Garden of Lies (56 page)

up, smoothing her corduroy skirt, her knees felt a little rubbery. She flushed, then reached under

her thin cotton blouse to adjust her bra. It had grown tight over the past few days, uncomfortably

so; and her breasts felt heavy and tender, nipples sore.

All the signs are there.

Now, as she washed her hands in the rust-stained sink, Rachel could no longer contain her

hope. Just suppose she
were
pregnant. After all these years. There was always that one in a

thousand chance. She had seen a patient just the other day, a woman who’d been trying for years,

and had finally given up, thought she was in menopause. Now, at forty-seven, pregnant with her

first. A fluke. But they did happen.

Please, God,
she prayed,
let it be happening to me. To us. To Brian and me.

She thought of those painful fertility tests. The last time she’d even taken the morphine. And

what did they prove, other than what she already knew? And how many years now, taking her

temperature every morning, marking it on a curve chart, like a laboratory rat? And those

thousands of trips to the bathroom, checking for suspicious stains. Feeling her breasts for

tenderness. Hoping against hope. Praying.

And always, in the end, nothing.

[339] But what made it so awful, so much worse than just her own disappointment, was

knowing she’d lied. She’d let Brian go believing there was no reason why they couldn’t have a

child. If he knew—

Six years,
she thought. After six years, she had not yet found exactly the right moment to tell

him. Her fault, of course. Brian could not have been more tender, more understanding. She
knew

he would understand if she told him, but still she could not bring herself to say the words. And

the longer she kept it from him, the worse it became, a betrayal all its own.

But, oh, those first years had been so good, she hadn’t had the heart to spoil a single day, a

single minute. Back in New York, finishing her OB residency at Beth Israel—and Brian, working

like a madman on his novel—they had had so little time that each hour together had become

precious.

She recalled one snowy evening, dragging home after thirty-six hours on call ... and suddenly,

in the cab, remembering Carnegie Hall, that the tickets for the Rubenstein concert were for that

night. They had both been looking forward to it for weeks—a night of heavenly music, then

dinner at the Russian Tea Room. But then ... all she wanted, ached for, was a hot bath, a night

luxuriating in bed. Yet how could she let Brian down? He’d been so patient with her beastly

hours, never complaining, never making her feel guilty. She owed him this.

But when she had arrived home, Brian, scrubbed and splendid in his best suit and tie, had taken

a long look at her, and said, “I can’t compete with the Russian Tea Room on blintzes, but I make

a pretty mean omelette. How about us staying home tonight, and I’ll throw something together?”

“Oh, Brian—” she had been close to tears with exhaustion and relief, “what about the concert?

I know how much you wanted to go. ...”

“There’ll be other nights. Carnegie Hall isn’t going to collapse tomorrow. But it looks like you

are. Anyway,” he said and grinned, that wonderful lopsided grin that warmed her so, “you’re a lot

more fun to look at than old Rubenstein. And we can always put a record on.”

And so she had taken a long hot bath while Brian made dinner, then listened to Brahms while

they ate. Afterwards, he led her into [340] the bedroom, and slowly, carefully undressed her. He

licked her breasts, and the tender hollow between them, leaving the moist imprint of his lips in a

trail along her belly. He threw off his own clothes, and pulled her down on the mattress.

“Now for dessert,” he murmured, grinning wickedly.

He entered her, and she was swept along the groundswell of his passion ... and her own,

building swiftly, lifting her from her exhaustion, making her cry out, arch her spine to take in all

of him she possibly could.

Drifting asleep in his arms, she had felt such bliss ... to think she was married to this wonderful

man, that she had a whole lifetime of nights like this. And maybe someday, a miracle would

happen and she would get pregnant—the specialists said it wasn’t impossible, just unlikely. It

could be happening right now, at this very moment ... a baby ... Brian’s baby ... then everything

would really be perfect. ...

God, when was the last time we made love?
she wondered now, as she stood at the sink drying

her hands. Weeks ago. That night he’d woken her from a sound sleep, with his caresses, his need

was so great.

But she would make it up to him, soon—as soon as she could clear a few days, they would go

away somewhere romantic, Antigua maybe. And this place was worth a few sacrifices, wasn’t it?

Her own clinic, where she could somehow make up for, maybe even forget, the death she’d lived

with in Nam, a place where poor women could get good prenatal care. God, it had been so hard,

fighting through the red tape—lawyers, recommendations, interviews on interviews, mountains of

applications and forms—just for their pittance of HEW funding. Then so hard, too, to find

another doctor like herself, to wait for Kay to complete her nurse-midwife training, to find a

suitable space.

She recalled opening day here at the East Side Women’s Health Center. The cheerful yellow

paint just barely dry on the walls of what had been for sixty years a hardware store, the vinyl tile

floor gleaming with new wax. And the waiting room—with its slightly lumpy second-hand

couches, hanging plants, baskets of bright plastic toys—all day not a single person coming in the

door, the place as deserted as a subway station at three in the morning.

And then Kay’s inspiration, a coffee maker. They stuck a big [341] sign on the window, in

English and Spanish: FREE COFFEE AND DOUGHNUTS. Three women showed up that day.

Shy, dark-haired ladies with lowered eyes and tentative smiles, balancing plump babies on their

hips. By the end of the week, the waiting room was overflowing.

Now, after a year and a half, it was all coming together. These proud, strong-willed women had

begun to trust her. She delivered their babies, listened to their problems, helped whenever and

however she could. Of
course
she wanted to be with Brian more, but these people here, they so

needed
her. They were like her children in a way.

The doorknob rattled, breaking into her thoughts. “Rachel, are you in there?” Nancy Kandinsky

called. “I’m on my way out. I know you are, too, but I think you should see this one. She asked

for you. Lila Rodriguez. She ... well, you’ll see for yourself.”

