The elevator doors opened and then slid shut behind her, as if propelling her toward a goal.
She scouted this newest waiting room, struck yet again by the depth of emotion in the faces of the patients, women whose hair had not yet gone gray, whose bodies were lithe and graceful, whose clothing was moneyed and meticulous, whose makeup was precise. Dressing up for the doctor’s office, so needy, as if they were clinging to something about themselves they could control.
Nine thirty-three. Nora, deliberately early for her 10 A.M. to give her time to scout for patients who might talk to her, was surprised at the crowded waiting room. Women occupied almost every beige leather or tweedy upholstered seat. Women reading, leafing through magazines or focused on their phones, some in sunglasses, many with earbuds in place, the white cords dangling in front of nubby sweaters and looped mufflers like wiry plastic necklaces. A coatrack, also crowded, showed one black coat after another. Nora took the last hanger and crammed hers into place, breathing in the soft floral scent as the fabrics brushed together. She scanned the room then took the only remaining seat, half of an ivory settee, smiling apologetically at the woman on the other half.
“Sorry.” Nora slid her detail bag out of the way, hiding it beside the arm of the little couch.
“No problem,” the woman said. She held an e-reader and swiped a page as Nora settled into place.
Two beats of silence. A new age underscore, music coming from hidden speakers, filled the spaces in the atmosphere. Nora figured it was designed to be relaxing, but to her it seemed blatantly manipulative, bleating its everything-will-be-okay message when these women knew it might not be. They were so vulnerable, Nora thought again. In more ways than they knew. They all wanted to have children, all might have been told Monifan could help them. For some of them, that would be correct. For others, Nora knew, it would be wrong. Devastatingly wrong.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” the woman said. Her red hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and her black turtleneck came up to her chin. Coral lipstick and pale nails, a person who took care of herself. Red-rimmed eyes, though, Nora cataloged, gave away her exhaustion.
Nora had regretted not striking up a conversation sooner that first time in Hawkins’s waiting room, and though she’d given several women in other offices her card, none had called her. In the next clinic, she’d pushed harder, and gotten as far as a few random pleasantries before the patients shut her down. Maybe she’d have better luck this time.
“I’m new,” Nora said.
“They’re always late.” The woman gestured at the receptionist’s desk, a semicircle of tan Formica with a phone console and a printed sign encased in a plastic frame: PLEASE TAKE A SEAT. WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK. “How can they already be running late? It’s only nine thirty. This office opens at nine thirty. Are we all scheduled for the same time? It’s so frustrating. Disrespectful.”
A woman across the room looked up from her magazine. “Completely agree,” she said. She flipped a page, then another.
“Your first appointment?” The woman next to Nora hit the conversational ball back.
Nora kept her voice low. “Yeah.” She needed to be careful. “You?”
“Hardly.” Her seatmate unzipped her tote bag, pulled out What to Expect When You’re Expecting. “You’ll learn to bring a book.”
Another woman, a delicate twentysomething in jeans and a puffy vest, extracted one earbud and looked up. “But if we’re late, it’s, like, we get the look. Like we’re the problem.” She rolled her eyes, then put her earbud back in, apparently tuning out again.
But her unbidden two cents worth meant these women would not be put off by conversation. Or even personal questions.
Nora turned to her new friend. “Thanks for the warning. But … why don’t you go somewhere else? To a different doctor?”
“Kidding me?” The woman made a dismissive face, pushed up the sleeves of her black turtleneck. “This is Randall McGinty. I mean, how long did you have to wait to get in? Like, months, I bet. Because of … you know. Monifan.”
“Yeah.” Nora tried to look noncommittal. “You taking it? I mean—oh, how awful of me. I am so sor—”
“No biggie.” The woman looked at the ceiling, then back at Nora. “But, yes. Maybe it’ll work this time. I’m here for new results.” She blew out a breath. “But I don’t want to get my hopes up. Or my husband’s. James is worried, because it’s expensive. But I can’t imagine not having…” She touched her fingertips to her mouth, as if she’d said too much. Then gave a faraway smile. “It’s all I care about, you know? All. Since I was a little girl. You?”
“Sure,” Nora agreed. Anything to keep her talking. This potential connection was more important than her sales appointment.
“And, oh, geez, all my dolls.” The woman spread her hands in front of her, as if revealing an array. “Not Barbies. But baby dolls, the kind with that soft plastic skin? And the eyes that open and close with the weird click. I loved them. I’d talk to them and dress them and cuddle them when they cried. When my little sister was born, it was like a gift. My dolls had come to life.”
“So cute.” Nora knew when to keep quiet. She crossed her fingers the doctor was stuck in traffic or something, to give her more time with this talkative patient.
“James wants children as much as I do. He looks at other people’s babies, in the park or wherever, it feels like he’s judging me. Judging us. Wondering if he made the wrong decision, marrying me. If I fail again, I wonder if he’ll pick up and—he’s being so awful, sometimes, critical, like I’m … damaged goods.” She winced, then widened her eyes, as if replaying what she’d confided. “Whoa. True confessions. Sorry. Oversharing. Hormones, right? Back to the dolls, okay?”
“It’s fine. And I’m so sorry,” Nora said. “It must be so difficult. But dolls? I was more of a Pink Power Ranger kid. And then…” She shrugged. “I guess I grew out of it. Wanted to be a movie star.”
The woman shook her head. “Yeah. That’s what’s supposed to happen. You grow out of dolls. I did too, but right into real children. I wanted to be a nurse, or a teacher, but mostly, a mom. I read Baby-Sitters Club books, did you? I really wanted to be Mallory. Because she had red hair and freckles she hated too. I decided she was me.” She tucked a stray lock behind one ear. “Mine’s the same color as yours, almost.”
“I was always Mary Anne,” Nora remembered, being herself for one moment. “Very organized.”
“So funny.” For an instant, her face looked genuinely happy. It made Nora grasp the depth of this woman’s need. “We have that in common too, it seems. Besides being here. Wanting kids.”
“Yeah.” Nora briefly hated herself. But she had to risk one more question. “How many times have you…?”
“Four. But it doesn’t always work, they told me that. But it might. This time it might. That’s why I’m here.”
“Can’t hurt,” Nora lied.
With a click and a swish, a door behind the reception desk opened, and a woman in a flowered tunic and a webbed necklace of dangling name badges came through. The atmosphere in the office changed, recharged. The women closed their magazines and sat up straight as the receptionist flapped down the WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK sign. Every woman in the room, Nora saw, tried to make eye contact with the sentinel behind the desk, but she defiantly pretended there was no one else present.