But wait. Claire’s mind had settled on that painting by Mary Cassatt, but she wanted to remember that day at the beach in Delaware. How they rode waves together and fell heavily onto the blanket, breathing hard. How his wet hand had found hers and held on to it as they lay in the sun. Later, when she’d licked his skin, it tasted salty. His hair was stiff with salt, and his shoulders were bronzed by the sun. They had eaten fried clams and drunk cold beers on the boardwalk.
“Tell him you liked the Remington,” he’d said.
“The cowboys?” she’d asked.
“I get the impression he’d like that.”
By then they had left the beach and checked into a little motel. The room smelled musty and the sheets were damp, but they hadn’t cared. Through the slats of the venetian blinds, Claire could tell that it was getting late. Too soon, they would be in the car heading back to their lives.
“Off the Range,” he said. “That’s what it’s called.”
“But I like the Cassatt,” Claire said.
“He’ll say that of course you do. You’re a woman and so you like that painting. The Remington will surprise him.”
“Cowboys with pistols,” she said dismissively.
“Remington pushed the structural limits of the bronze medium with that one. Apparently he bragged, ‘I have six horses’ feet on the ground and ten in the air.’”
He had kissed her then, and she had not wanted him to stop.
“Oh, Claire,” he whispered, sounding almost desperate.
Later he told her that he loved the Cassatt painting too. “What is she thinking?” he’d said.
Back at home, Claire made pork chops in the oven, and Rice-A-Roni and string beans.
“Did you know the Corcoran was the first public museum to acquire Remington’s work?” she said as they ate dinner. “They acquired Off the Range in 1905.”
Peter looked up, surprised.
“So it was a good day?” he said.
Claire nodded. “A very good day.”
He didn’t notice her sunburned nose. Or if he did, he didn’t bother to mention it, or to wonder how she could have gotten a sunburn inside the Corcoran.
“I guess you really did love that sculpture,” Peter said, chuckling.
Claire forced her heavy eyelids open.
“You’ve been talking about Remington,” he said.
She jolted upright, still light-headed.
“Whoa, girl,” Peter said gently, pressing her back down onto the bed.
Claire looked around. “I’m not in the ER?” she said.
“They admitted you,” he said. “But there’s good news. You’re right down the hall from my mother. Makes my life easy anyway.”
“Peter?” Claire asked tentatively.
He waited.
“Have they said anything about the baby?”
“No one is saying much of anything,” Peter said, sighing. He stretched his long legs out.
Outside, the sky had turned dark. Claire wondered how much time had passed. She put her hands on her stomach and pressed, searching for a foot or knee or elbow. Hoping for some response. But all she felt was her tight hard stomach, unyielding.
When a doctor came into her room a while later, Claire was relieved that it wasn’t the smarmy one from the ER, with his eyebrow lifting and steely gaze. This doctor had movie-star good looks. To Claire, he bore an uncanny resemblance to that new actor, George Peppard. Just last summer she’d seen George Peppard playing Robert Mitchum’s illegitimate son in the movie Home from the Hill. Peter had teased her that she had a crush on the character he played, Rafe. Hadn’t Dot told her he was starring in some new movie with Audrey Hepburn?
The doctor was frowning beneath his short bangs.
“I’m Dr. Brown,” he said to Peter, extending his hand.
The two men shook hands. Dr. Brown had a tan, Claire noticed, even though it was January.
“It looks like we have a bit of a problem here,” he told Peter.
Peter was frowning now too. Neither of them paid attention to Claire.
“Have we lost the baby?” Peter said, lowering his voice as if Claire wouldn’t be able to hear him if he spoke softer.
“I’m afraid that’s how it looks,” Dr. Brown said.
Ridiculously, Kathy’s birthday party came to her mind. They’d had Stan the Animal Man come with his menagerie of snakes and turtles and bunnies. Stan the Animal Man had produced a hedgehog from one of the cages. He’d held out the small animal and demonstrated how when a hedgehog got frightened it rolled into a perfect anonymous ball for protection. Maybe babies did something similar, keeping still until they knew they were safe again.
“I think she’ll come around anytime now,” Claire said.
Dr. Brown and Peter both looked over at her, surprised.
“She probably got scared,” Claire said. For a moment, she could feel the impact of hitting that tree, the sickening sound her body had made when it thudded to the cold hard snow.
Dr. Brown patted the blanket, somewhere around her knee.
The doctor patted again. “Now, now,” he said, “you’re young. You can have a dozen more babies if you want.”
How many live births have you had? that other doctor had asked her.
Seeing that she had started to cry, Dr. Brown said it was time to see what’s what.
He shook Peter’s hand again and told him he would be right back.
“I hate him,” Claire said as soon as Dr. Brown had left. “He acts like I’m not even here.”