“I don’t want to sue Dr. Davidow.”
“It’s not really Davidow, it’s his insurance company. You heard him. He’s going to call his malpractice carrier. It’s not him we’d be suing.”
“He said it was, and I don’t want to do that to him. It’s his livelihood. He has a family-”
“Why are you loyal to his family and not ours?”
“It’s not right.”
“Yes, it is. Why are you tying my hands? We’re not powerless. We don’t have to sit on our thumbs. Why don’t you want to sue?”
“It’s mean, and it’s expensive-” Christine stopped herself, because she didn’t know what else was involved with a lawsuit, but she knew enough to know it was terrible. “I’m not going to, I’m just not.”
“Look, we’ll meet with Gary. He’ll explain it to you. He already told me he’d squeeze me in. Tomorrow, okay?”
“Why don’t you just give it a few days? Homestead is investigating, let’s see what they turn up.”
Marcus scoffed. “Why wait? We could have an answer by next week if they settle.”
“We don’t need to jump the gun and start suing people. What’s the rush?”
Marcus hesitated, blinking, and suddenly, Christine realized why.
“Oh, is it because you want me to get an abortion? I can’t believe you said that. I can’t believe you’re even thinking that!”
“Babe, we have to be able to talk about it.” Marcus met her eye evenly, gesturing at the hospital. “You heard what they said. People abort for less than that.”
“I don’t, and I won’t! How dare you suggest such a thing?” Christine remembered in a flash that her first ultrasound was tomorrow. Marcus was supposed to come with her. Now she didn’t want to remind him. She didn’t want him there now.
“If it were a really sick baby, we’d abort it.”
“That’s different.”
“No it isn’t. It’s a baby who’s psychologically sick, who’s inheriting serious mental issues.” Marcus threw up his hands. “Look at the upside. The pregnancy isn’t that far along. We can pick another donor. We can start over.”
“No, it’s out of the question.”
“You could be pregnant again in no time. You’re Fertile Myrtle! I’m the one with the problem!”
“We already have our child!” Christine gestured at her belly.
“It’s the child of a serial killer. Is that what you want?” Marcus’s eyes flared an incredulous blue. “I can show you the articles in medical journals. They talk about how psychological disorders like that are inherited. Lucy’s only giving you her opinion. There are lots of contrary opinions, you’ll see.”
“Even if they told us it was inherited, I wouldn’t get an abortion, not now.”
“It’s not even two months! Women miscarry in two months.”
“Here’s hoping!” Christine shot back, sarcastically.
“That’s not funny.”
“I know. I want this baby!”
“Well I don’t!”
Christine gasped, shocked. Marcus’s eyes flared, and his lips parted slightly. She could tell that he had surprised even himself. They faced each other in the parking lot, in a sort of marital suspended animation. Marcus had said the unsayable, the unthinkable, and there was no going back. She was carrying a child that he did not want. Christine turned on her heel and walked away.
“Babe, don’t go, get in the car!” Marcus called after her.
“No!” Christine felt tears come to her eyes.
“Let me give you a ride!”
“I’ll walk!”
“Fine! See you at home then!”
Christine didn’t reply. She didn’t know if she was going home. She didn’t know where she was going. She felt untethered, unmoored. Disconnected. She had lost everything. She had left a job she loved, for nothing. She had lost Michelle and Dr. Davidow. And she had no hope of a happy family anymore.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she found herself picking up the pace toward her car.
And then, she ran.
Chapter Eleven
Christine left the hospital via the back roads, since Marcus always took the Parkway. She kept her face front and her hands on the steering wheel, but the last of her tears were running down her cheeks behind her sunglasses, in the time-honored tradition of women everywhere, who drive-while-crying. She had done it once in high school after she got dumped by Michael Rotenberg, and she had done it again in college, after she got an undeserved C in American Civilization. She knew Lauren had done it when she didn’t get into Penn, and she’d seen other women on the road, driving-while-crying, probably enough to make it its own acronym, DWC.
Christine felt the lowest she had ever felt in her life, but she still had her sense of humor, and it kept hysteria at bay to know that she was a cliché on wheels. The rush-hour traffic was stop-and-go, and she braked behind a tall truck. She avoided looking at the other drivers, who were texting or talking on the phone; she never texted while she drove, and she talked only hands-free, so she could be forgiven a crying jag after her husband had just told her he didn’t want their child. A serial killer’s child. Her child. Or all of the above.
Christine sniffled, reached in the console for the umpteenth Starbucks napkin, and blew her juicy nose into its recycled brown scratchiness. She tossed it used onto the passenger seat, where it joined a soggy pile of other used napkins, evidence that she was the ugliest crier of all ugly criers. She thought about calling Lauren, but the dashboard clock read 6:15, and she remembered that Lauren was going out to dinner with Josh and the kids, celebrating the last day of school. The thought made Christine reach for another napkin, since leaving teaching might’ve been the dumbest thing she ever did, after using a serial killer as a sperm donor.
The truck finally moved, the traffic got going, and she gave the car gas, noticing that at the exit ahead was a cluster of box stores, including her favorite food store, Timson’s. Her stomach growled in response, and she realized that she was starving, which was probably her favorite symptom of pregnancy so far. She’d always wondered if she’d have food cravings while she was pregnant, and it turned out that she did-she craved food. All food, any food, at any time.
She dried her eyes and headed for Timson’s, and in no time, pulled into the parking lot in front of the massive grocery store, with its characteristic façade of indeterminate beige stone, which, though it wasn’t her Timson’s, looked exactly the same as her Timson’s, and gave her comfort. She kept her sunglasses on, grabbed her purse and phone, and went inside the store, letting the air-conditioning soothe her jangled nerves. She glanced around in the artificial darkness, and the layout was the same, so the prepared foods were straight ahead.
She made a beeline for the glistening stainless-steel counters bubbling with cooked food, then grabbed the large-sized plastic clamshell from an upside-down stack and followed her nose to the spicy Indian food. She felt her mood improve as she shoveled goopy orange glop into her clamshell, then added a pile of French fries and a square of eggplant parmesan, wondering in which universe these foods went together. Answer: Pregnancy World.
She got a bottle of water, checked out, and carried her tray to one of the dining areas for grown-ups; she had learned to avoid the kid-friendly dining area, with the undersized chairs and tables and the television that showed The Lego Movie on a continuous loop, because she used to wonder if she would ever be lucky enough to be one of those mothers. Now that she was, it didn’t feel so lucky.
She sat down at a circular wooden table in the sunny eating area, which was filled with adults and children, but no matter. She’d realized long ago that the suburbs were about children, and it was part of the reason she felt so odd being childless; she didn’t fit in in their neighborhood without a kid to take to school, soccer practice, or the pediatrician. Between the children at home and the children at school, Christine lived a life surrounded by children, and she’d be damned if she was ending this pregnancy, no matter what Marcus had said.