A New Lu by Laura Castoro Page A

in the first place.”
    Whoa! When did I become an object of Medicaid (or is it Medicare?) scorn? I don’t even qualify yet.
    â€œI really didn’t think I had a chance that the pregnancy would take. But seeing the sonogram, and hearing the heartbeat—” I can’t help it, I’m smiling so hard my face hurts “—I’m going to be a mother, again!”
    â€œYou know the odds are against you delivering a normal child?” She pauses. “At your age.”
    Just like that I’m chilled to the bone, as if she’s injected ice water into my blood. “Have you noticed something wrong?”
    â€œNo. The sonogram looks fine. Of course, we’ll need to do an amnio to check. But why wait for expensive test results? It’s best to end what you’ve told me was a mistake. I can set up an appointment with a nearby clinic. Is next week soon enough?”
    Soon enough? The only “soon enough” I can think of is the need to leave here. The only mistake is that I won’t be able to get out soon enough. “Let me think on it.” I slide off the examining table and reach for my clothing.
    â€œDon’t wait too long. Ten to fourteen weeks allows for the least complications.”
    I stop trying to dress and turn to look at her. “There’s nothing ‘least’ in any of the complications of my life. But thanks for handling it with such tact and discretion.”
    She looks faintly offended. “I’m offering you my medical opinion. That’s my ethical duty.”
    â€œAnd here I thought you were playing god—small
g
—with patients’ lives.”
    She smacks her lips in the time-honored fashion of a superior being who realizes she’s dealing with an unenlightened but stubborn inferior. “I think we’re done here. Please see the receptionist on your way out. You may leave an address to have your records forwarded to a physician of your preference.”
    I let her have the last word because I can’t fasten my bra for trembling hands. Damn hooks.
    Okay, so I got the doctor from hell. Nearly everybody comes up against one eventually. Burnout, clearly. From malpractice suits? Maybe she’d just opened her new insurance statement before she saw me. I’ve heard the premiums are running ob-gyns out of business nationwide.
    I’m walking stiff-legged into town, after a quick stop at Aunt Marvelle’s to change into drawstring-waist pants and an oversize linen shirt. The days of normal clothing are dwindling rapidly. Furious with myself for letting the doc throw me for even an instant, I decided to work off my anger with exercise.
    But the doctor has thrown me. I drove back to Aunt Marvelle’s in a white-knuckled fury. Thank goodness she was off staring at Ralph, or I would have told her everything on the spot. Instead, I’m in pursuit of comfort in the form of something sweet, cold and gooey, and preferably chocolate.
    My thoughts swing wildly as I realize traffic in town has picked up considerably, with city license plates sproutingeverywhere. That’s the trouble with Paradise. Everybody wants a piece of it.
    Who will take care of my child if something happens to me? I hadn’t thought of that. Is it genuinely more of a concern than for a parent of twenty or thirty? My life expectancy is seven-five years. For the very first time, I lay my hand on what is still a fairly flat stomach and sense that I am not alone. Twenty-five years would give this tot the chance to grow up, marry and make a grandmother of me…. I don’t smoke, or drink heavily. I could lose the rest of the damn excess thirty pounds, if I wanted to. I do exercise. Well, I will exercise more. Eat right, too.
    My stomach gurgles. I’m hungry.
    I turn into the doorway of the appropriately named sandwich shop, the Paradise, and bump into a crowd of toned and tanned weekenders just leaving. Good, I think. I’m in no