Emily Morrison clutched the medical reports in a tight fist, the paper damp with the sweat of her trembling hands. The corridor of the womens health centre was a throng of patients, leaving no room to move.
Emily Morrison! a nurse called, voice echoing off the plaster.
Emily rose, slipped into the consulting room. The doctor, a stout woman with tired eyes, took the folder from her, scanning the sheets in a practiced glance.
Have a seat, she said, her tone flat as she regarded the results.
Everything looks normal. Have your husband examined, she added.
A chill ran down Emilys spine. Victor? But he was
***
At home, Margaret, her motherinlaw, was mincing cabbage for a stew, the knife flashing as if she were cutting through enemies.
What news, dear? Margaret asked without looking up.
Im fine, Emily muttered, shrugging off her coat.
And why then Margaret finally lifted her eyes, a flash of worry in them. Victor needs a checkup.
The knife halted midair. Margaret straightened like a taut string.
What nonsense! My son is perfectly healthy. Its your doctors who dont understand. Women used to bear children without any tests in my day, she snapped.
Emily drifted into the drawingroom. On the settee lay two socksone blue, one black. She slipped them into the laundry basket without thinking. Over three years of marriage those mismatched socks had become a small, sad emblem of their life: never quite a pair.
Victor arrived late, his shoulders heavy.
Whats with the funeral face? he grumbled, flopping into a chair.
Victor, we need to talk, Emily said.
About what?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then tossed them onto the coffee table.
And now?
You need to be examined.
What for? Victor leapt to his feet, marching across the room. Im a healthy man! Look at me!
He did look robustbroadshouldered, darkhairedbut health is not always visible.
Please, Victor Emily pleaded.
Enough! he roared. If you dont want children, say it! Why all these theatrics with the doctors?
The sound of slippers shuffling in the kitchen drifted in. Margaret lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly she could hear each exhale.
I want children more than anything, Emily whispered.
Then why none? Are you hiding something? Did you have an abortion and now cant? Margarets accusation cut like a knife.
The blow struck Emily hard. She recoiled.
How could you?
How could I? Weve been married three years and have nothing to show for it! And now the doctors tell me Im? He stopped, fists clenching.
The door burst open as Margaret stormed in, as formidable as a tank.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all idleness. If you worked more and visited the doctors less, maybe shed be happy, she shouted.
Emily stared at Victor, who turned toward the window.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he rasped through clenched teeth. One thing I do know: a healthy man doesnt go to the doctor.
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
Exactly, son. This isnt a mans businessto be skulking around hospitals.
Something snapped inside Emily, a taut string finally giving way.
Fine, she said evenly.
The next day war broke out in their home. Margaret found fault in everything: salt spilled, pot not washed, dust on the dresser. Emily kept her mouth shut, grinding her teeth.
Maybe you shouldnt stay at home at all? Margaret sneered over dinner. Get a job instead of gallivanting to doctors.
Victor chewed his meatloaf, eyes downcast.
I work, Emily replied.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with this?
What does it have to do with it! My son is healthy and you want to paint him sick! When there are no children, the woman is blamed! Its always been that way! Margaret ranted.
Emily rose, her legs trembling.
Whats wrong with you? Margaret asked. You eat and then run off?
Im tired, Emily murmured.
Tired? From what? You only work three days a weekwhat kind of load is that?
Victor finally looked up, a flicker of pity in his eyes, but said nothing.
That night Emily lay listening to Victors snore. Once it had been a comforting lullaby, a sign of a loved one nearby. Now it grated on her nerves. How had she never noticed his stubbornness before?
At dawn she packed a few essentials into an old canvas rucksacktwo dresses, some underwear, a small vanity case.
Where are you off to? Margaret asked, tea cup in hand.
To my mothers.
For long?
I dont know.
Victor emerged from the bathroom, spotting the rucksack.
Emily, whats this?
Just what you see.
You serious?
What else? You wont see a doctor, my mother blames me for everything. Why stay here?
He stepped closer, voice low. Dont be daft. Where will you go?
To Grans house.
To that cottage? Its only a mile away.
