My damp fingers stuck to the pages of the magazine I was pretending to read as I sat in the waiting room of the obstetrician’s office. I’d always heard that you couldn’t get pregnant the first time you had intercourse. I was a nurse; I knew better. Yet I’d clung to that old wives’ tale as I waited anxiously for my period to come. One week passed, then another. And another. I knew fear and stress could affect your cycle. That’s it, I’d told myself. It’s just stress. But when a full month had passed and I still had no period, I began to face reality. Still, I waited two more weeks before making this appointment, hope getting in the way of reason.
Vincent now had a paying job in Chicago. He’d called to tell me the news a week after my trip to Washington when my guilt was still fresh and new.
“It’s very temporary,” he’d been quick to assure me. “Just two months. I haven’t started it yet, and I won’t start at all if you’re dead set against me taking it, Tess,” he rushed on. “I know I’ve extended and extended our time apart and you’ve been a real angel about that, but please listen, sweetheart. It makes so much sense.”
The Tess of a few weeks earlier would have been too upset to even respond, but the Tess I’d become post–Henry Kraft felt relief that I had a little more time alone. I wasn’t ready to face him.
“What makes sense about it?” I asked.
“It’s in a pediatric practice here,” he said. “One of the doctors is having shoulder surgery and he’ll be out for eight weeks, so I’d be gaining experience in a practice and the money is fantastic. We could—”
“Eight more weeks?” I asked. “That’s pretty close to the wedding.”
He laughed. “I’ll be back months before the wedding,” he said. “And they’re paying for me to take a train home over Christmas, so you and I will have some time together and we can celebrate your graduation. I can’t wait to get my arms around you. I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long, sweetheart. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? I love you more than ever.”
My eyes had stung. Vincent was the one person I used to be able to talk to about anything. The person who loved me best, flaws and all. I now possessed one flaw I didn’t think he’d ever be able to overlook. “I love you, too,” I’d said.
So as I sat there in the obstetrician’s office, I counted the days until he would be home for Christmas. Eight. Two days ago, I’d graduated from my nursing program by the skin of my teeth, so self-absorbed because of what was happening inside my body that I barely made it through my clinicals and exams. My breasts had an unfamiliar tenderness to them, and every morning I fought nausea as I ate the oatmeal my mother made for us both. Mom noticed the change in my mood. I knew she thought I was simply depressed about Vincent’s continued absence and she tried to cheer me up by talking about the fun we’d all have at Christmastime, his family and mine together for the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve and our big Christmas meal the next day, rituals we’d celebrated with the Russos all my life. All the while, I watched the calendar obsessively, hoping the missed periods were simply an aberration and they would return shortly. I refused to think about what I would do if I were actually pregnant. I refused to give the idea that power over me. Yet part of me knew the truth, so I looked up the number for an out-of-town obstetrician, a Dr. Wilson, and made an appointment with him. And here I sat, turning the pages of a magazine, staring at the articles without seeing them.
A young red-haired nurse appeared in the doorway of the waiting room and looked down at the folder in her hands. “Mrs. DeMello?” she inquired, and I got to my feet. I was wearing my late grandmother’s wedding band next to my engagement ring, taped in the back so that it fit. I was a married woman for this appointment.
The nurse led me into an examination room and instructed me to undress and sit on the table. I did as I was told. The room was chilly and I shivered beneath the sheet she provided. I didn’t have to wait long before Dr. Wilson burst into the room in a ball of energy.
“Good morning!” he said. He had a jovial look about him. Fat red cheeks, silver glasses, white hair, and a cheerful expression on his face. “Have I seen you before?” he asked, as he lifted the folder from the counter near the sink.
“No, I’m a new patient.” I tried to return his smile. “I think I may be pregnant.” My thumb rubbed against the tape on the back of my grandmother’s wedding band. “I’ve missed two periods.”
“Well!” he said. “That sounds promising, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” I felt the crack in my smile and hoped he didn’t notice.
“Not seeing as many pregnancies these days,” he said, “what with all the men overseas. Your man is home?”
How I wished my man had been home. None of this ever would have happened.
“Yes,” I said. “He has a heart murmur and isn’t able to serve, much to his disappointment.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” he said, looking down at the folder. He began asking me the expected questions. The date of my last period, which I knew off the top of my head because I’d been counting and recounting the days since that date for many weeks now. How did I feel? Nauseous in the morning. Were my breasts tender?
“Not too bad,” I lied.
He motioned me to lie down and I stared at the ceiling as he examined me. I’d never had an internal examination before and it felt humiliating. I wondered if he could somehow tell that I’d only had intercourse one time. That my so-called married state was a sham.
“Congratulations.” He smiled down at me, his fingers inside me. “You are indeed pregnant.”
“Don’t you have to do the rabbit test … the Friedman test … to know that for sure?” I asked. I knew that was the definitive test for pregnancy.
“Don’t need to,” he said. “I’ve been an obstetrician for thirty years and you can take this diagnosis to the bank. You’re definitely pregnant.” He rolled his stool away from the examination table. “You and your husband can celebrate tonight,” he said. “And you can go ahead and sit up.” He lifted my chart from the counter and began to scribble a note. “Are you a smoker?” he asked, his voice so nonchalant. He had no idea he’d just turned my world upside down.
“Yes,” I said, struggling to hold the sheet against my body as I sat up. “Not a lot. About ten cigarettes a day.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. He wasn’t looking at me as he wrote his notes, and I was glad. I had no idea what he would see in my face as I tried to look like a happy-to-be-pregnant wife. “It’s not the time to switch to a pack a day,” he said, “but not the time to quit, either.” He smiled at me, his pudgy red cheeks lifting his glasses a bit from his nose. “That would wreak havoc on your nerves and turn you into the sort of girl your husband wouldn’t want to be around, right?”
“Right.” I attempted to smile.
“Go easy on salty foods and nibble some crackers and ginger ale in the morning before you get out of bed. The nausea will pass soon.” He got to his feet. “And make an appointment with me for a month,” he added before leaving the room.
The door shut behind him and I didn’t budge from the examining table. I clutched the sheet to my body, torn between self-pity and self-hatred. Seven days until Vincent was home for Christmas. What was I going to do?