Free Babyland by Holly Chamberlin Page B

back—and walked up to the receptionist’s desk.
    Observable social truth: Women who aren’t pregnant go to the gynecologist alone. Women who are pregnant go with their mates. That is, if they have mates. That’s the rule. Even the receptionist knew this.
    â€œIs your husband with you Mrs.—uh ...” The overweight but pretty girl scanned the screen before her. I wondered if the doctor scolded her about her weight. I wondered if she encouraged her to embrace herself just the way she was.
    â€œMs. Traulsen,” I said. “And it would be my fiancé. Ross Davis. And no, he’s not here. He’s—he’s out of town on business.” I looked at the blandly pleasant face of the receptionist, and then the ridiculous lie came bursting out. “There was some really important meeting he just couldn’t miss,” I said. “In Europe. Switzerland. Basel, in fact.”
    â€œI bet you can’t wait until he gets home!” she enthused. “I hope he brings you some chocolate.”
    I thought, What? Why chocolate? And then, “Oh, sure,” I said. Switzerland. “Yes. I can’t wait until he gets home. With chocolate. Of course. Yes.” And maybe a watch? And a cuckoo clock? I was mortified.
    The receptionist suggested I take a seat. The doctor, she said, would be with me soon. I took a seat at the other end of the waiting area from the two couples. Liars, I thought, should be segregated from good and decent people.
    Twenty minutes later I was flat on my back, my feet in cold metal stirrups.
    Dr. York, my gynecologist, could never be described as a warm and fuzzy person. At least not in the context of her professional life. Who knows what she’s like at the end of the day when she hangs up her speculum and stows away her swabs.
    But I can do without a great bedside manner in medical personnel as long as they’ve got education, experience, and expertise. What I don’t care for is a tendency some doctors have to judge a patient. A symptom might indicate a particular illness, but it doesn’t describe a person’s character.
    Dr. York got up from her swivel stool and carefully stripped off her latex examining gloves.
    â€œYou’re fine,” she said briskly.
    â€œGood,” I said. “I mean, I’m glad that I’m fine.”
    Dr. York looked down at my chart and scribbled a note. “I see many women like you,” she said.
    â€œLike me?” I asked.
    â€œYes.” Dr. York closed the manila folder and placed it on the counter behind her. “Women who decided to wait a while before having children.”
    â€œI didn’t decide anything,” I blurted. “Well, actually, I did. My fiancé and I decided not to have children.”
    The doctor raised her eyebrows in the most obvious way.
    â€œOh. I see,” she said. “The pregnancy is unplanned.”
    If I’d been deaf to the tone of judgment in the doctor’s voice, or blind to the arched brows, I still couldn’t have missed the disdain displayed by the flair of her right nostril.
    I wondered, Does getting pregnant accidentally make me a bad person? Does it mean I’m going to be a bad mother? Irresponsible? Self-centered? Emotionally unavailable?
    And by the way, how do people flair just one nostril?
    â€œYes,” I said hurriedly, the awful paper crackling under my naked thighs. “But we’re going through with it. The pregnancy. That’s why I’m here, of course. We want the baby. Really.”
    I prayed, Please like me now. Please. And let me get dressed.
    â€œOkay.”
    That was all? I thought. No praise for my noble act?
    â€œI’ve read that lots of pregnancies end in miscarriage,” I blurted.
    â€œThat’s true.”
    What had I expected to hear?
    â€œAm I at risk?” I asked. “I mean, because of my age.”
    Dr. York tapped my chart with her pen. “As your doctor