Dr. Reeson hadn’t asked if Ella had slept with anyone besides her husband. She didn’t know her previous sexual history. She didn’t think Ella had affairs, although she had been wrong with a number of her patients. People surprised you with their sexual habits. She had practiced medicine for seventeen years—now and then, there was a shock, but Dr. Reeson tried to understand that life was complicated, and sometimes the bedroom was a lab for men and women to figure things out. And as in science, there were botched trials.
Ella looked at Dr. Reeson’s dark eyes, fringed with beautiful brown lashes. “How do you get herpes, exactly? Can I ask that, please?”
“Direct skin-to-skin contact with an area where the virus is active on the skin—usually sexual contact, genital-to-genital, oral-to-genital, or oral-to-oral.” She pointed to the dark blue pamphlet in the caddie near the institutional-size jug of Betadine and a tray full of rolled gauze. “It’ll explain a lot. Including how you should discuss it with your partner.”
“You mean Ted?” Ella couldn’t fully grasp the doctor’s implication. “I was a virgin. I’ve only slept with—”
Dr. Reeson nodded, unwilling to convey any expression except for a kind of gentle detachment. She crossed her arms to tuck her fists beneath her armpits.
“Ella, you’re quite fortunate to know. And I know it must be difficult for you to hear this now, but really, most Americans have some form of the virus. It’s just that no one talks about it, because it isn’t curable, but it’s perfectly manageable. Especially for you. And for anyone else who actually gets frequent outbreaks, there’s a great deal we can do to alleviate and almost eliminate the symptoms. You’re fine.”
It was tedious to give this lecture every day, but her job required it. No one took the diagnosis well, though herpes was hardly a big deal. She had it herself. Though she’d had only six lovers, there was no sure way of knowing how she’d been infected and by whom. It was easier to forget she had it at all because she had an outbreak maybe once every two years now. She was also the mother of three healthy children. Her husband, an epidemiologist from France, had a theory about the patient’s predictable hysteria: Americans are ashamed of all things relating to sex.
“I’m not worried about me so much,” Ella said, “but my baby. . .” She searched the doctor’s face for any further sign of bad news.
“The baby will be fine.” Normally, Dr. Reeson didn’t indulge the need for these kinds of blanket, unscientific assurances.
Ella nodded, sensing that she was being dismissed. The doctor had to see other patients, she told herself.
“Now, I want you to rest at home, but come by to get your blood pressure checked whenever it’s necessary. The nurse will speak to you about that. Okay?” Dr. Reeson peered into Ella’s blurry eyes.
Without a word, the young woman nodded, and the doctor left.
When Ted let himself into the apartment, he was pleased to see Ella awake and reading. It was eleven o’clock, and he’d fully expected her to be asleep. His wife was focused on the papers inside a manila folder, likely the mortgage materials he’d faxed her that afternoon for her to review. Ella bolted upright at the jingle of the keys still in his hand. Ted smiled at his wife, then turned away to hang up his overcoat in the crammed hall closet. He’d been at her to organize it better; Ella couldn’t throw anything out. But to be fair, she was tired and had been feeling unwell—in addition to high blood pressure, a countless number of difficulties attended her pregnancy: dizziness, heartburn, migraines, tinnitus, diarrhea or constipation, and now hemorrhoids. Ella didn’t complain, but her suffering was obvious. Her father stopped by weekly with baskets of fresh fruit, mentioning to Ted without fail how delicate Ella was physically. Nevertheless, because she was a twenty-four-year-old in good health, Ted found it surprising that she’d have this much difficulty, in contrast to the forty-year-old investment bankers who came to work right up till their delivery without a murmur, had their babies without a glitch, and then returned to work six weeks later. Ella’s mother had had two miscarriages, then died in childbirth—these facts hovered about them. But the obstetrician said Ella was doing very well despite her temporary ailments. The baby was doing great, she’d said.
Ella looked up, but without saying hello to him, she returned to her papers. Usually, she was very happy to see him, and no matter what time of day or night, she’d ask if he wanted something to eat or drink. There was always something good in the refrigerator. She was seated with her legs outstretched across the length of the sofa, her head bent over, and he noticed that her hands were clutching the pile of papers in her lap. She wore his crimson-colored Dunster House T-shirt and a dark blue pair of maternity pants. Ted went to her, bowed down to kiss her forehead.