When she hung up, Naomi stripped off her headset. “Was that another EC? That’s the third one today.”
“It’s the snow,” said Claudia. “Storm babies. It accounts for half the population of New England.”
“These girls,” Naomi said, shaking her head.
She spoke of the callers as if they were her own daughters: What are these girls thinking? Exasperation in her voice; affection, amusement, a grudging admiration. She seemed to be rooting for them. Naomi was the mother Claudia wished she’d had.
She often had this feeling about acquaintances and even strangers, as though parents were parts of a life that could be swapped out like an alternator or a fan belt. The truth, she knew, was more complicated. If Naomi had been her mother, she would be someone else entirely, unrecognizable to her current self.
Unlike Claudia’s mother, and unlike Claudia herself, Naomi was patient. Answering the same questions—month after month, year after year—Claudia sometimes wanted to throttle the callers. Their crises seemed unnecessary. Truly, it was not that difficult to avoid getting pregnant.
“How was Maine?” Naomi asked.
“I didn’t go. I came to my senses.”
“Did you have a talk with your tenant?”
“Not yet,” Claudia said. Nicolette’s phone still wasn’t answering, which might mean anything or nothing. “I’ll run up there next week, maybe. It isn’t urgent,” she added, which may or may not have been true.
At noon, predictably, the line fell silent. Friday afternoons were always dead; young women were otherwise occupied, furiously calling and texting, making plans for the weekend. In a few hours they’d be off doing the things they’d be calling the hotline about on Monday morning. Claudia was about to step out for lunch when the phone rang again.
She slipped on her headset.
“Hello?” The caller was male—unusual, but only a little. About a third of the STD patients were men. This one had a deep voice, a hard Boston accent. “What is this numbah?”
“We’re a medical facility,” said Claudia. “This is the counseling line.”
“A facility,” he repeated. “Like, a hospital?”
“How can I help you?” Claudia said.
“My wife has been calling this numbah.” Traffic noise in the background, a motorcycle roaring past. “Her name is Alicia Marzo. M-A-R-Z-O. Is she a patient there?”
“That information is confidential,” Claudia said.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! It’s a simple question. Is she or isn’t she?”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Claudia. “It’s against the law.”
A car horn in the distance, the Dopplered wail of an ambulance passing. The caller was driving somewhere.
“Are you shitting me? This is my wife we’re talking about.”
“It’s called the Health Information Privacy Act,” she said evenly. “You can Google it.”
Another car horn. The caller, clearly, was a lousy driver. Hang up the phone, buddy, she thought. Keep your eyes on the road.
“This is bullshit,” the caller fumed. “Let me talk to your supervisor.”
“I am the supervisor.”
“I’ll come over there if I have to,” he said, louder than necessary. “Someone will have to talk to me.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” said Claudia, but the line had gone silent. He’d already hung up the phone.