hess believed in extinction, strictly speaking.) America in the nineteen-seventies was no place for visions and prophecy, unless you were a drug user.
But she believed unwaveringly in the will of God. And she had a sense about this situation. She’d noticed it when Michael brought Nirupa over for Sunday lunch last week; the woman was green beneath her smooth brown skin. She excused herself to use the restroom more often than usual.
Catherine had been given some clues, certainly. But still, that couldn’t quite explain why she had sat bolt upright at six this morning. Why she slipped the car keys from the bowl in her hallway, drove her old Chrysler to Michael and Nirupa’s apartment (Lord Jesus, the way those two lived in sin). Why she parked a half-block away, between two larger sedans, so that her car would not be spotted. Why she felt compelled to wait for Nirupa to come down the stairs, witnessed her vomit into the bushes and wipe her mouth before