Delia’s Gift by V.C. Andrews

front of me as if I were invisible.
    “How is her appetite? How is she sleeping? Does she have any unusual pains?”
    It made me feel like some controlled laboratory animal.
    Finally, the day for my ultrasound arrived. Señor Bovio surprised me by insisting that he would drive me to Dr. Denardo’s office himself.
    “This is too important to send you off with surrogates,” he told me. “If fate had permitted Adan to live, he would surely be going with you today.”
    Even though he had said it was for family, he told Mrs. Newell to come along.
    “She needs to hear everything, just in case there is a problem,” he told me.
    It was then that I became nervous. I wanted to ask Mrs. Newell what sort of problems could be determined, if any, but I didn’t want to hear her doom and gloom. Whenever she warned me about anything happening to my baby, she always made it sound as if it would be the direct result of something I had done, some way I had lived, or simply something genetic in my family. Nothing could ever be the fault of Adan’s family line.
    Dr. Denardo had a very modern office with a plush waiting room. There was a small area off to the side for the children of the mothers and prospective mothers. In it was a television, toys, and even a sandbox. The lobby itself had three soft-cushion sofas and a half-dozen comfortable chairs, shelves of magazines, mostly about raising children but a good variety of others, a machine for hot water to make tea, all decaffeinated, and a refrigerator with juices and soft drinks. Light, soft music was piped through two speakers.
    He had two nurses and a receptionist. There were four examination rooms just past the reception desk.Almost the moment we arrived, we were brought into the room that contained the ultrasound equipment. One of the nurses, Betty Rosen, apparently knew Mrs. Newell, but I sensed she was not very fond of her. They eyed each other like two gunslingers, with Mrs. Newell looking as if she was evaluating everything Betty Rosen did. I could feel the tension and was happier when Dr. Denardo entered.
    “Okay,” he said, “let’s get right to it. This is going to give us an even more accurate idea of gestational age,” he explained.
    Everyone’s attention went to the screen as Dr. Denardo pointed out my developing baby’s head and spine, chest and heart, abdomen, liver, stomach, and kidneys, as well as the arms and legs and hands and feet. He announced that everything looked perfect.
    “And,” he said, turning to Señor Bovio, “she is carrying a boy.”
    Señor Bovio’s eyes lit up with such joy it nearly made me cry. He surprised me by putting his hand on my stomach and closing his eyes as if he could communicate with my developing child. No one spoke. Even Dr. Denardo looked moved.
    “It is truly a resurrection,” Señor Bovio whispered.
    “Well, Millicent,” Dr. Denardo said after completing his evaluation of my health, “continue to do what you’re doing. She’s in perfect shape.”
    Mrs. Newell gloated and eyed Betty Rosen, who busied herself with other preparations.
    Afterward, Señor Bovio was so pleased he decided to take us to lunch. The prospect of eating something other than the bland, so-called perfect foods Mrs. Newell had prepared for me daily cheered me, butwhen we sat in the booth at the restaurant, she was highly critical of almost everything on the menu. Señor Bovio could see my displeasure growing.
    “Oh, I think we can loosen the reins a bit today, Millicent. Go on, Delia, order whatever you like.”
    Even with this permission, Mrs. Newell’s disapproving and critical eyes intimidated me. I ordered and ate less than half of what I wanted.
    But Señor Bovio’s joy at discovering I was carrying his grandson and not a granddaughter spilled over in many different ways once we returned to the hacienda. He showered me with more gifts. Every day following, either Mr. Blumgarten or Mark Corbet appeared with something new. My protests were