Free The Job by Douglas Kennedy

her hair.
    “There’s no rush. But you are feeling, uh, okay about… ?”
    “Sure,” she said flatly.
    Another awkward silence-one which we found difficult to fill. Recently, there had been too many of these silences. And they all related to the same thing: Lizzie’s miscarriage three weeks earlier.
    The pregnancy had been a total accident, a “mechanical failure,” perpetrated (we discovered later) by a microscopic tear in Lizzie’s diaphragm. As such, the news that we were parents to be came as a massive two-thousand-watt jolt. After the initial shock, Lizzie was delighted with the news. But when the home pregnancy test turned a bright shade of pink, I went gray.
    “Come on, sweetheart,” Lizzie said after registering my high anxiety.
    “We always knew we wanted children eventually. So this is just nature’s way of saying that eventually has arrived sooner than expected.”
    “Nature had nothing to do with it,” I said grimly.
    “You’re scared of this, aren’t you?”
    “Not scared-just worried.”
    “Don’t you want this child?” she asked, absently touching her stomach.
    “Of course I do,” I lied.
    “It’s just… well, it’s not exactly the right moment, is it? Especially considering the professional pressure we’re both under.”
    “It’s never going to be ‘the right moment.” There will always be some pressing deadline, some deal going down. That’s how life works. Okay, a kid will make things a little more complicated. But he or she will also be the best thing that ever happened to us.”
    “I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
    She withdrew her hand and looked at me with care.
    “I wish you were happier about this news.”
    “I wish I was, too.”
    To be straight about it, I was never comfortable with the idea of parenthood. In fact, it was an event I was hoping to indefinitely postpone. To me, the notion of children has always been terrifying, because I know I’d be the sort of father who would live in fear of getting it wrong, who would obsess endlessly about my children’s welfare. And because I remembered that look of profound disappointment in my father’s eyes whenever he felt he had failed me.
    Anyway, I rationalized, why create unnecessary havoc in your life-especially at a time when you have, professionally speaking, hit your stride? Things were going far too well right now for us. One day we’d be ready for a third party. But only when we could afford to give the kid the best.
    So, I panicked. Lizzie’s dismay at my hesitation was obvious. And though I tried to make up for it by being extremely attentive when she was hit with morning sickness, she was a little wary. That’s the thing about Lizzie-she’s nobody’s fool. She comes equipped with an extra-sensitive bullshit meter that can always discern whether what I’m saying is what I’m actually thinking.
    Still, after around eight weeks, I began to convince myself that I should calm down and embrace the news. Lizzie was right: Having a child would be the best thing that ever happened to us. Because, after all, she was the best thing that ever happened to me.
    And then, one afternoon I received a call at the office. It was Geena. Her tone of voice immediately disturbed me. It was so controlled, so steady.
    “Ned,” she said, “I don’t want you to panic, but…”
    I instantly panicked.
    “What’s happened to Lizzie?”
    “Lizzie is going to be just fine. But we had to rush her to New York Hospital, she had started to bleed heavily….”
    I eulned.
    “The baby?”
    “Ned, I’m really sorry….”
    I was at New York Hospital fifteen minutes later. The attending E.R. resident told me that Lizzie had miscarried, and had been whisked up to surgery for a fast DC.
    “She’s going to be very weak when she comes around, not to mention a little traumatized when the loss of the baby sinks in. But from what I could determine, the miscarriage was a very straightforward one-so there’s no reason why she