“Remove your hand,” she said, “or live to regret it.”
“Bada bada bada!” he sang, thumping her stomach like a bongo drum.
“Bada bada boom,” she rejoined, swinging her handbag directly into his crotch, the impact of which was compounded by a heavy stone mortar she’d picked up earlier that day from Chemical Supply. The man gasped, then doubled over in pain. The doors slid open.
“Have a bad day,” she said. She stomped down the hallway, encountering a seven-foot-tall stork wearing bifocals and a baseball hat. In its beak hung two bundles: one pink, one blue.
“Elizabeth Zott,” she said, moving past the stork to the receptionist. “For Dr. Mason.”
“You’re late,” the receptionist said icily.
“I’m five minutes early,” Elizabeth corrected, checking her watch.
“There’s paperwork,” the woman informed her, handing over a clipboard. Husband’s place of work. Husband’s telephone number. Husband’s insurance. Husband’s age. Husband’s bank account number.
“Who’s having the baby here?” she asked.
“Room five,” the receptionist said. “Down the hallway, second door on the left. Disrobe. Put on the gown. Finish the paperwork.”
“Room five,” Elizabeth repeated, clipboard in hand. “Just one question: Why the stork?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your stork. Why, in an obstetrician’s office? It’s almost as if you’re promoting the competition.”
“It’s meant to be charming,” the receptionist said. “Room five.”
“And since every patient of yours is one hundred percent aware that a stork isn’t going to spare them the pain of labor,” she continued, “why perpetuate the myth at all?”
“Dr. Mason,” the receptionist said, as a man in a white coat approached. “This is your four o’clock. She’s late. I tried to send her to room five.”
“Not late,” Elizabeth Zott corrected. “On time.” She turned to the doctor. “Dr. Mason, you probably don’t remember me—”
“Calvin Evans’s wife,” he said, drawing back in surprise. “Or no, I apologize,” he said, dropping his voice, “his widow.” Then he paused, as if trying to decide what to say next. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Evans,” he said, covering her hands with his and giving them a few shakes as if mixing a small cocktail. “Your husband was a good man. A good man and a good rower.”
“It’s Elizabeth Zott,” Elizabeth said. “Calvin and I weren’t married.” She paused, awaiting the receptionist’s tsk and Mason’s dismissal, but instead the doctor clicked a pen and tapped it into his breast pocket, then took her by the elbow and led her down the hallway. “You and Evans rowed in my eight a few times—do you remember? About seven months ago. Good rows, too. But then you never came back. Why was that?”
She looked at him, surprised.
“Oh, forgive me,” Dr. Mason said in a rush. “I’m so sorry. Of course. Evans. Evans died. I apologize.” Shaking his head in embarrassment, he pushed open the door to room 5. “Please. Come in.” He pointed to a chair. “And are you still rowing? No, what am I saying, of course not, not in your condition.” He took her hands and turned them over. “But this is unusual. You still have the calluses.”
“I’m erging.”
“Good god.”
“Is that bad? Calvin built an erg.”
“Why?”
“He just did. It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes,” he said, “certainly. It’s just that I’ve never heard of anyone erging on purpose. Especially not a pregnant woman. Although now that I think about it, erging is good preparation for childbirth. In terms of suffering, I mean. Actually, both pain and suffering.” But then he realized pain and suffering had probably been a constant in her life since Evans died and he turned away to hide his latest gaffe. “Shall we take a quick look under the hood?” he said gently, gesturing to the table. Then he closed the door and waited behind a screen while she put on a dressing gown.
* * *
—
The examination was quick but thorough, punctuated with inquiries about heartburn and bloating. Was sleep difficult? Did the baby move at certain times? If so, for how long? And finally the big question: Why had she waited so long to come in? She was well into her last trimester.