Curtis Sittenfeld - Eligible

REVELATORY AS IT was, Jane’s news had not been shared in a way that invited further questioning. She merely told Liz she had passed out for just a minute or two and, although she was sure that she was fine, the doctors wanted to run a few tests before releasing her. She was at Christ Hospital, she said, and had seen Chip briefly, before he got summoned to another patient, but he was not the one treating her. Caroline was still with her. And Liz mustn’t tell anyone else in the family.

“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” Liz said.

It was only upon hanging up that Liz realized she was both alone in the house and without a car: Jane had taken their father’s Cadillac to meet Caroline, their parents were having lunch at the country club, and their sisters were God knew where. Liz considered texting Mary, Kitty, or Lydia but decided against it because of their unreliability and indiscretion. She next considered taking a bus, but she was entirely unfamiliar with the routes, and finally, she considered calling a taxi, which was something she had never done in Cincinnati and therefore was uncertain could be accomplished with efficiency. Then, decisively, she changed into running shorts, a sports bra, and a tank top. She laced up her turquoise-and-orange sneakers, found her sunglasses, grabbed a baseball cap from Kitty’s room, chugged a glass of water as she stood by the kitchen sink, and hurried outside. It was just after one o’clock and ninety-six degrees; Christ Hospital was four and a half miles away, according to the directions on her phone, so she estimated it should take her thirty-five minutes to get there.

Unlike when she ran with Jane, Liz took her phone; she stuck it between her underwear and hip, but even before she reached the street, it fell onto the driveway. So she clutched it, heading west on Grandin Road, which was the same route she took each morning with Jane; she even passed the country club, where, presumably, her parents were midway through their pseudo-healthy Caesar salads. How much, Liz wondered for the first time, were the country club’s annual fees?

At Madison Road, instead of turning right, she made a left toward O’Bryonville, passing the antiques stores and clothing boutiques. The air was thick, and the sun felt aggressive, possibly malevolent.

So Jane was pregnant; Jane was pregnant. The most immediate question, of course, was whether this development was attributable to the sperm donor or Chip. If it was the sperm donor, Liz thought, Jane would have conceived eight weeks earlier, in which case wouldn’t she have known? Then Liz recalled Jane’s hesitation about Chip, in spite of her obvious attraction to him— had she known? And her comments about moving to Cincinnati — those, too, could have been hints at her condition, though it was equally likely she’d want to stay in town in order to raise a child with Chip or, if she was a single mother, to avoid the expense and hassle of New York. Either way, between Chip and an anonymous donor, Liz couldn’t say which was preferable. Complications were sure to arise from both.

Passing the Gothic church of Saint Francis de Sales, where Liz went south on Woodburn Avenue, she was sweating more than she ever had in her entire life. The potential irony of fainting on the way to see Jane after Jane had fainted didn’t escape Liz; and yet, despite the heat and the fatigue in her muscles from already having run that morning, adrenaline kept her focused. A baby — after all this time, Jane was to be the mother of a baby!

East McMillan, which was the widest and busiest thoroughfare on Liz’s run thus far — there were few pedestrians and many cars — shimmered in the sun. Kitty’s baseball cap was royal blue, with a University of Kentucky logo, though UK was a school no one in their family had attended, and Liz wondered if the cap was making her head warmer. Removing it didn’t seem to help matters, however, and on the Reading Road overpass, she donned it again. She considered slowing to a walk, but Auburn Avenue wasn’t far off, and once she reached it, she was practically there.

By the time the enormous brick edifice of Christ Hospital came into view, Liz felt that time had collapsed and she had been running for several years through a stasis of heat. Behind her sunglasses, perspiration fell into her eyes, making it difficult to see. Glancing at the map on her phone, she followed Auburn Avenue to Mason Street and curved toward Eleanor Place and the entrance of the emergency room. Just outside its automatic door, beneath the porte cochere, she stopped and bent, setting her hands on her knees, to catch her breath.

“Liz?” said a male voice, and Liz stood up straight. Sweat was dripping from all the usual places, her temples and the back of her neck and her armpits, but also from a range of body parts less commonly associated with thermoregulation, including her kneecaps. She removed her sunglasses to wipe her eyes with the heels of her hands, and a droplet of sweat flew through the air and landed on the forearm of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s white coat; she saw it happen, and she was certain that he did, too. In a tone that fell somewhere between confusion and disapproval, he said, “What are you doing here?”

Only at this moment did her choice to run to the hospital appear strange as opposed to merely uncomfortable. It seemed difficult to avoid the truth, though surely the entire truth wasn’t necessary. Still breathing unevenly, she said, “Jane fainted, and they brought her to the ER. But I think she’s fine. What are you doing here?”

“Seeing a patient. Does Jane have a history of syncope?”

“If that’s the same as fainting, then no.”

“It is a very hot day. And not the time most people would choose to go running.”

“Only mad dogs and Englishmen, I hear,” Liz said. “But there were no cars at our house. Do I go through there?” She gestured toward the automatic door.

“I’ll go with you,” Darcy said, and as they walked inside, he added “Jane’s thirty-nine?”

“Yes.” In spite of the other subjects preoccupying her, Liz couldn’t help noting that her sister’s age must have been a topic of discussion between Chip and Darcy.

“If she’s generally in good health, I suspect it’s heat syncope,” Darcy said. They paused at a reception desk, and Darcy said, “I’m Dr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, and I need to find a patient named Jane Bennet.”

The receptionist typed briefly on her keyboard before saying, “Room 108.” Neither Liz nor Darcy spoke as they continued walking. At a set of double doors, Darcy held a badge on a lanyard around his neck up to a sensor, and the doors opened toward them. They were in a wide hall and had no sooner rounded a corner than they saw Caroline Bingley, who wore such a peculiar expression — it seemed to be a combination of mirth and fury, but was that even possible? — that Liz had the hysterical thought that Jane might have died. “Is she okay?” Liz asked with alarm.

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. Glaring, she said, “Congratulations, Auntie Liz.”

WHEN LIZ PULLED back the curtain at the entrance to Jane’s small room, she saw her sister in a bed whose mattress was set at a semi-reclined angle. Jane wore a hospital gown (Liz hadn’t expected the change of clothes, which somehow made Jane’s status as a patient official), and a tube inserted into a vein at her left inner elbow delivered clear liquid. Quietly, almost silently, Jane was crying. The sisters’ eyes met, and Jane brought a tissue to her nose. “Oh, Lizzy,” she said. “What have I done?”

Liz climbed onto the bed beside Jane and set an arm around her. “I stink,” Liz said. “Just to warn you.”