She did not think heart. And perhaps she never would have, had it not been for Dr. Cray asking Maribeth if she was okay.
The question itself was pro forma. But Dr. Cray—who had delivered Oscar and Liv and had seen Maribeth through so much—happened to ask it right as she was doing the breast exam, right as her fingers were gently probing the flesh of Maribeth’s left breast, just above her heart, which no longer hurt, but felt tight, drumlike, a sensation that called to mind her pregnant belly, leaving Maribeth no choice but to reply, “Well, actually . . .”
2
Two hours later, Maribeth was starting to panic.
After reassuring her that it was probably nothing, Dr. Cray had put Maribeth in a car service to the nearest ER and called ahead to let them know she was coming. “Just to get checked out, just to be on the safe side,” she’d said. Upon arrival, Maribeth had been tagged with a wristband, taped up with monitors, and shunted into a cardiac observation unit, where she’d been observed, primarily by an unending series of doctors, none of whom looked old enough to legally drink, let alone practice medicine.
In the car over to the hospital, she’d called Jason at work and gotten his voicemail. Remembering that he said he would be offsite for part of the day, she’d called his cell and had gotten voicemail again. Typical. He was allergic to talking on the phone. She hadn’t bothered leaving a message. After all, she was in a car service, similar to the one that had ferried her home from work last night. It hadn’t seemed unreasonable that this would all be over in an hour or two.
Instead, she’d texted Robbie, who had started babysitting the twins when they were a year old and Maribeth had started getting enough freelance work to justify hiring someone. Back then, Robbie had been a sweet, creative NYU theater major. Now she was a graduate, a bonafide actress with an erratic schedule. So Maribeth wasn’t entirely surprised when she’d texted back: Can’t. Got a call back!!!!!!! with a series of emoticons to underscore her excitement. And then she added a Sorry, with a few sad-face emojis to telegraph her regret.
Now it was getting close to two-thirty and the twins would be getting out of school soon with no one to pick them up. She tried Jason again. And got voicemail again. This time, there really was no point leaving a message. He wouldn’t be able to get to BrightStart in time. And Jason had unretrieved messages on his cell phone dating back to the last presidential election.
She called the school. The receptionist, a model-pretty but grossly incompetent young woman who regularly lost forms and checks, answered. Maribeth asked if it might be okay for Oscar and Liv to stay a little late that afternoon.
“I’m sorry but we don’t offer aftercare,” the receptionist said, as if Maribeth were some random stranger inquiring, not a parent who’d been with the school for more than a year now.
“I know that but I’m in, well . . . I’ve been unavoidably detained.”
“BrightStart’s policy clearly states pickup is no later than three-thirty,” she said, the connection hissing. The reception in here was terrible.
“I’m aware of the policy but this is an . . .” She hesitated. Emergency? It was looking less like her heart than like a colossal waste of time. “An unavoidable situation. I won’t be able to get there by three-thirty, nor will my husband or babysitter. I know the teachers stay later. Can’t Oscar and Liv just play in a corner? I can’t imagine I’m the only parent this has ever happened to.” Though, who knew? Maybe she was. The Tribeca neighborhood where the school was, and where Maribeth had lived in a rent-stabilized loft for more than two decades, had become one of the wealthiest zip codes in the country. Sometimes it seemed as if even the nannies had nannies.
The receptionist made an unpleasant sound and put Maribeth on hold. A few minutes later she returned, saying that one of the other parents had offered to take the twins.
“Oh, okay. Who?”
“Niff Spenser.”
Niff Spenser wasn’t technically a BrightStart parent. She had two BrightStart graduates, both now ensconced in a K-12 prep school, and a third child who would be starting next year. She volunteered in the “gap year,” as she called it, to “stay in the loop,” as if preschool had a steep learning curve you couldn’t afford to loosen your grip on. Maribeth couldn’t stand her.
But Jason wasn’t answering and Robbie was busy. For a flash, she thought of Elizabeth, but it felt inappropriate, less like calling a friend than a boss.
She got Niff’s number from the receptionist and texted her Jason’s information, promising he’d collect the twins before dinner. She texted Niff’s info to Jason and told him that she’d been held up and to coordinate a pickup with Niff. Please confirm you have received the text, she wrote.
Got it, he texted back.
And just like that, a decision seemed to have made itself. She would not tell Jason why she’d been held up until it was all over. And if it turned out to be nothing, maybe she wouldn’t tell him at all. Odds were, he wouldn’t ask.
Maribeth examined the monitor on her finger. A pulse ox. She recalled her father wearing one after his stroke. The monitors taped to her chest itched; she suspected it would take a good scrubbing tonight to get the glue off. “Excuse me,” she called to one of the ER residents, a stylish young woman who wore expensive shoes and spoke with a Valley Girl lilt. “Do you know when I might get out of here?”
“I think they, like, ordered another blood draw,” the doctor said.
“Another one. Why? I thought my EKG was normal.”