“Hey, big brother. I know it’s late notice, but I’m having a rehearsal dinner at my house tonight. I thought you might like to come.”
A rehearsal dinner. Prelude to a wedding. “Sorry, no.”
“It’s for Claire Cavenaugh. She’s finally getting married.”
Joe closed his eyes, remembering Claire. “I’m sorry, Gigi,” he said at last. “I can’t do that.” The only thing worse than celebrating a marriage would be walking into a hospital.
“I understand, Joey. Really. I’ll call you next week.”
Claire sat in the doctor’s waiting room, reading the newest issue of People magazine. There it was, a picture of her mother in some city park, surrounded by fans dressed in full space-traveler regalia. The caption read: Eliana Sullivan mobbed by fans on the twenty-fifth anniversary of Starbase IV’s first show.
“Oh, please. I had better Halloween costumes in second grade.”
“What, Mommy?”
Claire smiled down at her daughter, who sat cross-legged on the taupe-colored carpet, playing with a Cat in the Hat doll. “Nothing, honey.”
“Oh. How much longer? I’m hungry.”
“Not much longer. Dr. Roloff is busy with people who are really sick. You saw Sammy Chan go in—he has a broken arm.”
Alison frowned. “You’re not sick, right?”
“Of course not. This is my yearly appointment. You always come with me.”
“Yeah.” Ali went back to playing.
A few minutes later, the receptionist—Monica Lundberg—came out into the waiting room. As always, she looked beautiful, this time in a pale celery-colored sundress. “Doctor will see you now.”
Claire looked down at Alison. “Stay right here, honey. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll watch her,” Monica said. “You go on into room four.”
“Thanks.” Claire went down the hallway and turned into the last room on the left.
“Hey, Claire, how’re the wedding plans going?”
She smiled at Bess, the nurse who had worked for Dr. Roloff for as long as anyone could remember.
“Great. We’re having something simple.”
“Of course you are.” Bess took Claire’s blood pressure and temperature. “Good blood pressure, kiddo. You must be living right.” She took a quick blood sample, then burrowed through the cupboard over the sink and withdrew a plastic specimen cup. “You know the drill. Leave a sample in the door in the rest room. Doctor will be in as soon as he can.”
“Thanks, Bess.”
Bess winked. “See you tomorrow. Bye.” And she was gone.
Claire hurried across the hall, left a urine sample in the bathroom, then returned to the room, where she dressed quickly in the hospital gown and climbed up onto the paper-covered examination table.
Moments later, Dr. Roloff walked in. He was a tall, gray-haired man with stern eyes and a ready smile. He’d been Claire’s doctor for most of her life. He’d tended her through ear infections, acne, and pregnancy. Now he was Alison’s doctor. Sam’s, too.
The doctor sat down on a rolling stool and moved toward her. “How’re the wedding plans going?”
“Great. Will you and Tina be able to make it?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He paused, looked down for a minute. Claire knew he was thinking about the daughter he’d lost. “Diana would have loved your wedding.”
Claire swallowed hard. It was true. One of the hardest parts of this wedding was doing it without Diana. The Bluesers had always done everything together. “She always said I was saving myself for royalty.”
He finally looked up. The smile he offered was tired and more than a little worn. “Did you hear about Joe? He’s back in town.”
“I know. How is he?”
Henry sighed heavily. “I don’t know. He hasn’t been to see Tina and me.” It was obvious how hurt the doctor was by that.
“I’m sure he will.”
“Yeah. I’m sure.” Dr. Roloff pushed the glasses higher on his nose and straightened. “Well, enough of that.” Opening her chart, he studied it. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not due to see me for another two months. Why so early, Claire? Usually we have to send three notices and make a phone call to get you in here.”
“Birth control pills,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat up. It was ridiculous; she was thirty-five years old. There was no reason to be embarrassed. But she was. “We want to wait awhile before we get pregnant.”
He studied her chart again, then nodded. “I wouldn’t want you on them for too many years, but for now you’ll be okay. We’ll start you on the mini pill.”
“Great.”
Dr. Roloff set her chart aside. “Let’s do your Pap smear.”
When he was finished, Claire sat up.
“Your dad told me you had a headache last week,” he said, stripping off his gloves. “And that you twisted your left ankle.”