Once inside, Marlene heaved herself into an empty chair, but Rachel paused stonily and gazed past the anonymous faces, wondering if she looked as conspicuous as she felt But why should she feel so ill at ease? She was an ordinary woman in her early thirties, not unlike the other women in this office. She had as much right to be here as anyone.
Already she was feeling a twinge of claustrophobia mingled with a ripple of nausea. Dr. Oberg’s waiting room was too close, too warm. It was an oversize walk-in closet camouflaged with nursery bric-a-brac and semigloss paint. The room was uncomfortably small and narrow, with baby blue walls, bare except for an occasional pastel drawing of a child hugging a pink blanket or clutching a teddy bear. The drawings were signed simply Muriel, with no last name.
“May I help you, ma’am?” asked the woman at the reception desk.
“She means you, Rachel,” whispered Marlene. “I don’t need this kind of help—thank goodness!”
“This isn’t something I bargained for, either,” Rachel retorted. She approached the desk and wondered what difference it all made—the walls, the paintings and good old Muriel, whoever she was. There were too many other matters to occupy Rachel’s mind. Questions buzzed inside her skull like swarming, relentless bees, unnerving her, nearly incapacitating her. For all too long she had fretted over the possibility of being pregnant—for days, weeks now. As each day had passed, the idea had grown stronger, more pressing, more probable than before. In desperation she had gone to the drugstore and purchased several home pregnancy tests, but each time the positive sign had appeared she’d convinced herself it couldn’t be accurate.
Realizing at last that she could no longer keep her anxieties to herself, she had turned to Marlene with her apprehensions. “I can’t be pregnant,” she had lamented. “David would be absolutely furious.”
Always the irrepressible and unflappable ally, Marlene had trumpeted, “And he’d have no one but himself to thank, now, would he!” With that, Marlene had gone to the telephone directory and selected a number—the number of a Long Beach obstetrician, a random choice—and dialed. “Rachel,” she’d said, cupping the mouthpiece, “I got you a spot for October 15, at four o’clock.” When Rachel had offered a feeble protest, Marlene had simply handed her the phone and said, “It’s settled. Here, give her your vital statistics.”
But now, standing in this cramped waiting room, Rachel wanted more than anything in the world to turn and run out the door. No, she was through running. She had dodged this dilemma long enough.
“I’m Mrs. Webber…Rachel Webber,” she announced to the receptionist-nurse. Why did she sound so infuriatingly apologetic? Unconsciously, she clutched the side of her knit A-line skirt, straightening it, while the young woman in white offered a professional smile. She was rather pretty, Rachel noted impassively, with her blond hair swept back in a meticulous, efficient coronet at the back of her head. She had the kind of controlled, understated beauty one expected of a nurse.
“Yes, Mrs. Webber,” the woman replied crisply. “We’ll want a urine specimen—you can go right through that door—and when you get back I have some forms for you to fill out.”
Rachel lowered her eyes and obediently left the room, her face flushed with warmth. When she returned, she said quietly, “I left the specimen in the bathroom.”
“Fine. Now, why don’t you have a seat and fill out these forms?”
“How long will it take? I mean, I can find out right away, right? It’s not like you have to wait and see if the rabbit dies or anything.”
Again the receptionist flashed her polite, detached smile. “Yes, Mrs. Webber, we’ll have the results promptly. If you’ll just take a seat, the doctor will see you in about half an hour.”
“Thank you.” Rachel slipped into a vacant chair beside Marlene and tried her best to look nonchalant as she forced a placid expression into place. But her cheeks felt hot, her lips stiff and tight against her teeth. Her face—a mask of aloof indifference—felt so brittle she had the sensation it might shatter if she let down her guard and allowed her surging emotions to break through the protective veneer.
Thank goodness Marlene was there with her. She didn’t have to face this thing alone. She knew she and Marlene made an unlikely duo—Rachel a young housewife and Marlene a middle-aged widow. Marlene was ten years older than Rachel and looked older still. She wore no makeup and kept her dark brown hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Marlene was large boned and, as she laughingly described herself, a bit broad in the beam. “Just call me a big rolypoly teddy bear,” she would say with a note of selfdeprecation. She often complained that no matter where she shopped, she could never find clothing that fit properly. “I’m waiting for tents to come back in style,” she would tell a perplexed salesgirl. Then with a raucous laugh she’d add, “Not tent dresses…army surplus tents!”
That’s what I may be needing soon! Rachel thought darkly.
“Relax,” Marlene soothed. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“Maybe not, but I think I can see it from here,” Rachel said dryly. She set her purse at her feet and leaned back, crossing her legs at the ankle. Marlene’s right, she told herself. This isn’t the end of the world. She gazed ahead at nothing in particular, at the pastel child in the painting clutching his teddy bear, at the blue wall. She breathed deeply, willing her taut muscles to unwind.
Lately, she reflected somberly, it was impossible to relax. She couldn’t read through an entire article in a magazine. She couldn’t even concentrate on the paperback she’d brought along in her purse. How could she possibly relax when she might be going home to David with a positive pregnancy test?
She could not afford to be pregnant now. A pregnancy would change her whole life; it would ruin everything. She didn’t want to know, but soon she would know. In a half hour a doctor she had never seen before would come and tell her the future course of her life—just like that, the whole future course. How ironic could you get?
Marlene was chuckling over a Baby Time magazine, scanning pages of adorable, bouncing babies and shaking her head. “Deliver me!” she said.
And me along with you, thought Rachel.
For the first time since entering the waiting room, she dared to let her gaze focus on the other clients. A young couple, surely just teenagers, sat close to each other on an orange vinyl couch. The girl, in a flannel shirt and bib overalls, flipped idly through a baby magazine. The boy, tall and lanky with stringy, shoulder-length brown hair, studied the walls and ceiling with an intense concentration while tapping knobby fingers nervously on the arm of the couch.
“Look at this beautiful nursery furniture, Jeff,” Rachel heard the girl say. “Whitewashed oak! Wouldn’t you love to have that for the baby?”
The boy glanced at the picture, grunted and stared back at the ceiling. “Your mother doesn’t have room in her house for that kind of stuff,” he answered hoarsely. “We’ll be lucky to squeeze in a crib.”
“Poor kids,” Marlene murmured from behind her magazine.
Another woman, dark haired and plain—perhaps in her early thirties, like Rachel—sat serenely reading a book. Rachel couldn’t help staring. The woman was huge, monstrous. She was obviously due any moment now. Had Rachel been that large when she carried Brian? She couldn’t have been, but she couldn’t remember. It had been thirteen years ago.
The woman looked up, catching Rachel’s stare. They exchanged quick, embarrassed smiles and turned their eyes away.
Rachel