Gwendolyn clutched the test results in a whiteknuckled fist, the paper slick with her sweat. The corridor outside the womens health clinic was a chokepoint, packed shoulder to shoulder.
Gwendolyn Hart! a nurse shouted.
She rose, slipped into the consulting room. The doctor a stout woman with tired eyes took the file from Gwendolyns hands, scanning the sheets in a detached glance.
Sit down, she said, her tone as cool as a November wind. Everything looks normal. Have your husband examined.
A chill ran down Gwendolyns spine. Edward? But he
At home, her motherinlaw Eleanor was rasping away at a chopping board, shredding cabbage for a stew with a knife that sang like a blade through enemies.
Whats the news, dear? Eleanor asked without looking up.
I’m fine, Gwendolyn muttered, pulling off her coat.
Then why? Eleanor finally lifted her gaze, a flash of worry there.
Edward needs a checkup.
The knife froze midair. Eleanor straightened, as rigid as a violin string.
Nonsense! My sons healthy. Its your doctors, they dont understand a thing. In my day women bore children without a single test.
Gwendolyn slipped into the living room. On the sofa lay two mismatched socks one blue, one black. She tucked them into the laundry basket out of habit. Over three years of marriage the socks had become a silent metaphor for their life: separate, never quite a pair.
Edward trudged home late.
Whats with that funeral face? he grumbled, flopping into his armchair.
Edward, we need to talk.
What about?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then tossed the folder onto the coffee table.
And then?
You need a checkup.
Why on earth? Edward sprang up, pacing the room. Im a sturdy lad! Look at me!
He did look robust broadshouldered, dark hair thick as a hedgerow. Yet health, as every doctor knows, isnt always visible.
Please, Edward Gwendolyn pleaded.
Enough! he roared. If you dont want children, just say so! Stop this theatrical nonsense with the doctors.
The clatter of slippers from the kitchen echoed. Eleanor lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly each inhalation seemed a drumbeat.
I want children more than anything, Gwendolyn whispered.
Then why none? Are you hiding something? Had an abortion perhaps?
The words struck her like a blow. She recoiled.
How could you?
How should I? Three years and nothing! And now the doctors claim Im? He stopped, fists clenched.
The door burst open as Eleanor stormed in like a battering ram.
Edward, ignore her! Its idleness. If you worked more, you wouldnt be gallivanting to doctors.
Gwendolyn looked at her husband, who turned toward the window.
Edward, do you really think I?
I dont know what to think, he rasped. One things clear: a healthy man never visits a doctor.
Eleanor nodded triumphantly.
Right you are, son. Its not a mans business to be in hospitals.
Inside Gwendolyn felt something snap, a tightened string breaking.
Fine, she said evenly.
The next day the house erupted into a war of petty grievances. Salt spilled, a pot left unwashed, dust on the sideboard. Gwendolyn held her tongue, grinding her teeth.
Maybe you shouldnt stay at home at all? Eleanor jabbed over dinner. Find a job instead of traipsing to doctors.
Edward chewed his meatloaf, eyes fixed on the plate.
I work, Gwendolyn replied.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with this?
My son is fine, and youll have him declared ill! When there are no children, a womans at fault! Its always been that way!
Gwendolyn rose, legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Eleanor asked, surprised. You eat and then run off?
Im tired, Gwendolyn said softly.
Tired? From what? You only work three days a week whats the load?
Edward finally lifted his eyes, a flicker of pity there, but said nothing.
That night Gwendolyn lay listening to Edwards snoring. It had once soothed her, a reminder of a close companion, but now it grated. She wondered how shed missed his obstinacy.
At dawn she packed a few belongings into an old sports bag: a couple of dresses, some underwear, her small vanity case.
Where are you off to? Eleanor asked, teacup in hand.
To my mothers.
For long?
I dont know.
Edward emerged from the bathroom, saw the bag.
Gwendolyn, whats this?
Its what you see.
You serious?
What else? You wont see a doctor, and my mother blames me for everything. Why stay?
He stepped closer, his voice low.
Dont be daft. Where will you go?
To Nana Mauds.
To that cramped little cottage? Its only a mile away!
Its tight, but not a grievance.
