Mindbend

She turned to glance at the Sony clock radio her mother had given her. She hadn’t told Adam about the gift because Adam had become touchy over her parents’ generosity, or, as he termed it, their interference. Jennifer suspected this had become a sore spot with Adam only because of his own father’s stinginess. It was no secret to Jennifer that Dr. David Schonberg had been so set against Adam’s marrying her that when Adam had willfully gone ahead and done it, he’d been essentially disinherited. In one way Jennifer thought that she’d get a bit of pleasure knowing how mad the old doctor would be if she really was pregnant. Reluctantly, pulling her stiff joints into a steady position, she brushed out her lustrous long brown hair and carefully checked her face in the mirror to make sure its attractive oval planes and clear blue eyes did not reveal her anxiety. No need to upset Adam before she had to.

Forcing a cheerful smile, she sallied into the living room where Adam was going over his speech for the tenth time.

“Isn’t talking to oneself the first sign of dementia?”

teased Jennifer.

“Clever!” acknowledged Adam. “Especially since I didn’t think Sleeping Beauty could cogitate before noon.”

“How are you doing with the presentation?” she asked, putting her arms around him and turning her face up for a kiss.

“I got it down to the required fifteen minutes. That’s about all I can say.” He bent and kissed her.

“Oh, Adam. You’ll do just fine. I tell you what: Why don’t you give the presentation to me?” She poured some coffee and then took a seat in the living room. “What disease does the patient have?”

“Tardive dyskinesia is the current diagnosis.”

“What on earth is that?” asked Jennifer.

“It’s a neurological disorder involving all sorts of involuntary movements. It’s associated with certain drugs given for psychiatric problems . . .”

Jennifer nodded, trying to appear interested, but Adam was only a minute into his speech when her attention turned back to her possible pregnancy.

CHAPTER

2

Dr. Clark Vandermer’s office was just off Park Avenue on Thirty-sixth Street. Jennifer got there by taking the Lexington Avenue subway to Thirty-third Street and walking north. The building was a large apartment house complete with awning and liveried doorman. Entrance to the professional suites was to the right of the building’s main entrance. As Jennifer opened the front door, the slight smell of medicinal alcohol made her flinch. She had never enjoyed going to the gynecologist, and the idea that she might be pregnant made this particular visit especially upsetting.

Jennifer walked down a carpeted hallway, reading the names painted with gold leaf on the doors. She passed the entrances to the offices of two dentists and a pediatrician, and came to a door on which was written “GYN Associates.” Below this was a list of names. The second name was Dr. Clark Vandermer’s.

Jennifer took off the coat that she’d purchased secondhand in Soho for thirty-five dollars and draped it over her arm.

Under the coat she was dressed quite well in a smart Calvin Klein shirt-dress that her mother had recently bought for her at Bloomingdale’s.

As she opened the door, Jennifer remembered the office from her previous visits. On the wall opposite the entrance was a sliding glass panel beyond which sat the receptionist.

There were a number of women in the waiting room. Jennifer didn’t count but there had to be more than twelve. All were well dressed and most were either reading or doing needlepoint.

After checking in with the receptionist, who admitted that she had no idea how long the wait would be, Jennifer found a seat near the window. She picked up a recent copy of The New Yorker from the coffee table and tried to read, but all she could do was worry about Adam’s reaction if she were really pregnant.

It was two hours and fifteen minutes before Jennifer was finally called. She followed the nurse to an examining room.

“Take off all your clothes and put this on,” the woman said, handing Jennifer a paper cover-up. “I’ll be back and then the doctor will be in.”

Before Jennifer could ask any questions, the nurse was gone and the door closed.

The room was about ten feet square with a curtained window at one end, a second door to the right, and bare walls. The furniture included a scale, a wastepaper basket which was full to overflowing, an examination table with stirrups, an open locker, and a sink. It was hardly cozy, and Jennifer remembered that Dr. Vandermer was brusque to the point of rudeness. Adam had sent her to him because he was supposed to be the best, but “best” did not seem to include an evaluation of bedside manner.