Robin Cook: Mindbend

She turned to glance at the Sony clock radio her mother had given her. She hadn’t told Adam about the gift because Adam had become touchy over her parents’ generosity, or, as he termed it, their interference. Jennifer suspected this had become a sore spot with Adam only because of his own father’s stinginess. It was no secret to Jennifer that Dr. David Schonberg had been so set against Adam’s marrying her that when Adam had willfully gone ahead and done it, he’d been essentially disinherited. In one way Jennifer thought that she’d get a bit of pleasure knowing how mad the old doctor would be if she really was pregnant. Reluctantly, pulling her stiff joints into a steady position, she brushed out her lustrous long brown hair and carefully checked her face in the mirror to make sure its attractive oval planes and clear blue eyes did not reveal her anxiety. No need to upset Adam before she had to.

Forcing a cheerful smile, she sallied into the living room where Adam was going over his speech for the tenth time.

“Isn’t talking to oneself the first sign of dementia?” teased Jennifer.

“Clever!” acknowledged Adam. “Especially since I didn’t think Sleeping Beauty could cogitate before noon.”

“How are you doing with the presentation?” she asked, putting her arms around him and turning her face up for a kiss.

“I got it down to the required fifteen minutes. That’s about all I can say.” He bent and kissed her.

“Oh, Adam. You’ll do just fine. I tell you what: Why don’t you give the presentation to me?” She poured some coffee and then took a seat in the living room. “What disease does the patient have?”

“Tardive dyskinesia is the current diagnosis.”

“What on earth is that?” asked Jennifer.

“It’s a neurological disorder involving all sorts of involuntary movements. It’s associated with certain drugs given for psychiatric problems…”

Jennifer nodded, trying to appear interested, but Adam was only a minute into his speech when her attention turned back to her possible pregnancy.

Dr. Clark Vandermer’s office was just off Park Avenue on Thirty-sixth Street. Jennifer got there by taking the Lexington Avenue subway to Thirty-third Street and walking north. The building was a large apartment house complete with awning and liveried doorman. Entrance to the professional suites was to the right of the building’s main entrance. As Jennifer opened the front door, the slight smell of medicinal alcohol made her flinch. She had never enjoyed going to the gynecologist, and the idea that she might be pregnant made this particular visit especially upsetting.

Jennifer walked down a carpeted hallway, reading the names painted with gold leaf on the doors. She passed the entrances to the offices of two dentists and a pediatrician, and came to a door on which was written “GYN Associates.” Below this was a list of names. The second name was Dr. Clark Vandermer’s.

Jennifer took off the coat that she’d purchased secondhand in Soho for thirty-five dollars and draped it over her arm. Under the coat she was dressed quite well in a smart Calvin Klein shirt-dress that her mother had recently bought for her at Bloomingdale’s.

As she opened the door, Jennifer remembered the office from her previous visits. On the wall opposite the entrance was a sliding glass panel beyond which sat the receptionist.

There were a number of women in the waiting room. Jennifer didn’t count but there had to be more than twelve. All were well dressed and most were either reading or doing needlepoint.

After checking in with the receptionist, who admitted that she had no idea how long the wait would be, Jennifer found a seat near the window. She picked up a recent copy of The New Yorker from the coffee table and tried to read, but all she could do was worry about Adam’s reaction if she were really pregnant.

It was two hours and fifteen minutes before Jennifer was finally called. She followed the nurse to an examining room.

“Take off all your clothes and put this on,” the woman said, handing Jennifer a paper cover-up. “I’ll be back and then the doctor will be in.”

Before Jennifer could ask any questions, the nurse was gone and the door closed.

The room was about ten feet square with a curtained window at one end, a second door to the right, and bare walls. The furniture included a scale, a wastepaper basket which was full to overflowing, an examination table with stirrups, an open locker, and a sink. It was hardly cozy, and Jennifer remembered that Dr. Vandermer was brusque to the point of rudeness. Adam had sent her to him because he was supposed to be the best, but “best” did not seem to include an evaluation of bedside manner.

Not knowing how soon the nurse would be back, Jennifer hurried. She deposited her large coat and bag on the floor and used the locker for her clothes. Once naked, she tried to figure out the cover-up. She couldn’t tell if it should go on with the opening in the front or the back. She opted for the front. Then she tried to decide what she should do with herself. Should she lie down on the examination table or just stand? Her feet were getting cold from the tile floor. She lifted herself onto the examination table and sat on the edge.

A moment later the nurse returned in a rush.

“I’m so sorry for the long wait,” she said in a pleasant but harried tone. “We seem to be getting busier and busier. Must be a new baby boom.” She quickly began checking Jennifer’s weight and blood pressure and then sent her to the bathroom for a urine specimen. When Jennifer returned, Dr. Vandermer was waiting.

Jennifer had always been leery of handsome gynecologists, and Dr. Vandermer evoked that old reservation. He looked more like an actor playing a role than a real doctor. He was tall with dark hair silvering on his temples. His face was square with a sharp chin line and a straight mouth. He wore a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose and looked over them at Jennifer.

“Good morning,” he said in a voice that did not invite conversation. His blue eyes swept over her, then her chart. The nurse shut the door behind them and then busied herself with the contents of a stainless-steel pan by the sink.

“Ah, yes. You’re Mrs. Schonberg, the wife of Adam Schonberg the third-year medical student,” Dr. Vandermer said.

Jennifer didn’t know if it were a statement or a question, but she nodded and said that she was Adam’s wife.

“I wouldn’t think this was a good time for you to be having a baby, Mrs. Schonberg,” said Dr. Vandermer.

Jennifer was shocked. If she hadn’t been naked and vulnerable, she would have been angry. Instead she felt defensive.

“I hope I’m not pregnant,” said Jennifer. “That’s why you put in an IUD a year ago.”

“What happened to the IUD?” asked Dr. Vandermer.

“I think it’s still there,” said Jennifer.

“What do you mean you think it is still there?” questioned Dr. Vandermer. “You don’t know?”

“I checked just this morning. The strings are there.”

Shaking his head, Dr. Vandermer indicated to Jennifer that he thought her less than responsible. He leaned over and quickly wrote something on the chart. Then he raised his eyes, took off his reading glasses. “On the history you filled out a year ago you indicated that you had a brother who’d only lived for several weeks.”

“That’s right,” said Jennifer. “He was a mongoloid baby.”

“How old was your mother at the time?” asked Dr. Vandermer.

“I think she was around thirty-six,” said Jennifer.

“That’s something you should know about,” said Dr. Vandermer with thinly veiled exasperation. “Find out for sure. I want that information on the chart.”