Free The Seven Year Bitch by Jennifer Belle

what we were, a couple of boozers.
    In the time it had taken to get a duplicate application from Spence- Chapin, I had gotten pregnant.
    I’d gone to Dr. Heiffowitz to regulate my thyroid, not to get pregnant, and he’d looked me over and said, “Your medication is wrong. If you cut your pill in half with a kitchen knife and take half every twelve hours instead of a whole one every twenty-four, I see no reason why you won’t get pregnant.”
    I’d been lying on his examination table and when he said those words, “I see no reason why you won’t get pregnant,” in his quiet Israeli accent, I’d had to fight the urge to spread my legs right then and there and beg him to be the father. Why wait all the way until the end of the day when Russell would finally come to bed, when I could get pregnant right now?
    â€œWe’re in the process of adopting from China,” I said.
    â€œYou have a beautiful follicle,” he had said and showed it to me on the sonogram screen. “You should ovulate tonight. I don’t want to be the one to tell anyone not to adopt a baby from China, but I see no reason why you wouldn’t get pregnant tonight.” And suddenly, just like that, when he saw no reason, I saw no reason. There was no reason. It was as if a lens cap had been covering my cervix and now it had been removed. I could see Russell’s sperm attach itself to my beautiful follicle. I could feel it.
    And that night it happened.
    Just thinking about the kind blue Israeli eyes of Dr. Heiffowitz, I was moved to tears and I had to turn and wipe my eyes so Shasthi wouldn’t see me.
    â€œI’m going now,” I said, but she just kept vacuuming, slowly and gracefully, her sequins glinting and rhinestone hair clip casting rays of blue light on the ceiling and on her cider-colored hair, like a statue of the goddess Kali had come to life in my living room and had decided to tidy up.
    As I was leaving the apartment my phone rang and I heard Deirdre-Agnes’s voice on my answering machine. “Patrick and I are comin’ into the city this weekend and we’d like to swing by and pick up our crib.” I rushed out before I could hear the end of her message.
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    When I got out on the street my cell phone rang.
    â€œDid she come?” my mother asked. “How is she?”
    â€œI love her,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a miracle. You should always listen to my shrink. I just came from therapy.”
    â€œHow was it?” I asked, with a perfunctory tone to my voice because I didn’t want her to know I was really interested.
    â€œI told her you just got laid off and you’re conflicted about doing nothing all day and she had a fantastic idea for you. It’s a job.”
    â€œI managed a hedge fund,” I told my mother, since she seemed to have forgotten. “And staying home with Duncan is not doing nothing all day.”
    â€œThis is something you can do part time from home. It turns out my shrink does it for extra money.”
    â€œGive me a break,” I said. I definitely had to go back to work if this was the kind of conversation I was going to be having.
    â€œYou judge contests,” my mother continued. “Essay contests. Companies advertise essay contests and you read all the essays and pick the winner. My shrink judges them in the car on the way up to her country house while her husband drives, and she thought you could do the same thing. She said it would pay for the nanny.”
    â€œSitter.”
    â€œSo you wouldn’t have to feel guilty.”
    â€œIf it’s so great why doesn’t she do more of them?” I asked.
    â€œThere are some she just doesn’t want to do, like motherhood ones. You know, because she can’t have a baby.”
    â€œI’m actually already working,” I said. “I have to analyze a portfolio for someone.” The man—Gabe Weinrib—from the