Rachel sighed. It was after seven. She ached to go home. To feel Brian’s welcoming arms

about her. She wouldn’t tell him what she suspected, hoped, not yet, not until she was sure.

They’d both been disappointed too many times. But, oh, just to
be
with him.

Then she remembered. Brian was speaking at the Veterans’ Administration tonight. So many

requests for lectures, appearances on TV, and radio talk shows since his book, she couldn’t keep

track. One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t be home until late. The third night this week she’d be

crawling into bed without his long, warm body to cuddle next to.

And he doesn’t have to make all these speeches, go out all these nights. Could it be he’s tired

of waiting? For me, for a child? And if I can’t give him that, isn’t it possible he might go looking

somewhere else?

She remembered something else. The party two months ago in London. Rose. Beautiful, dark,

with those haunted eyes.
And the way those eyes looked at Brian.
A cold sliver of fear wedged

itself into Rachel’s heart.

She pushed the thought out of her mind.

If I’m pregnant, everything will change. We’ll be all right. We’ll be a family.

Tomorrow,
she promised herself.
I’ll leave early, make dinner for a change. Something

scrumptious, to go with champagne and candlelight, the whole bit. And later, when we make love,

it’ll feel like the first time.

“Tell Mrs. Rodriguez I’ll be with her in a minute,” she called through the door to Nancy.

“Okay. I’m off. See you in the morning.”

[342] Rachel, emerging from the bathroom, caught a flash of carrot-red hair disappearing down

the narrow corridor that led to the examining room up front. Nancy never walked. Everything she

did was on the run.

Now Rachel was hurrying too, unearthing Lila’s chart from the jammed file cabinet in her

cubbyhole of an office, shouldering her way into the examining room.

Lila was slumped on the folding chair in the corner, beneath the iron-barred window that

overlooked an alleyway. Tiny except for her enormous belly. Her face ghastly. Lumpy and

bruised, like a rubber Halloween mask. Eyes swollen up to the size of doorknobs.

Next time he’ll kill her,
Rachel thought, horrified, fury sweeping through her.

She sucked her breath in, and struggled to remain impassive. Why did this woman let her

husband beat her? She even
protected
the bastard, last time saying she had hurt herself falling

down the stairs. Like hell.

“
Señora
,” she asked, gently taking hold of a hand that felt horribly limp and clammy.
“Digame

que pasó.”

Lila shook her head, greasy black strands falling over her waxen forehead.
“Mi niño? Está

bien? Está bien mi niño?”
She cradled her arms protectively about her pregnant belly.

“Let’s take a look. I’ll be very gentle, I promise.”

Rachel got her up on the examining table, and lifted her skirt. No vaginal bleeding, thank

goodness. But there was a huge bruise just below her rib cage that worried Rachel. It might

indicate trauma. The amniotic fluid would have to be tested for meconium.

“Your baby is probably fine, but I’d like to put you in the hospital overnight,” Rachel told her.

“Just to be sure.
Entiendes, señora?”

Lila understood. At the word “hospital” her face had gone from waxy yellow to gray, and her

eyes rolled back in her head.
She’s scared,
Rachel thought,
more frightened of the hospital than

of going home to the man who beat her.

Lila shook her head, then eased herself off the examining table, moving with exaggerated care,

like a very old woman balancing a crate of eggs.

“No,” she said with a stubborn wariness. “No hospital. They take my baby.”

[343] She was already at the door, tugging at the buttons on her ratty pink sweater, before

Rachel could stop her. “Mrs. Rodriguez, please, listen. What happened before, when you had the

miscarriage, that was different. ...”

But again Lila was shaking her head, politely, but firmly.
“Gracias, Doctor. Gracias ... pero

no.”

Rachel wanted to run after her, grab her by the shoulders and shake her.
Don’t you know what

you’re risking? Do you have any idea how many women would give anything for just one baby?

One chance to be pregnant?

But it wouldn’t do any good. Lila wouldn’t understand. And she’d stop coming to the clinic

altogether. Wasn’t half a doctor better than none?

Rachel, simmering down, went through the connecting door to her office, and fished among the

folders on her desk, quickly finding the one she was looking for, SAUCEDO, ALMA. On her

way home she’d stop at the hospital and check on Alma. Here, at least, was something she could

do.

Kay stuck her curly head through the door. “I’m headed out. Can I get you anything before I

go? Sandwich, coffee, a transfusion? You look beat, Rache.”

“I’ll relax once I get out of here. This time of night, I may even get a seat on the subway.” She

dipped into an ashtray overflowing with rubber bands, paper clips, pencil stubs, and fished out a

subway token. She tossed it at Kay. “Here. Have one on me. By the way, have we gotten the

results back on Alma Saucedo’s blood work-up?”

“Not yet. Tomorrow morning, if I have to squeeze it out of them with fire tongs. You know

those creeps at the lab—promises, promises. Want me to tell them it’s an emergency?” Kay

looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, a bit thinner.

“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” Rachel decided. “ ’Night, Kay. And listen ... take care,

hear?”

Minutes later, Rachel was locking up—two locks, dead bolt, double-padlocked accordion gate

—then making her way up the no-man’s-land of East Fourteenth Street. The sidewalk a

wasteland, literally, dog turds, broken bottles, overflowing trash cans, vandalized phone booths.

The very air somehow rotten. Graffiti scrawled on the walls—VIVA LA RAZA! CHICO LOVES

ROXY! DEATH TO THE PIGS! And [344] blasting from every window, it seemed, the

relentless, hammering beat of Latin music.

It used to put her on edge. She remembered how at first she felt as if she were an astronaut

setting foot on a strange and dangerous planet. Or Margaret Mead among the aborigines. What

were they thinking as they watched her from their windows—was she just another uptown do-