Free The Mentor by Sebastian Stuart Page A

“He’s a very lucky child,” she says.
    “No. We’re the lucky ones,” Lisa says.
    Their marriage seems so guileless, so free of hidden agendas. Suddenly Anne feels dizzy and slightly faint. This is followed by a wave of nausea—they’ve been coming with some regularity for the past week.
    “May I use your office for a moment?” she asks.
    “Of course.”
    Anne retreats to the sanctuary of Nikki’s large cluttered office. She sits down and stretches her legs out and waits for the nausea to pass. How would a child affect her marriage? Would the rivalries and resentments fade in the face of a new life? Or would the kid just become one more thing to struggle over?
    And what would the baby look like, with its chubby little limbs? Would it have Charles’s smile? His eyes? Her coloring? If so, they’d have to buy sunblock by the gallon. Then it floods back—that afternoon on John Farnsworth’s leather couch, his flabby white body, his fat stubby penis poking into her, his tongue on her neckand cheek. She presses her fingertips into the knot of self-hatred at the back of her neck. She takes out her cell phone and gets Directory Assistance, then punches another number.
    “Planned Parenthood.” The voice sounds so reassuring.
    “Yes, I wonder if you could answer a question for me.”
    “I’d be more than happy to try.”
    “Is it possible to determine a fetus’s father?”
    “It is.”
    “How is it done?” she asks, reaching for pen and paper.
    “Through DNA testing of either the amniotic fluid or the chorion, which is the outer lining of the sac surrounding the embryo.”
    “And then that DNA is compared to the DNA of the possible father?” Anne asks.
    “Exactly. How far along is the pregnancy?”
    “About ten weeks.”
    “In that case, the chorionic villus sampling would be indicated. It’s too early for amniocentesis. Of course, you’ll need a blood sample from the possible father.”
    How is she going to get a blood sample from Charles?
    “How long does it take to get the results?”
    “About two weeks. The cost is around a thousand dollars. The company that performs the testing will coordinate the arrangements with your doctor.”
    She can’t possibly go to her own gynecologist. Judith Arnold’s husband is a publishing executive; they travel in overlapping social circles with Anne and Charles.
    “Oh, one last question.”
    “Shoot.”
    “How much of the father’s blood is needed?”
    “Usually they take a syringe full, but all the lab really needs is a few drops.”
    After she hangs up, Anne realizes her nausea is gone. There’s a knock on the door.
    “Anne, lunch is here.”
    Anne joins the crew as they eagerly unload the shopping bagsfull of scrumptious goodies from Dean and Deluca. Suddenly she’s famished. She finds a smoked turkey and roasted red pepper hero. There’s a tug on her pant leg.
    “Where’s my focaccia?” Justin asks.
    Anne digs into one of the bags and finds a thick slice of focaccia baked with mozzarella and sun-dried tomatoes.
    Anne kneels down beside the boy. “Here you go, buckeroo.”
    “That’s a silly name. Are you a silly lady?”
    Anne looks up at Nikki.
    “I guess I am a silly lady sometimes.” Anne laughs.
    “Silly like a fox,” Nikki says.

14
    After waking from a deep nap, Emma walks to the corner bodega. She loves the smells in the cramped store: something fried and spicy, the dirt on root vegetables she never seen before, city cats. She gathers up two apples, two oranges, a can of spaghetti, tea bags, milk, a box of Fig Newtons.
    On her way home she passes a botanica. She stops and looks at the plaster figures in the window: Jesus, the Virgin Mary, an array of heroic saints in heroic poses. Gaudily painted, they remind her of what you can win at the county fair ball-toss on a dusty August night if you have a boyfriend. At the fair, the plaster figures aren’t religious; they’re dogs and cats and Elvis Presley and all around the lights of