“I thought he was very professional,” Peter said.
He was adjusting the blinds, trying to close them. Instead, he pulled the wrong cord, sending them flying upward to reveal the dark sky and the parking lot lights. In their glow, Claire could see snow flurries dancing in the air.
Peter got the blinds to go back down, but when he pulled the cord this time he sent half of them up at a sharp angle.
“It’s my baby,” Claire said. “And he hardly spoke to me.”
When Peter yanked on the cord again, he finally got the blinds back down again, and closed.
Without turning around, he said, “That’s the real problem, isn’t it, Claire?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, knowing exactly what he meant.
She saw Peter’s shoulders move up and down, and she thought he might be crying. “Oh, that’s keen,” he said. “Honestly, Claire. You’re a terrible liar.”
“Actually,” she said, wanting to hurt him, “I’m a very good liar. You have no idea—”
“Of how long you were fucking off on me?” he said. “Do you think I haven’t been putting the pieces together for months now? Do you think I’m that stupid? Your sudden interest in politics, in campaigning for Kennedy.”
“No,” Claire said, “I did want him elected. That had nothing to do with it.”
“You did it to be with him,” Peter said. “You never had any political inclinations.”
“You’ve got it wrong,” Claire said, her head throbbing.
Did it matter, she thought, if Peter believed she’d only campaigned for JFK to be near Miles instead of knowing that she’d gone there because she wanted to and found Miles only afterwards, by coincidence?
“Maybe this is the best thing that could happen,” Peter was saying. “So we can move forward.”
Claire tried to imagine what moving forward could possibly mean. Pretending Peter hadn’t walked in that day? Pretending this baby had never existed? Pretending she hadn’t loved another man?
“We’ll do just what the doctor said. As soon as possible. You’ll be pregnant again by spring. I promise.”
“You promise?” Claire said in disbelief.
She had never known anyone who’d lost a baby this far along. Miscarriages, sure. But not a baby so close to being born. Her mind raced with questions that she didn’t want to have to answer. Would there be a funeral? Would people come to it? They hadn’t even chosen a name yet.
Peter sat beside her on the bed.
“We’ll have a dozen more if you want, Clairezy. I swear this is a blessing.”
“It is not a blessing,” she said. “This is my baby. I want her.”
Peter studied her carefully for what seemed forever.
“Is it his?” he said finally, his voice so controlled that a chill went up the back of Claire’s neck.
Claire’s throat tightened. “I think so.”
Peter nodded. “Then I hope it’s dead. God forgive me, but I hope this baby is dead.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t mean it, Peter. I know you don’t.”
The clatter of a cart entering the room startled them. A nurse with a solemn face came in, followed closely by Dr. Brown.
“Let’s see what’s going on here,” Dr. Brown said.
He smiled at Claire. “No matter what, this will be over in a couple of hours and you can get on with things.”
Claire began to tremble. Her hands clutched her stomach. She had gotten so big with this baby, as if it were superhuman, growing with abandon. How could such a baby be dead?
“Why are you so tanned?” Claire asked the doctor. She wanted a different doctor. One who looked less like George Peppard, less handsome and more serious.
“Skiing,” he said.
Claire watched as the doctor walked over to the sink and began to methodically wash his hands.
Move, Claire willed her baby. Move.
Her hands cradled her big belly.
“Move,” she said out loud, though no one seemed to hear her.
“The nurse is going to give your wife an injection, similar to what they gave her down in the ER,” Dr. Brown told Peter. “A little Scopolamine for pain. A little Demerol to relax her.”
“She’s pretty agitated,” Peter said.
“We’ll send her down to X-ray for a fluoroscopy to see if we can pick up any movement. I’ll check her here first with a fetoscope. That should let us know if there’s a heartbeat. If things go the way I think they will, we’ll shoot her up with some Pitocin to start labor and the whole thing will be over by midnight.”
“Labor?” Claire asked. “But I’m only twenty-six weeks along.”
The nurse asked her to turn over so she could give her the shot. “To relax you,” she said.
“I don’t want to be relaxed,” Claire said. “I want to understand what’s going on.”
“You have to deliver that baby if it doesn’t have a heartbeat,” the doctor said. “That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Claire said, practically shouting.