Mabel clutched the test results in her fist, the paper damp with her own sweat. The corridor outside the womens health centre was a throng of patients, each pushing forward as if the world itself were a narrow passage.
Miss Mabel Whitaker! called a nurse, her voice cutting through the murmurs.
Mabel rose and slipped into the consulting room. The doctor, a stout woman with tired eyes, took the folder from Mabels hands and flicked through the sheets with an indifferent glance.
Take a seat, she said, her tone flat as a winter sky. Everything looks normal. Its your husband who needs examination.
A cold shiver ran down Mabels spine. Victor? But he was
***
At home, her motherinlaw, Agnes, was mincing cabbage for a stew, the knife carving the leaves with a vigor that reminded Mabel of a battle.
Whats the news, dear? Agnes asked without looking up.
Everythings fine with me, Mabel murmured, slipping off her coat.
And why then Agnes finally lifted her eyes, a flash of worry crossing her face. Victor needs a checkup.
The knife paused midair. Agnes straightened, as rigid as a taut rope.
What nonsense! My sons healthy. Doctors never understand. In my day women gave birth without a single test.
Mabel stepped into the living room. On the sofa lay two socksone navy, one charcoal. She gathered them absentmindedly and tossed them into the laundry basket. In three years of marriage those mismatched socks had become a quiet symbol of their uneven life.
Victor came home late.
Whats with the funeral face? he grumbled, flopping into his armchair.
Mick, we need to talk, Mabel said.
About what?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then slammed them onto the coffee table.
And now?
You need to be examined.
Why on earth? Victor sprang to his feet, pacing. Im a healthy man! Look at me!
He did look the partbroadshouldered, dark hair thick as a hedge. Yet health, Mabel knew, was often hidden beneath flesh.
Please, Victor she pleaded.
Enough! he roared. If you dont want children, say it straight! Why these theatrics with doctors?
The clatter of slippers rose from the kitchen. Agnes lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly her sighs seemed to echo through the walls.
I want children more than anything, Mabel whispered.
So why none? Are you hiding something? Abortions, perhaps?
The accusation struck like a blow. Mabel recoiled.
How could you?
How am I supposed to? Three years and nothing. And now these doctors telling me Im? Victors voice cut off as he clenched his fists.
The door burst open. Agnes stormed in, her presence as imposing as a tank.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all idleness. If you worked more, you wouldnt be chasing doctors all the time.
Mabel glanced at her husband, who turned his back to the window.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he muttered through clenched teeth. One things clear: a healthy man doesnt go to doctors.
Agnes nodded triumphantly. Exactly, son. Hospitals are no place for a man.
Mabel felt something inside snap, as if a stretched string finally gave way.
Fine, she said, her voice steady.
The next day a war began. Agnes found fault in every tiny imperfectionsalt overpoured, pot not cleaned, dust on the dresser. Mabel kept her mouth shut, grinding her teeth.
Perhaps you shouldnt be at home at all? the motherinlaw whispered at dinner, venom lacing her tone. Get a job instead of fretting over doctors.
Victor chewed his meatball without looking up.
I work, Mabel replied.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby, Agnes retorted.
What does my work have to do with this?
Because my sons fine and youre trying to make him look ill! No children means its the womans fault! Its always been that way!
Mabel rose, her legs trembling.
Whats wrong with you? Agnes asked, surprised. Youve just eaten and youre fleeing?
Im tired, Mabel said softly.
Tired? From three days a week of work? The Lord knows what you call a load!
Victor finally lifted his gaze, a flicker of pity passing through his eyes, but he said nothing.
That night Mabel lay listening to Victors snore. Once it had been a comfort, a reminder of a close presence. Now it grated on her nerves. How had she never noticed his stubbornness before?
At dawn she packed a few possessions into an old sports satcheltwo dresses, some underclothes, a little makeup case.
Where are you off to? Agnes asked from the kitchen doorway, a mug in hand.
To Grans.
For long?
I dont know.
Victor emerged from the bathroom, saw the satchel.
Ellie, whats that?
You see it.
You serious?
What else? You wont get examined, and my mother blames me for everything. Why stay?
He stepped closer, voice low. Dont be daft. Where will you go?
To Gran Fayes cottage.
To that tiny shack? Its only a mile away!
Its cramped, but Im not offended.
