Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

The clinic is in Jackson Heights, a neighborhood Anne has never visited before. She’s surprised at how charming it is-tidy tree-lined streets, graceful brick apartment houses. As they drive, Anne picks out a suitable building and notes its number. The clinic is in a low-slung building just off a slightly seedy shopping street.

The waiting room-worn gray carpeting, plastic chairs, posters of Monet’s water lilies-is a long way from Dr. Arnold’s, with its burnished wood and framed lithographs. Anne is glad there’s no one else waiting. The receptionist is a preoccupied Hispanic woman. Anne quickly fills out the medical history form, listing the address she noted on Elm Street. A dazed young Asian mother, carrying one child and leading two others, comes out of the doctor’s office and stops at the receptionist’s desk. Anne begins to sweat. Hillary Clinton is on the cover of People, but Anne barely has time to pick up the magazine before a heavyset nurse with a brusque maternal air leads her into an examining room. Anne sits in a chair.

“What can we do for you today?”

“I’d rather discuss it with the doctor.”

The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Are you pregnant?”

“I really would rather talk to the doctor.”

“In that case, why don’t you take off your clothes and put on this gown?”

The nurse leaves. Anne has no intention of taking off her clothes. The walls of the examining room are covered with bilingual posters extolling proper pre- and postnatal care. There are photographs of happy families enjoying their newborns. Anne wonders if she’s doing everything she should be in terms of nutrition and exercise. Oh, Christ, women have been having children for thousands of years. She looks in the wall mirror, pats her dark hair. There’s a soft knock on the door and then it opens.

Dr. Halpern looks to be in his early sixties, with curly gray hair and exhausted eyes. His shoes are scuffed.

“Milton Halpern.”

“Kathleen Brody.”

The doctor crosses his arms and leans against a counter. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Brody?”

Anne hears a baby crying in another room. She thought she was the last patient of the day. “I’m pregnant.”

“Yes?”

Anne looks down, runs her fingers along the edge of the chair seat, exhales sharply. “I’m a married woman, and…”

Dr. Halpern takes a pen out of his breast pocket and starts to fidget with it. She looks at him. He holds her eyes and leans forward slightly.

“More than one man could be the father.” Anne looks down at her hands. The polish on her left index finger is chipped.

The doctor takes a paper cup from a holder and fills it with water. He hands the cup to Anne. “These things happen,” he says.

The clinic is overheated. No wonder she’s sweating. She takes a drink of water. It’s been ages since she’s tasted tap water.

“I’m considering an abortion.”

The doctor gives a small nod. “Do you have a regular gynecologist?”

“I do, but it’s complicated…” Anne finishes the water in a gulp. “Oh, Christ, how could I have done this to myself?”

“Are you taking anything for your anxiety?”

“Just something I picked up at the health food store.”

“Does it help?”

“You should have seen me before.”

The doctor chuckles.

Anne stands up. There isn’t much room to move in the office. She sits back down. “I’d like DNA testing of the fetus. I want to know who the father is before I make any decisions.”

“It’s an expensive process. Does it really matter that much?”

“Yes. Will you help me?”

The doctor looks at Anne, studies her face. For a moment she’s afraid he recognizes her.

“You’re in your first trimester?”

“Yes.”

“Well, chorionic villus sampling is not without risks. I won’t recommend it without performing an examination and getting a full medical history.”

“Fine. How soon could we schedule it?”

“Next week. As I’m sure you know, the lab will need a blood sample for DNA matching.”

Anne nods. After her exam, she dresses and leaves, giving the receptionist the five hundred dollars as a deposit.

Anne walks into the apartment at 6:45 and heads for the master bedroom. In her closet, she pulls down an old hatbox, opens it, tucks the wig under the straw hat inside, and replaces the box. Her heart is thwacking in her chest. In the bathroom she picks up a glass and drops it. It shatters with a hollow sound that echoes off the room’s tiles. She carefully picks up the shards of broken glass, leaving several on the floor, sharp and menacing. Deep in the bottom of the bathroom closet, on a shelf filled with half-used tubes of sunblock and hair conditioner, she stashes the vials Dr. Halpern’s nurse gave her.

She heads for the kitchen. The door to Charles’s domain is open, and she walks down the hallway. His outer office is deserted; the door to his inner office is closed. She listens: silence. She knocks lightly. “Charles?” No reply. Just as she’s about to open the door, it opens from within and Emma emerges.

“He’s gone out for a walk,” the young woman says.

What was she doing in there? And with the door closed? Anne looks discreetly over Emma’s shoulder. Everything looks in order. No Charles.

“Just my luck. The one day I get home at a decent hour. How’s everything going here?”

“Just fine, for me. I hope I’m making things easier for Mr. Davis.”

“I’m sure you are.” Anne eyes Emma. She’s wearing a hint of makeup; she never did that when she was temping at Home. And those startling green eyes are so round and luminous.

“I saw the article about you in In Style,” Emma says.

“Oh, God, they made me sound like a cross between Martha Stewart and Donatella Versace.”

“Half the women I meet think you’re the Messiah.”

“That’s my cue to say something terribly cynical and witty. But I won’t.” Anne has an ironclad rule never to condescend to her customers.

“How’s everything at the office?” Emma asks.

“Chaotic.”

“I hope that problem worked itself out.”

“What problem?” Anne asks.

“You got a phone call that seemed to upset you. I think it was my second day working at Home. Anyway, it was raining.”

Anne looks at Emma for a moment. Who is this girl? She walks past her, into Charles’s office. She picks up his pack of Marlboros and takes one out, but doesn’t light it.

“Unfortunately, many calls upset me these days. Home is about to go on-line. Getting there hasn’t been easy. I probably should have kept you. You were good.”

“It was a wonderful opportunity for me.”

“Yes. And now you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

Emma looks as if she’s about to say something more and then thinks the better of it. What the hell was she doing skulking about in Charles’s office?

“I was just on my way out,” Emma says, gathering up her things. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Anne says. As she watches Emma walk down the hallway, Anne decides she wants her out of her house.

Back in the kitchen, Anne pours herself a glass of wine and finishes it in three sips. One glass won’t hurt the baby. Hell, her mother swears she drank two gin and tonics every night when she was pregnant with Anne. She opens the fridge and checks on the chicken she’s marinating in beer and curry and horseradish. They’ll eat at the small table in the library, at the window overlooking the park. She’ll put on Coltrane. And after dinner she’ll run Charles a hot bath…

The kitchen phone rings.

“Hello.”

“Why haven’t I heard from you, Annie? I’ve left three phone messages and two E-mails.”

“Need you ask?”