Eleanor snorted.
Right then! Let her go. Shell learn how good it was here.
Edward shot a furious glance at his mother but said nothing.
Gwendolyn hoisted the bag and headed for the door.
Gwendolyn! Edward called.
She turned. He stood in the hallway, hair damp from his shower, looking bewildered.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed behind her.
Nana Maud gasped at the sight of her granddaughter with a bag.
Gwendolyn! Whats happened?
Ive quarreled with Edward. May I stay with you?
Of course, love. Its a snug place, but make do.
The flat was indeed tiny: a bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient television. Yet it was clean and scented with vanilla Nana Maud loved to bake.
Tell me everything, she said, setting the kettle on.
Gwendolyn poured out the story. Nana Maud listened, shaking her silverthreaded hair.
Oh, dear Men can be proud things. To admit somethings wrong is like admitting death.
Must I wait forever for him to finally see a doctor?
No. You did right leaving. Let him think on his own.
The first days were quiet. Gwendolyn settled on a folding cot, helped with chores, ignored Edwards calls. Then Nana Maud began complaining of chest pains. An ambulance whisked her to the hospital.
Dont worry, dear, Maud whispered as they took her away. Im old, things happen.
In the ward, Nana Maud improved. Gwendolyn visited daily, bringing homecooked meals, sharing news.
Hows the husband? Maud asked one afternoon.
Not much. Hes called a few times, shouting into the phone.
You answer?
Once, then not again. Whats the point of hearing the same story?
Maybe hes finally seen a doctor?
Unlikely.
The hospital corridors swarmed with visitors. Gwendolyn headed for the exit and nearly collided with a young doctor in a white coat, blond hair, kind eyes.
Excuse me, she said.
No trouble. Who are you looking for?
My grandmother, in Ward Seven.
Oh, Mrs. Eustace! Shes a marvelous patient. Im Dr. Henry Whitaker, cardiologist.
Gwendolyn, she replied.
Pleasure. Dont worry, shell be fine. Age does its work.
He spoke about Mauds condition, his hands steady, nails trimmed. Gwendolyn watched the long, sure fingers.
Thank you for your care, she said.
He lingered, returning the next day, then the day after, always early, hoping for a glimpse.
One day, Maud whispered, The doctor wonders if youll come today. Hes a good lad, by the way, and single.
Gwendolyn flushed.
Maud, what are you on about?
Nothing. Youre almost free. That Edward of yours
Im married.
Ha! Maud scoffed.
A week later Dr. Whitaker was transferred to another ward. On his final day he approached Gwendolyn in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
Ill miss you too, she admitted.
He handed her his card.
If you need anything or just a chat.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
Thanks.
And also he hesitated. Youre very pretty, and rather sad. I hope it eases someday.
Maud was discharged and grew stronger, though Gwendolyn still feared leaving her alone.
Edwards calls came sporadically, sometimes ending in angry shouts, calling her a spoiled child. She hung up and never lifted the receiver again.
A month later a strangers voice reached her.
Gwendolyn? This is Dr. Whitakers mother. He gave me your number
Is something wrong?
No, nothing. His birthday is tomorrow and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Gwendolyn hesitated, but Maud, overhearing, waved her on.
Go on, love. Whens the last time you had fun?
The birthday went splendidly. Dr. Whitaker introduced Gwendolyn to his friends, was attentive without being overbearing. When she left, he said, Id like to see you again. May I?
May, she whispered.
They began to meet, cautiously, delicately. He never probed, never pressed for explanations. Sometimes she spent the night at his modest flat.
Then, unexpectedly, she discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Whitaker asked when she told him.
Yes, she laughed, tears of joy spilling.
A year later Gwendolyn pushed a pram along a leafy lane. Whitaker walked beside her, cracking jokes. Their son, little Thomas, snored softly in his sleep.
Ahead, Edward and Eleanor approached, frozen as statues at the sight of Gwendolyn, the pram, and Whitaker. Gwendolyn kept her pace, head held high. In Edwards eyes she read pain, regret, understanding.
Eleanor tugged Edwards sleeve.
Come on, Eddie.
He stood still, staring at the happy scene, realizing his mistake, though it was now too late.
