Dr. Linden patted her arm. “It’s all right. This won’t hurt.”
Death without pain, Jennifer thought. That was nice. She loved her baby. She did not want him to be hurt.
Someone put a mask over her face and a voice said, “Breathe deeply.”
Jennifer felt hands raise the hospital gown and spread her legs apart.
It was going to happen. It was going to happen now. Young Adam, Young Adam, Young Adam.
“I want you to relax,” Dr. Linden said.
Jennifer nodded. Good-bye, my baby. She felt a cold, steel object begin to move between her thighs and slowly slide up inside her. It was the alien instrument of death that was going to murder Adam’s baby.
She heard a strange voice scream out, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
And Jennifer looked up at the surprised faces staring down at her and realized that the screams were coming from her. The mask pressed down harder against her face. She tried to sit up, but there were straps holding her down. She was being sucked into a vortex that was moving faster and faster, drowning her.
The last thing she remembered was the huge white light in the ceiling whirling above her, spinning down and going deep inside her skull.
When Jennifer awakened, she was lying in the hospital bed in her room. Through the window she could see that it was dark outside. Her body felt sore and battered, and she wondered how long she had been unconscious. She was alive, but her baby—?
She reached for the bell pinned to her bed and pressed it. She kept pressing it, frantic, unable to stop herself.
A nurse appeared in the doorway, then quickly left. A few moments later Dr. Linden hurried in. He moved to the side of the bed and gently pried Jennifer’s fingers away from the bell.
Jennifer grabbed his arm fiercely and said in a hoarse voice, “My baby—he’s dead!”—!”
Dr. Linden said, “No, Mrs. Parker. He’s alive. I hope it’s a boy. You kept calling him Adam.”
28
Christmas came and went, and it was a new year, 1973. The snows of February gave way to the brisk winds of March, and Jennifer knew that it was time to stop working.
She called a meeting of the office staff.
“I’m taking a leave of absence,” Jennifer announced. “I’ll be gone for the next five months.”
There were murmurs of surprise.
Dan Martin asked, “We’ll be able to reach you, won’t we?”
“No, Dan. I’ll be out of touch.”
Ted Harris peered at her through his thick spectacles. “Jennifer, you can’t just—”
“I’ll be leaving at the end of this week.”
There was a finality in her tone that brooked no further questions. The rest of the meeting was taken up with a discussion of pending cases.
When everyone else had left, Ken Bailey asked, “Have you really thought this thing through?”
“I have no choice, Ken.”
He looked at her. “I don’t know who the son of a bitch is, but I hate him.”
Jennifer put her hand on his arm. “Thank you. I’ll be all right.”
“It’s going to get rough, you know. Kids grow up. They ask questions. He’ll want to know who his father is.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Okay.” His tone softened. “If there’s anything I can do—anything—I’ll always be around.”
She put her arms around him. “Thank you, Ken. I—thank you.”
Jennifer stayed in her office long after everyone else had left, sitting alone in the dark, thinking. She would always love Adam. Nothing could ever change that, and she was sure that he still loved her. Somehow, Jennifer thought, it would be easier if he did not. It was an unbearable irony that they loved each other and could not be together, that their lives were going to move farther and farther apart. Adam’s life would be in Washington now with Mary Beth and their child. Perhaps one day Adam would be in the White House. Jennifer thought of her own son growing up, wanting to know who his father was. She could never tell him, nor must Adam ever know that she had borne him a child, for it would destroy him.
And if anyone else ever learned about it, it would destroy Adam in a different way.
Jennifer had decided to buy a house in the country, somewhere outside of Manhattan, where she and her son could live together in their own little world.
She found the house by sheer accident. She had been on her way to see a client on Long Island and had turned off the Long Island Expressway at Exit 36, then had taken a wrong turn and found herself in Sands Point. The streets were quiet and shaded with tall, graceful trees, and the houses were set back from the road, each in its private little domain. There was a For Sale sign in front of a white colonial house on Sands Point Road. The grounds were fenced in and there was a lovely wrought-iron gate in front of a sweeping driveway, with lamp posts lighting the way, and a large front lawn with a row of yews sheltering the house. From the outside it looked enchanting. Jennifer wrote down the name of the realtor and made an appointment to see the house the following afternoon.
The real estate agent was a hearty, high-pressure type, the kind of salesman Jennifer hated. But she was not buying his personality, she was buying a house.
He was saying, “It’s a real beauty. Yessir, a real beauty. About a hundred years old. It’s in tip-top condition. Absolutely tip-top.”
Tip-top was certainly an exaggeration. The rooms were airy and spacious, but in need of repair. It would be fun, Jennifer thought, to fix up this house and decorate it.
Upstairs, across from the master suite, was a room that could be converted into a nursery. She would do it in blue and—