Its cramped, but Im not angry.
Margaret sniffed. Fine, let her go. Shell learn how good life was for her when she lives with an old woman.
Victor shot his mother a furious glance but said nothing.
Emily hoisted the rucksack and headed for the door.
Emily! Victor called.
She turned. He stood in the hall, hair damp from a quick shower, looking bewildered.
When will you be back?
When you see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Grans cottage was tinyone bed, a table, two chairs, a motheaten televisionbut spotless and scented with vanilla, Grans favourite bake.
Whats happened, love? Gran asked, setting a kettle on the stove.
Had a row with Victor. May I stay here? Emily asked.
Of course, dear. Its a snug place, but youll manage.
The first days passed quietly. Emily settled on a folding cot in the corner, helping Gran with chores. Victor called now and then, but she let the calls go to voicemail.
Soon Gran complained of chest pains. An ambulance rushed her to the hospital.
Dont worry, dear, Gran whispered as they lifted her onto a stretcher. Im old; these things happen.
At the ward Gran improved quickly. Emily visited daily, bringing homecooked meals and news.
Hows your husband? Gran asked one afternoon.
Not much, really. Hes called a couple of times, just shouting into the phone.
Did you answer?
The first time, yes. The second, no. Whats the point of hearing the same complaints?
Maybe hell finally see a doctor?
Unlikely.
In the bustling corridor Emily nearly collided with a young doctor in a white coatblonde, brighteyed, with a gentle smile.
Excuse me, she said.
No trouble at all. Who are you looking for?
Gran, in the seventh ward.
Oh, Mrs. Eleanor Finch! A wonderful patient. Im Dr. Dennis Irving, cardiologist.
Emily, she replied.
Pleasure to meet you. Dont worry, Gran will be fine. Shes just a bit elderly. He spoke of her condition, his hands steady, nails trimmed neatly.
Thank you for your care, Emily said.
He lingered a moment longer each day, their conversations growing longer. Emily began to arrive early, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
Emily, the doctor wonders if youll be coming today, Gran teased one morning with a mischievous grin.
The doctor wonders?
Yes! He asks, Hows your granddaughter doing? Hes a good lad, and single too, Gran added.
Emily blushed.
Gran, what are you saying
Youre practically single now, love. That Victor fellow
Im married.
Pah!
A week later Dennis was transferred to another ward. On his last day he approached Emily in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
Ill miss you too, she admitted.
He handed her a card.
If you need anything or just want to talk, he said.
Emily took the card; their fingers brushed.
Thank you, she whispered.
Also youre very beautiful and rather sad. I hope it eases someday, he added, hesitating.
Gran was discharged and grew stronger at home, yet Emily still feared leaving her alone.
Victors calls grew erraticsometimes she answered, sometimes she let them ring out. The last time he shouted into the receiver that she behaved like a petulant girl. She hung up and never lifted the handset again.
A month later a strangers voice rang through the phone.
Emily? This is Denniss mother. He gave me your number
Is everything alright?
No, no! Just that tomorrow is his birthday and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Emily hesitated, but Gran, having overheard, waved her over.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had any fun?
The birthday went well. Dennis introduced Emily to his friends, was attentive without being overbearing. As she left his flat, he said, Id like to see you again, if thats alright?
Alright, she whispered.
They began to see each other cautiously, slowly, without pressure. Sometimes she would spend the night at his modest flat.
Then, unexpectedly, Emily discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Dennis asked when she told him.
Of course, she laughed, tears of joy spilling.
A year later Emily pushed a pram along a treelined lane. Dennis walked beside her, cracking jokes. Their son, little Milo, slept peacefully in the stroller.
Ahead, Victor and Margaret approached, eyes fixed on Emily. Both stopped dead, as if rooted to the spot.
Emily kept her pace, head held high. In Victors gaze she read the whole gamutpain, regret, understanding.
Margaret seized Victors sleeve.
Lets go, Victor.
He stood still, staring at the pram, at the smiling Emily, at Dennis. He finally grasped that he had missed his chance, but it was far too late.