Agnes snorted. Good. Let her go. Shell learn what life was like for an old woman.
Victor shot a furious glance at his mother but said nothing.
Mabel lifted the satchel and headed for the door.
Ellie! Victor called.
She turned. He stood in the hallway, hair damp from the shower, looking bewildered.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Gran Faye gasped at the sight of her granddaughter with the bag.
Ellie! Whats happened?
Weve quarreled with Victor. Can we stay?
Of course, love. Its a bit snug, but
The flat was indeed tiny: a bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient television. Yet it was clean, and the air was scented with vanillaGran Faye loved to bake.
Tell me everything, Gran asked, setting a kettle on the stove.
Mabel spilled the whole story. Gran listened, shaking her silvered hair.
Oh, dear Men are like that. Proud. To admit somethings wrong feels as bitter as death.
So I have to wait for him to finally think of seeing a doctor?
No. Youve done right by leaving. Let him stew in his thoughts.
The first days passed peacefully. Mabel settled on a cot in the corner, helped Gran with the housework. Victor called now and then, but she let the calls go to voicemail.
Later Gran complained of chest pains. An ambulance whisked her away.
Dont worry, love, Gran whispered as she was taken, Im old, all sorts of things happen.
In hospital Gran recovered. Mabel visited daily, bringing homemade soup and news.
Hows Victor? Gran asked one afternoon.
Not much. Hes shouted at the phone a couple of times.
Did you answer?
Once. The second time I hung up. Why listen to the same old complaints?
Maybe hes finally gone to a doctor?
Unlikely.
In the wards hallway a crowd of visitors pressed together. Mabel turned to leave and almost collided with a young doctor in a white coatblond hair, kind eyes.
Excuse me, she said.
No harm done. Who are you looking for?
GransEphraim Kuznetsov, cardiologist.
Oh, Mrs. Faye! Shes a wonderful patient. Im Dr. Dennis Hartley.
Mabel, she offered, shaking his hand.
Pleasure. Dont worry, Gran will be fine. Shes just an older lady.
He talked about Grans condition, his hands steady, fingers clean. Mabel watched the long, graceful fingers, thinking how reassuring they seemed.
Thank you, she said.
He lingered the next day, then the day after, and Mabel began arriving early, hoping their paths would cross again.
Ellie, the doctor wants to know if youll be here today, Gran teased one morning, a mischievous grin on her face.
The doctor, huh? He asks, Hows your granddaughter? Hes a good bloke, andsingle.
Mabel blushed.
Gran, youre saying what?
What? Youre practically free. Your Victor
Im married.
Pfft!
A week later Dr. Hartley was transferred to another ward. On his final day he stopped by Mabel in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
Ill miss you too, she admitted.
He handed her a card.
If you ever need anything or just a chat.
Mabel took the card, their fingers brushing.
Thank you.
And one more thing he hesitated. Youre very beautiful, yet so sad. I hope that changes.
Gran was discharged and grew stronger, but Mabel still feared leaving her alone.
Victors calls became sporadic; sometimes she answered, sometimes she let it ring out. The last time he shouted into the handset, calling her a petulant girl. She hung up and never lifted the receiver again.
A month later a strangers voice rang through the phone.
Ellie? This is Dr. Hartleys mother. He gave me your number
Is something wrong?
No, just that tomorrow is his birthday and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Mabel hesitated, but Gran, having overheard, waved her on.
Go on, love! Whens the last time you had fun?
The birthday was delightful. Dennis was attentive but never overbearing. When he saw her off, he said, Id like to see you again. May I?
May I, she whispered.
They began seeing each other gently, cautiously. Dennis asked no questions, offered no explanationsjust his steady presence. Occasionally Mabel spent the night at his modest flat.
Then, unexpectedly, she discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Dennis asked when she told him.
Of course, she laughed, tears of happiness spilling.
A year later Mabel pushed a baby carriage along the garden path. Dennis walked beside her, chuckling at some private joke. Their son, Milo, cooed in his sleep.
Ahead, Victor and Agnes approached, their eyes widening at the sight of Mabel, the carriage, and Dennis.
Mabel kept her stride, head held high. In Victors gaze she read pain, regret, and a dawning understanding.
Agnes tugged Victors sleeve.
Come on, Victor.
He stood still, watching the happy tableauMabel, Dennis, baby Milorealising too late the path hed missed.
