Frankie lay on the exam table and fit her stockinged feet in the metal stirrups. The doctor settled himself between her legs. She stared up at the brightly lit white wall, squeezing her eyes shut as he moved her legs farther apart, scooted closer, snapped on a pair of gloves.
“This will be a bit cold,” he said apologetically, as he fit the speculum up inside of her. He followed the speculum with a digital exam. After that, he stood up, covered her legs with the gown, and came around to her side. Carefully opening the gown, he felt her abdomen, her breasts.
Then he covered her nakedness and stepped back. “When was your last period, Frankie?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“Are you on the birth control pill?”
“Yes.”
“They’re not foolproof. Especially if you aren’t conscientious in taking them.” He stepped back. “I will run some tests to be certain, but physical indications tell me that you are indeed expecting. I’d say about two months.”
Two months.
“Oh my God … I’m not ready … not married…”
He moved to her side, said softly, “Catholic Adoption Services do a good job of placing babies with upstanding families, Frankie. Your mother will know all about it.”
Frankie remembered a few girls from high school who’d disappeared from class and returned months later, thinner and quieter. Everyone knew they’d gone to a home for unwed mothers, but the words weren’t even whispered, it was considered so shameful. And there had been rumors—once—of a girl from St. Bernadette’s who’d died from an illegal abortion.
Frankie couldn’t imagine either path for her; not because they were wrong choices, but rather because she knew she wanted to be a mother, but not by herself, not as a single woman; she wanted the whole package: a husband, a baby, a family made from love.
She nodded, sat up, touched her abdomen. A baby.
She wasn’t ready to be a mother, and yet, when she closed her eyes, just for a moment she pictured a whole different version of her life, one in which she loved unconditionally and was loved, where her present wasn’t constantly shaded by images of the past, by shame and anxiety and anger. A version where she was Mom.
She dressed and walked out of the examination room.
Mom was in the waiting room, sitting in that stiffly upright way that was her new normal, as if she feared that poor posture could cause another stroke. She looked up, met Frankie’s gaze.
Frankie felt the start of tears.
Mom limped toward Frankie and took her by the arm, maneuvering her out of the office, across the parking lot, and into the Cadillac, where Mom immediately lit up a cigarette.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Mom,” Frankie said dully. “You’ve had a stroke.”
“Who is this boy you’re seeing?”
Frankie almost laughed. “He’s a man, Mom. Henry Acevedo.”
“The doctor who wants to start that clinic for drug addicts?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“But … since when?”
“Your Fourth of July party.”
She smiled a little. “A doctor. Okay, so you and Henry will get married. A quiet ceremony. The baby will be premature. It happens all the time.”
“I don’t have to get married, Mom. It’s 1972, not 1942.”
“Are you ready to raise a child by yourself, Frances? Or to give it away? And what will Henry say about that? He strikes me as a good man.”
Frankie felt tears roll down her cheeks. If only this were a different life. If this were Rye’s baby and they were married and ready for children.
What will Henry say?
The wrong man. The wrong time. “I don’t know.”
* * *
In the four days since Dr. Massie had called with confirmation of the pregnancy, Frankie’s anxiety had increased daily. The phone in her kitchen rang often; Frankie didn’t answer. She knew it was probably her mother, worrying about her, but she had no idea what to say in response.
Henry knew something was wrong, too; he kept asking her why she was so quiet.
She didn’t know what to say to him, or to herself, or to anyone for that matter. So, she just kept moving, got up, went to work, did her job, and tried not to think about the future that was suddenly frightening. Now she was in OR 2, readying to assist on her last surgery of the shift. Christmas music pumped through the speakers.
“Happy birthday, Frankie,” the anesthesiologist said. His long hair was barely concealed by his blue cap; across from the patient, on the opposite side of the table, stood the surgeon, who peered down at the brown-washed, blue-draped abdomen. Bright white lights shone down on them.