The Language of Sisters by Amy Hatvany Page B

work at very hard. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties and had a bit of the exotic about her: her eyes were large and brown, burning with intelligence you couldn’t ignore. Her lips were full and slightly pink; her straight, shoulder-length black hair was the perfect frame for the smooth, olive-toned skin of her oblong face. She wore a simpleblack top and slacks under her white doctor’s coat and no jewelry save a stethoscope slung casually around her neck. Jenny looked her over with skeptical eyes, turning her chin away from the doctor and toward me. I imagined that over the years of endless doctors’ visits, white coats had become like red flags to my sister, warning her of impending disaster.
    “It’s okay, Jen. Dr. Fisher is going to help you get through all this.” Please, I thought, please help her. Help us both.
    Dr. Fisher glanced at me. “How much does she understand?”
    “About what?” I replied, confused.
    She gestured in a big circle. “Everything. The world. What you say to her. The disabled patients I’ve worked with before have all been able to communicate on some level. Should I be talking to her or you?”
    I was a bit taken aback by what sounded like impatience in her words. “To her, please.”
    She redirected her attention toward my sister, her tone softening a bit. “All right, then. Now, Jenny, I’m going to have a look at your belly. I’m going to touch it a little, to see how that baby is doing in there.” She held up a small black device for Jenny’s viewing. “We’re going to use this to listen to the baby’s heartbeat.” She pulled up Jenny’s shirt and prodded her stomach with straight fingers.
    “Aren’t you going to do an exam?” I asked, uncomfortably motioning in the general direction of Jenny’s legs.
    “Not today.” Dr. Fisher squirted a blob of a clear, jellylike substance on Jenny’s stomach. The lubricant must have been cold, because Jenny jumped and shuddered a bit when it hit her skin. Then Dr. Fisher pressed the Doppler device against Jenny’s abdomen, moving it around as she spoke again. “Her records state she’s never had a pelvic, and I don’t want to scare her. In fact, in a case like this, I’d rather she be unconscious. But we can talk aboutthat later.” She inched the Doppler over a little, and suddenly a loud, echoing rhythm filled the air. “There,” she said, satisfied, tapping the fingers of her free hand against her thumb, counting.
    I was stunned by the intensity of the noise. “Is that the heartbeat?” Overwhelmed by the rush of emotion that filled my blood, I found myself having to hold back what felt like a river of tears. My mother was right; Jenny had a life inside her.
    Dr. Fisher nodded as she wiped Jenny’s belly dry with a white towel. “A nice and steady one hundred fifty beats per minute.” She smiled for the first time since we’d entered the room. Its warmth surprised me. “Sounds like a girl.”
    I squeezed Jenny’s hand, then swung my head over to look at the doctor. “Really? You can tell that from the heartbeat?”
    Dr. Fisher shrugged. “It’s an old wives’ tale, mostly. Just kind of fun to think about.”
    The rest of the appointment was spent with the doctor answering my many questions about Jenny’s medications, her diet, what kind of exercise I should be helping her to get. Toward the end, Dr. Fisher turned the tables and asked me a question I had barely allowed myself to think about.
    “Have you decided what will happen to the baby when it’s born?” Her face was blank, not judging.
    It was then I realized when the doctor spoke to Jenny she had been saying “ the baby” and not “ your baby.” Subtle, but noticeable. I shook my head. “This is all relatively new to me. I’m still trying to get used to taking care of her. It hasn’t been easy.”
    She nodded briskly. “I’m sure.”
    “I’ve also got to find a new placement for Jenny after she gives birth. There’s