Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

Late in the afternoon he rides his bicycle to the hospital. The sunlight is thick and golden, and as sticky as melted butter, as dripping honey. Thomas pumps the pedals hard, already out of breath. The air’s so heavy that it almost hurts to breathe. The cabinetmaker has agreed to work the entire weekend; the shelves and cabinet doors were stained at the factory — they just need to be installed — and he’ll suggest to Maloney that they remain closed on Monday so everyone can help tie up loose ends and stock shelves. It’ll be a joint effort. Enthusiastically he thinks about how important it is to strive for a flatter, more elastic company structure, so everyone can shift easily between stores. He’ll talk to Maloney about that, though he’s still keeping his distance and considers the branch Thomas’s project. But won’t that change when he finally sees how successful the new store will be? Thomas is certain that they’ll markedly increase their revenue. He veers from the road and bikes up the hospital’s wide driveway, pebbles leaping into the wheels. His bike skids on the gravel. The lawn is yellow, baked-dry. The sun is harsh. He’s thirsty. His tongue clings to his teeth and the roof of his mouth. He locks his bike to a light pole and pushes through the revolving doors. He finds the slip of paper with the information he needs and asks for the gynecologist’s office. He takes the elevator up to the fourteenth floor and walks down a long hallway, passes through a set of glass doors, and strides from department to department, listening to the faint rumble of the air conditioning. It’s pleasantly cool in here, a waiting room with a small group of people clustered over a newborn baby, visiting hours, apparently, a woman in the last stage of her pregnancy dressed in a bathrobe and supporting herself against the wall as she inches forward in small strides, another set of glass doors, and at last he arrives. The doctor’s office door is open. He’s sitting behind his desk. Patricia’s back is to Thomas. The doctor looks up, sees Thomas. “Yes?” he inquires. And Patricia turns. Startled, she stares at Thomas. Thunderstruck, disbelieving, her eyes wide. “Can I help you?” the doctor asks kindly.

“What are you doing here?” Patricia’s voice is harsh, almost a hiss.

“Do you two know each other?” the doctor asks, surprised.

“Yes,” Thomas says, entering. “I’m her boyfriend.” And to Patricia: “You forgot your cell phone, hon, I couldn’t help but notice the message from the hospital.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. “And I don’t think you should be alone with this.”

Patricia glowers at him, her mouth agape. She shakes her head. “I know what’s going on,” Thomas continues, gently. “I found the pregnancy test this morning.” He sits in the seat next to Patricia.

“That sounds a bit dramatic,” the doctor says, chuckling as if it were funny. “But I’m glad you’re here. We’ve been discussing the advantages of having an abortion in Patricia’s situation.”

The older, dark-skinned man has kind brown eyes. Patricia looks down, slumps in her chair. The doctor says, “I can only repeat what I said last time, Patricia. You need to consider this thoroughly. Consider the consequences of a pregnancy possibly stemming from a rape. You may think this way now, but later you might have serious issues to contend with. Also for your child. Even if you weren’t impregnated during the assault, perhaps your child will always remind you of it.”

Thomas doesn’t understand. He glances searchingly at Patricia, but she looks away.

“What?” he says. “I don’t quite follow.”

“Patricia hasn’t decided whether she wants to have an abortion or not,” the doctor responds, eyeing Patricia earnestly. “But I strongly recommend it.”

She lifts her head and says to the doctor, “No.”

A short silence. “What?” Thomas says. “No to what?” Thomas turns wildly from Patricia to the doctor — who tilts his head almost in apology before cocking it to the side — then back to Patricia. “Are you saying. . that you want to go through with the pregnancy?” He feels sucker-punched, and it practically knocks the wind out of him, because now it occurs to him that he might soon be a father. Head spinning, he clutches the armrest. No one answers him. “But can’t we can take a test to find out if I’m the father? That’s possible, right?”

The doctor leans back in his chair.

Patricia shakes her head.

“You want to keep it?” Thomas’s voice is shrill and thin. “Why haven’t you told me? Patricia! You need to have an abortion.”

She shakes her head again. “No,” she repeats in a firm voice.

“But it is possible, right,” Thomas glances urgently at the doctor, “to take a paternity test and find out who the father is?”

“We’d need to do a amniocentesis,” the doctor says. “And Patricia doesn’t want to do that.”

“What?” Thomas says, taken aback, turning to Patricia again.

The doctor continues: “We couldn’t even do the test until the fifteenth week, and then it’ll take another two or three weeks before we have an answer. By that point in a pregnancy, abortion can be very traumatic, especially if one is already a little vulnerable.” He gives Patricia a friendly glance, then folds his hands in his lap. “Patricia has known about her pregnancy for some time, and during that time she has chosen not to do an amniocentesis. But the problem of course,” he emphasizes, “is that once the baby is here, well, it’s here. Regardless who the father is.” Patricia shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Thomas stares darkly at the floor, blood swishing through his ears, thinking he’s going to faint. “In other words,” the doctor goes on, “the problem, right now, is that you need to make a decision based on this uncertainty.”

“I don’t consider that a problem,” she says. “I don’t consider it an uncertainty. It’s not important to me who the father is. I never saw his face. I have no idea who he is. But this is my baby.” She puts her hand on her belly. “And I want to keep it.”

Thomas can’t believe his own ears. He tries to get her attention, but she stares stiffly out the window.

“I know you think it’s an advantage that you never saw the rapist’s face, and of course I understand what you mean,” the doctor says calmly. “You won’t necessarily be able to recognize him in your child’s features. But I still think that it’s very troublesome. And you,” he nods in Thomas’s direction, “how do you feel about Patricia’s decision?”

“Me?” Thomas looks unhappily at the doctor. “I’m extremely shocked! Patricia,” he says. “This is insane! You’re not at all yourself yet.”

“I’m absolutely myself,” she answers coolly. Thomas’s head aches and there’s a corrosive, icy chill running up his spine. He implores the doctor as if the doctor could help: “But this is absurd! I can’t. . we haven’t even discussed this! I didn’t even know that you were pregnant! She never said a word! Why didn’t you say anything? For God’s sake!” Thomas shouts. Patricia ignores him. The doctor clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. To Patricia he says, firmly, “You’ve gone through counseling, right?”

She nods.

“Did you discuss the pregnancy with your therapist?”

She nods again. “Of course I did.” Then she says nothing more. The silence hangs heavy in the anonymous office. Thomas wants to say a whole lot more, but he can’t. He feels his blood pounding in the large vein on his forehead, like light, fast clouts with a hammer, his headache intensifies, he glances about desperately and sees a stuffed owl standing on a cabinet beside the door, near the ceiling. The glossy black eyes stare across the room, at once sharp and dead. “Well,” the doctor says. “If you’ve made your decision, then you’ve made your decision. But you can still call me if you change your mind. We have some time yet.” He slides his business card across his desk. “Call my cell phone if I’m not here.”