No, Mum. I am very much not okay.
The tears have started now. She’s on the verge of telling her mother everything. All of it. She’s sick of carrying it around. It’s too heavy and its sharp corners cut into her skin when she least expects it. But what if her mother wants her to keep the baby? What then?
And she’s just so good at keeping secrets. What’s one more?
“Yeah, I’m fine, Mum,” Nancy answers, forcing down a sharp lump in her throat the exact size and shape of the lie she just told her mother.
“All right, dear. Well, again, I’m sorry to have to postpone. I just don’t think I’d be up to it right now.”
“It’s okay. We can go another time when you’re feeling better.” She tries to redirect her own thoughts to something more mundane. “You’ve been having a lot of migraines lately, haven’t you?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
“Mum?”
“Yes, yes, I have, actually. I’ve been to the doctor a couple of times now and they may run some tests, but he assures me everything is fine. Just fine.”
“Tests?” Nancy asks, sitting up straighter on her bed.
“Just routine things, Nancy, dear. For heaven’s sake, don’t fret.”
“Is that Beetle?” She hears her father in the background. “Tell her hello, then it’s time for you to go back to bed.”
“Can you put Dad on?” Nancy asks her mother.
“Oh, you can talk to him later, dear. I’m going to go try to sleep now. I’m sitting in the parlour in the dark and he keeps trying to shoo me back to bed.”
“Mum?”
“Yes, dear?”
Nancy hesitates. “I just, uh, I just wanted to say I love you.” She tilts her face up to the ceiling as the tears pool uncomfortably in her ears.
“I love you, too, poppet. You’re my dream.”
Nancy hangs up before the floodgates open, before she says something she won’t be able to take back. She lies on her bed for two hours, staring up at the ceiling, processing an uncomfortable train of thought.
She’s been reckless. It all boils down to that. The drinking and unsafe sex with Len—and others, she thinks, squirming a bit at the thought—had served a purpose when she was running from her past, but the consequence of that behaviour is now threatening her future. Her grades have slipped, and now she’s gone and gotten pregnant. But she’s not about to let herself get tied to a loser like Len for the rest of her life, that’s for sure.
Nancy pictures the dark, cold basement in the East End and a wave of nausea hits her. The smell of the man pouring rubbing alcohol on those flashing silver instruments blends into the scent of the hospital emergency room in her memory. But she can hear the kind doctor’s voice, echoing back through the intervening years. Her words of a special secret:
Just tell them you’re looking for Jane.
“Jane, eh?” Nancy mutters her birth name aloud to the empty room. “Well, isn’t that just some sick twist of fate?”
The hot lump of regret and shame settles itself down in her gut as she wipes away more tears. She needs to get her act together. But first she needs someone who can fix this.
* * *
After a half hour of meticulous searching and five ink-stained fingertips, Nancy has combed through the yellow pages and discovered that there are twenty-seven family physicians within reasonable walking distance of her apartment. Her plan is to begin with the few female names on her list, then work her way down to the male doctors.
She smooths the page of her notebook. Glancing up to make sure her bedroom door is closed, she clears her throat and picks up the receiver.
First: Dr. Linda Deactis.
Nancy dials the number, her insides constricting, curling in on themselves like a snake. It rings twice before a young woman with a voice like a bell answers the line.
“Dr. Deactis’s office, hello.”
Nancy pauses. “Hi. Um, I’m looking for Jane. Is there a Jane there?”
“This is the office of Dr. Linda Deactis, family physician.”
“Right, right. Yeah, thank you. But I was told to ask for Jane?”
“I think you’ve got the wrong number. Sorry.”
Nancy throws the phone back down onto its cradle, her heart racing. She can hear her roommates’ muffled chatter through her bedroom wall. Debbie is home now, too. Their conversation is light with laughter.
Nancy consults her list. “Dr. Fields, you’re next.”
A butterfly beats its wings against the inside of her chest as she dials the next number.
“Good-afternoon-Doctor-Fields’s-office-this-is-Nora,” a woman blurts out in a rush on the other end of the line.
“Hi, there, I’m looking for Jane. Is Jane there?”
Silence, and then, “Not here, young lady. Not in this office!”
Click.
Nancy feels sick. Only eight words, and yet that woman’s voice was dripping with hatred and disgust. She hugs her pillow to her stomach for comfort, then finds herself running her hand along it from side to side, up and down, testing out how it would feel to have a belly that big. The tears prick at her eyes again. She tosses the pillow aside, glaring at it. She has to do this.
Nancy dials the third number on the list. This time, a middle-aged woman answers the phone.
“Dr. Smithson’s office, how can I help you?”
“Hi,” Nancy says, a bit more confident this time. “I’m looking for Jane?”
“Did you say Jane?”
“Yes.”
Click.
Nancy puts the phone down once again, takes a deep breath, then dials the next number.
“Dr. Sheen’s office, this is Martha.”
“Hi, Martha.” Nancy braces for the verbal stabbing. “I’m looking for Jane. I was told to ask for Jane. Is she there?”
“Uh, no, we don’t have a Jane here, but I think I may know who you’re trying to reach. Do you have a pen?”
Nancy scrambles to grab the pen in her sweaty fingers. She cocks her head over her shoulder to hold the receiver against her ear. “Ready. Go ahead.”
Martha gives her a number, which Nancy jots down, then repeats back.
“You got it,” Martha says. “Good luck, honey.”
Nancy’s eyes sting again. “Thank you.”
Martha hangs up, and Nancy follows suit. Steeling her resolve, she exhales quickly and dials the given number before she loses her nerve. The rotary dial on the old phone whirs back into place seven times, the zeros taking an eternity to complete their rotation. Nancy’s foot jiggles as the phone rings through eight times. She’s just started to panic about whether to leave a message on the answering machine or hang up when a woman picks up the line.
“Dr. Taylor’s office.”
“Um, hi, there. I’m looking for Jane. Someone told me I could speak with Jane here. She gave me your number.”
“Please hold.”
Some generic elevator music kicks in on the line, and Nancy waits, hardly daring to breathe. A minute or two later, a different woman comes on.
“Hi, there, I understand you’re looking for Jane.” She sounds older. Her voice is deeper and resonant, and it feels familiar and somehow calming to Nancy.