A lump forms in Angela’s throat. “Thanks, Dr. Singh.”
“Before you go, I’ll just get you to give us a urine sample, Angela, and then you can head out. I’ll see you again in a few weeks for your checkup.”
They both nod and smile again as Dr. Singh hands Angela the plastic cup.
“And hey,” she adds, turning back to face them on her way out the door. “Congratulations, you two.”
* * *
Tina has planned an elaborate celebratory meal for them back at home, but they call their parents to relay the news as soon as they set foot in the door. Their families have ridden this damn roller coaster right along with them, so they keep their tone cautiously optimistic, but it’s a relief to be able to deliver some good news after their tragedy a couple of months ago.
As her parents’ only child, Angela is the only one who might be able to deliver them grandchildren. Her parents have never pushed the matter, but she knows they’re waiting on pins and needles just like she and Tina are. She called them first, and could hear the excitement in their voices, though they did their best to mirror Angela’s reserved optimism.
She also phoned Sheila, whom she has kept in the loop since the start of their fertility process. Sheila was just a teenager when she gave Angela up for adoption. She isn’t even sure who Angela’s biological father is; it could be one of two men, but neither Sheila or Angela has ever pursued them. Sheila never wanted to be a mom, and certainly not so young. She’s stayed single most of her adult life, preferring the flexibility afforded by fewer familial attachments. She was happy to reconnect with Angela, though, when Angela set out to find her. It was a little tricky to navigate at first, but they’ve developed a sisterly sort of relationship that works for them both without causing any tension between Angela and her mom. Angela hopes her birth mother will fill a role for her baby somewhere between an aunt and a grandma.
After they’ve made the calls, Tina good-naturedly orders Angela to lie down on the couch and rest while she cooks dinner.
“I certainly can’t argue with that,” Angela says, propping her feet up on the couch cushions and scooping Grizzly up into her lap. Tina kisses her for the twenty-seventh time that day. Once she drifts off into the kitchen, Angela pulls out her phone.
Same last name?
The receptionist’s words are niggling at Angela, and she feels stupid for the oversight. The past few weeks she’s been trying to find a woman named Nancy Mitchell, but it’s entirely possible she has a different last name now, if she ever married. Angela’s first thought is to search the classifieds in 1980s or ’90s editions of the major Toronto newspapers and see if she can find any marriage announcements for Nancy Mitchells.
Angela sips her drink and lets the white noise of sizzling garlic drift along underneath the excited current of her thoughts. She uses Tina’s credentials to log in to the university library’s archive system, then navigates to the newspaper records. They have everything from 1980 onward in electronic format. It’s unlikely Nancy was married before 1980, but it’s possible. This is a start, at any rate. She isolates the classifieds from 1980 to 1999 and types in Nancy and Mitchell.
There are four hits. Two are unrelated news articles containing those names. One is a birth announcement from 1981, celebrating a baby girl born to a couple named Mitchell and Nancy Reynolds. The other is a marriage announcement from February 1986.
Mr. and Mrs. William and Frances Mitchell are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter Nancy Eleanor to Mr. Michael James Birch.
“Birch. Nancy Birch… And Frances Mitchell. Got you.” With a tingle of satisfaction, Angela immediately opens her Facebook app. She copies the same message she’s been sending to the Nancy Mitchells, then enters the name Nancy Birch into the search box. It comes back with several hits. Once again, she sends the message to all the women who look to be about the right age, then sits back in the squishy couch cushion and pulls Grizzly close. He purrs into her neck, and Angela buries her face in his silky, glossy fur, feeling happier than she has in months.
CHAPTER 14 Evelyn
TORONTO | SPRING 1971
With a deep sigh, Evelyn closes her office for the day, locking the large wooden door with the satisfying thunk that signals the oncoming relief of the weekend. It’s been a particularly hectic Friday afternoon and Evelyn’s nurse, Alice, is busy straightening up the waiting room in the aftermath of a new patient: a four-year-old boy named Jeremy whom she has already nicknamed the Human Tornado.
“Evelyn,” Alice says. “Do you have plans later tonight?”
Evelyn sits down in the chair next to the stack of children’s books Alice just tidied and crosses one leg over the other, pressing a week’s worth of exhaustion into the chair back.
“No, thank goodness. After our next appointment, I’m going home for a shamefully large glass of wine.” She checks her watch. “She’s coming in at six, right?”
Last summer, Evelyn told Tom that she wanted to relocate to Toronto and start her own practice, and he agreed to come with her. They bought this old house on Seaton Street and converted the main floor into a waiting room, reception space, and two exam rooms. Even with the rent from the apartment upstairs, Evelyn’s still gone into more debt than she ever imagined possible. But despite the debt, she’s proud; she has a full roster of patients.
Chester Braithwaite was her first. The octogenarian arrived on the porch of the clinic moments after she hung out her shingle, in an act that had instantly endeared him to her and dug a little divot into her heart.
“Hullo, Doctor,” he said, actually tipping his grey wool cap in Evelyn’s direction. “I live just down the street there and I’ve come to see if you’re acceptin’ new patients. My wife passed last year, ya see, and my daughter’s been haranguing me to look after my health. Wondered if ya had room for an ol’ fella like me. I’ll tell ya right now, I’ve no intention of givin’ up my nightly whiskey. I smoke a cigar once a week on Sunday evenings, and I don’t eat vegetables. Not about to change my ways now. But my ticker’s strong and I’ve a mind to live out at least another ten years, so ya’d be stuck with me for a while. Whaddya say, Doc?”
If pressed, she would never admit to harbouring preferences, but Chester is her favourite. Aside from the delightfully frolicking cadence of his name, Evelyn is particularly fond of him for his paternal nature and unabashed honesty. During their exams, most of Evelyn’s patients will overexaggerate the virtues of their diet and lifestyle while underreporting the prevalence of health-related vices. But not Mr. Braithwaite.
Chester referred several of his friends and neighbours to “that lovely young lady doctor down the street, ya know,” which helped her practice flourish. And when she was able to hire a nurse, she plumbed her trusted networks for someone who would be supportive of her unique clinical offerings. Through a mutual friend who was also part of women’s liberation, Paula connected her with Alice, and they hit it off after their first meeting over coffee.
Alice isn’t much younger than Evelyn, somewhere in her mid-twenties. She’s crusty on the outside with a soft centre, like a well-made croissant, and even though they haven’t known each other long, Evelyn trusts her as much as she trusts Tom. She and Alice have been performing a couple of abortions after-hours each week for the past six months.