“A parent?” I ask wearily.
“More of a grandparent, if anything. But I suspect it has something to do with . . . that matter.” Sally has always been circumspect about my relationship with John—before we were married, when we were trying to keep it from the gossips throughout the medical center, and certainly after his death, when the media piranhas swarmed.
“She says her name is Deborah.” Sally’s look turns resolute when she sees my face wince. “Okay, I’ll get rid of her.”
“No,” I say. “Show her in.” I am resigned. From what I know of Deborah Taylor, she will not take no for an answer anyway, not if she knows I’m in here, which somehow I’m sure she does. I slip my shoes back on.
When Deborah enters my office, I feel the dynamics of power shift, just like that. I could be the patient on the examining table in the paper gown rather than the doctor. I stand to assert myself, but my move backfires as she graciously says, “Sit down, please.” I obey her, feeling like a visitor in my own office.
She remains standing until my assistant closes the door behind her. Then the graciousness vanishes. “How dare you,” she says, almost hisses. I don’t even try to pretend not to know what she is talking about.
“I don’t dare do anything,” I say, with more spirit than I feel in my tired bones. “But what’s done is done.”
“Is it a boy?” she asks. I wonder briefly why she thinks this is important.
“I won’t tell you,” I say. “You have no rights here.”
Deborah’s mouth twists and her eyes turn ugly. “So it is,” she says, then she takes a step forward so that she is pushing against my desk. “Be certain of one thing. You will not use the Taylor name.”
This honestly throws me for a loop. “What?” I ask.
“Nor does this child have any claim on John’s estate,” she says.
I put up my hands. “There’s no question of that,” I say. “Of either thing.”
Deborah stares at me for a full minute. Then I see the tension visibly begin to leave her body.
I gather strength as she subsides. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with you,” I say. I struggle a little getting to my feet; she is still standing, so close that I have to maneuver around her. “And I don’t know why you intrude like this when a simple phone call or even email would have been enough.”
“Because I wouldn’t have trusted the answers,” she says. “I had to see you myself.”
I am suddenly more tired than I can ever remember being. Not just tired, sleepy. I could curl up and sleep for days. It’s only Monday and I have a full week’s worth of patients.
Deborah’s eyes stay on me, and, as if against her will, she looks concerned.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say, but as I say it my knees buckle and Deborah reaches out and catches me, gently sitting me down in an armchair.
“You’re not,” she says. “You’re pale. When did you last eat?”
“Not today,” I admit. I was too nauseated to eat breakfast, and too busy to grab lunch.
“That’s ridiculous,” she says. “When I was pregnant I was eating every minute of the day, and I was still hungry. Here,” she’s rummaging in her purse, and comes up with a power bar. “I always carry these when I fly.”
I accept the bar, unwrap it, and take a bite. “Eat the whole thing,” she says. “Don’t try to do anything until you’ve had a chance to increase your blood sugar.”
I manage a smile. “Who’s the doctor here?” I ask.
She’s serious. “You should be asking, ‘Who’s the foolish pregnant lady?’”
That makes me laugh. I take another bite, “Somehow I never pegged you as having a sense of humor.”
“On occasion,” Deborah says solemnly, “I’ve been known for my wit.” Then she does smile.
Deborah turns to go. Funny how vulnerable she seems to me now, from behind, how fragile her shoulder blades stick out of her thin shoulders. I try to think if she was this thin at the funeral. I decide she’s lost a considerable amount of weight.
“Hang on,” I say. Against my better judgment and my intense tiredness I find I want to make a genuine gesture toward this woman.
She stops and looks at me questioningly.
“Are you flying back tonight?”
“No,” she says. “I’m going to find a hotel, and then leave in the morning. I can’t face the airport and those security lines more than once a day.”
I hear my voice inviting her to stay with me. “I have a pullout couch in my home office,” I say. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.” This is a lie, which gives me pause. I rarely tell an untruth, and when I do, it is for a good reason. But I have no reason to invite John’s wife into my home. The words common human decency come to mind.