“Honestly,” I say, my voice even. “He really is just the night nurse.”
“OK . . .” she says.
And then I slump over and bury my red face in the palms of my hands. “Ugh,” I say, looking back up at her. “I have a massive, embarrassing, soul-crushing crush on my night nurse.”
I am eleven weeks pregnant. The baby is healthy. Everything looks good. The doctor, Dr. Theresa Winthrop, assured me that I am not the only woman who has gotten almost out of her first trimester before figuring out she was pregnant. I feel a little bit better about that.
On the way back to the car, Gabby stops me. “How are you feeling about all of this? You know that if you don’t want to, you don’t have to do this. Eleven weeks is early.”
She’s not telling me anything I don’t know. I’ve been pro-choice my entire life. I believe, wholeheartedly, in the right to choose. And maybe, if I didn’t believe I could give a child a home or a good life, maybe I’d avail myself of my other options. I don’t know. We can’t say what we would do in other circumstances. We can only know what we will do with the ones we face.
“I know I don’t have to do this,” I tell her. “I am choosing this.”
She smiles. She can’t help herself. “I have some time before I have to go back to the office,” she says. “Can I buy you lunch?”
“That’s OK,” I tell her. “I want to get home before Charlemagne pees all over your house.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “Mark didn’t say anything this morning about feeling itchy, by the way. I’m convinced it’s all in his head. I’m already planning to persuade him that we should keep both you and Charlemagne with us. We’re near his office, actually. Should we go surprise him for lunch and begin our campaign? Plus, I want to see the look on his face when you tell him where we’ve been this morning.”
“I’m honestly concerned that my dog is ruining your home.”
“What’s the point of owning your own place if you can’t get a little pee on it?” Gabby says.
“OK. But don’t come crying to me when she stains the hardwood.”
We get into the car and drive only a few blocks before Gabby pulls into an underground lot and parks. I’ve never seen Mark’s office before. It occurs to me that I also haven’t been to the dentist in a while.
“You know, while we’re here,” I say, “I really should make an appointment to get my teeth cleaned.”
Gabby laughs as we get into the elevator. She presses the button for the fifth floor, but it isn’t responding. The doors close, and we somehow end up going down to the lowest level of the garage. The doors open, and an elderly woman gets in. It takes her about thirty years.
Gabby and I smile politely, and then Gabby hits the fifth-floor button again, which now lights up, a bright and inviting orange.
“Which floor?” she asks the elderly lady.
“Three, please.”
We head up, and the door opens again on the floor we got in on. Gabby turns to me and rolls her eyes. “If I knew it was going to be ten stops on the elevator, I would have suggested we go eat first,” she whispers to me. I laugh.
And there is Mark.
Kissing a blond woman in a pencil skirt.
Gabby left at around ten tonight to go home to Mark. I haven’t seen Mark since I’ve been in the hospital. It’s not weird necessarily, because Mark and I were never particularly close. But it seems strange that Gabby is so often here on nights and lunch breaks and Mark hasn’t even stopped by. Gabby keeps saying that he’s been working late a lot. Apparently, he had to attend a dental conference in Anaheim this week. I don’t know much about the life of a dentist, but I always figured dentists were the kind of people who were home in time for dinner. I guess that’s not the case with Mark. Either way, his working benefits me greatly, since Gabby spends her time with me instead, which is really all I want anyway.
Since she left, I’ve just been reading the magazines she brought. I like these magazines much better than the British ones. Which is good, because I slept through most of the day today, so I know I won’t be tired for quite some time.
“I knew you’d be up,” Henry says when he comes into the room. He’s pushing a wheelchair.
“I thought you’d take the night off,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I went home this morning. Slept my eight hours, had some dinner, watched some TV. I got in a little while ago.”
“Oh,” I say.
“And I checked on all my other patients, and they are all sleeping and not in need of my assistance.”
“So . . . another lesson?” I ask.
“I’d call this more of an adventure.” He has a wild look in his eye. As if we are doing something we shouldn’t be doing. It’s exciting, the idea of doing something I shouldn’t be doing. All I’ve been doing is healing.
“All right!” I say. “Let’s do it. What do I need to do?”
He pulls the rail down on my bed. He moves my legs. We move the same way we moved this morning, only faster, easier, more familiar. I’m in the chair within a few seconds.
I look down, my legs in front of me, in the chair. Henry grabs my blanket and puts it in my lap.
“In case you get cold,” he says.
“And so I don’t flash anyone,” I say.
“Well, that, too, but I didn’t want to say it.” He stands behind me, attaches my morphine bag to my chair, and pushes me forward.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Anywhere we want,” he says.
We get out into the hallway.
“So?” he says. “Where first?”
“Cafeteria?” I say.
“Do you really want more cafeteria food?” he asks.
“Good point. How about a vending machine?” I offer.
He nods, and away we go.
I’m outside of my room! I’m moving!
Some doctors and nurses stand outside a room or two, but for the most part, the halls are empty. It’s also quiet except for the occasional regulatory beeping.
But I feel as if I’m flying down a California freeway with the top down.
“Favorite movie,” I say as we make our way around one of the many corners of the hospital.
“The Godfather,” he says with confidence.
“Boring answer,” I tell him.
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s obvious. Everyone loves The Godfather.”
“Well, sorry,” he says to me. “I can’t love a different movie just because everyone loves the movie I love.”
I turn back to look at him. He makes a face at me. “The heart wants what it wants, I guess,” I say.
“I guess,” he says. “You?”
“Don’t have one,” I say.
Henry laughs. “You can’t make me pick one if you don’t have one.”
“Why not? It’s a fair question. I just don’t happen to have an answer.”
“Just pick one at random. One you like.”
“That’s the problem. My answer is always changing. Sometimes I think my favorite movie is The Princess Bride. But then I think, no, Toy Story is obviously the best movie of all time. And then, other times, I’m convinced that no movie will ever be as good as Lost in Translation. I can never decide.”
“You think too much,” he says. “That’s your problem. You’re trying too hard to find the perfect answer when an answer will do.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. We’re stopped in front of a soda vending machine, but this isn’t what I meant. “Wait, I meant a snack machine. Not a Coke machine.”
“My apologies, Queen Hannah of the Hallway,” he says, and pushes us forward. “If someone asks you your favorite movie, just say The Princess Bride.”
“But sometimes I’m not sure it is my favorite movie.”
“But it will do, is what I’m saying. It’s like when I asked you what kind of pudding you liked, and you named all three flavors. Just pick a flavor. You don’t need to find the perfect thing all the time. Just find one that works, and go with it. If you had, we’d be on to favorite colors by now.”