Morning by Nancy Thayer Page A

frowned. “Oh, really ,” she said. “You mean she will not be available at any time today, not free for even a moment?”
    “Mrs. Anderson is indisposed,” the woman said.
    Well, Sara thought, I can’t argue with that. I can’t protest that she’s not sick. “Indisposed,” what an old-fashioned word .
    “Well,” Sara went on, conceding defeat, “would you please give her this package?It contains some writing of hers, and a few notes I’ve made. And would you please tell her I stopped by? And that I would like to hear from her as soon as possible?”
    “Very well,” the woman said, and took the manila envelope. “Good day,” she said, and shut the thick oak door in Sara’s face.
    “You old harridan,” Sara said aloud, with quiet rage. “You Nazi.”
    She turned and traced her steps back down the winding slate walk, out of the wrought-iron gates to the street. She had dismissed the cab. That was all right, she could walk to Harvard Square from here, then get a cab to the airport.
    On impulse, she turned and looked back up at the Victorian house. She saw, on the second floor, a woman looking down at her through parted heavy drapery. It was not the woman who had answered the door—this woman’s face was fuller—but that was the only judgment Sara’s mind could make before the woman, seeing Sara’s gaze, drew back, disappearing from view.
    My God , Sara thought, I wonder what’s going on? She stood a few more minutes, watching, but the woman did not appear again. Then, shivering, for it was a cold day, Sara turned her back on Fanny Anderson’s house and walked toward Harvard Square.

Chapter Four
    Morning.
    An amazing morning, really. It was barely nine-thirty, and here Sara was, not curled up in her robe with a manuscript in her lap, but lying back on a medical table in a white paper gown with her legs drawn up and her knees spread apart.
    She had been so tense about it all. Last night at the Joneses’ Christmas party she had hardly been able to hear people talk, so obsessed was she with thoughts of what had to be done later that night and early the next day. What if the weather turned bad, if it snowed or got foggy? Or what if the plane crashed? Or if the cabdriver had an accident? Last night, the more she thought about it, the more impossible it seemed that she would actually make it from the island thirty miles out at sea into the civilized serenity of Dr. Crochett’s office.
    But there she was. Everything had gone smoothly. They had made love last night, and Steve had driven her to the airport this morning, and the plane hadn’t crashed, nor had the taxi, and there had been no fog or snow. In fact it was very mild for the twenty-third of December. It might easily have been April.
    Sara closed her eyes and relaxed against the table. She was tired. She had awakened very early this morning, around four o’clock, afraid that the alarm—which had never failed before—would, for some reason, not go off on time. When it did go off, she was lying in bed rigidly, staring at it, waiting for it, and so certain that it wouldn’t go off that when the buzz came, she jumped, startled.
    She had taken her temperature at exactly the right time, and noted what it was: she would write it down on the chart tonight. She wouldn’t forget what it was; it had skyrocketed, up eight points.
    “Sara! Get up! Get in here, quick !”
    She raised her head, puzzled. Was that Dr. Crochett calling her? He had done something between her legs that took only a few seconds, and then rushed out of the room. She had lain there, expecting him to come back. Instead, here was his voice again, urgent, excited.
    She got herself off the table, and pulled on her panties, and clutching her gownaround her she peeked out from the doorway of the examining room.
    Dr. Crochett was standing in the hall. He gestured to her to come to him. “Hurry!” he said. “I’ve got something to show you!”
    He looked a bit like the mad scientist