Two of a Kind (27 page)

“Hey, careful. You might step on that.” Liam knelt down to pick up the black iPod Touch that had slid out of the hoodie's pocket and was now gleaming in the sun.

“Thanks. I, like, totally forgot I had it in there.”

“You
forgot
?”

“Yeah, well, I never use it anymore. I listen to music on my iPhone. . . .” His dad had upgraded him to the latest model just recently.

Liam was still looking down at the black rectangle. “Whatever,” he said.

Oliver stood there awkwardly. It was so obvious what Liam thought: rich kid who not only didn't appreciate having an iPod, but rich kid who didn't even
remember
having one. Liam did not live in a shelter; Oliver knew that much. But if his dad was bringing him to meals at the church, they couldn't have a lot of money. Liam handed the iPod to Oliver, who was about to put it in the pocket of his jeans but abruptly pushed it back. “Here, you take it.”

“What?” asked Liam.

“Keep it,” Oliver said.

“You're kidding, right?”

“I never use the thing. Like I said, I forgot I even had it.”

“Well, thanks, then. Thanks a bunch.” He ran his fingers reverently over the iPod and then carefully tucked it away before picking up his rake.

Oliver was about to do the same when he thought of something else. He checked the hoodie, and there in the other pocket were the earbuds. He handed them to Liam, who took them without a word. But when they broke for lunch—sandwiches brought by Miriam and Lee—Liam brought Oliver a sandwich, a bag of chips, and two cookies before taking his own food. Then he plunked down beside him. “So, like, what bands are you into?” he asked.

Going back on the subway that night, Oliver was tired but happy. The day outside, working, had been satisfying, and the unexpected incident of the iPod had made him feel like he'd done something, like, useful in the world. He and Summer were going to hang out tomorrow. And to his surprise, his dad was home and asked if he'd like to have dinner together.

“You mean one of those no-fat, no-taste meals Lucy makes?”

“I thought we could order in . . . Japanese, Thai . . . ?”

“Okay,” said Oliver, warming to the idea. “Where's the menu?”

But when the food came, Andy's phone buzzed and off he sprinted to the hospital, leaving Oliver to eat his spring rolls and pad Thai alone. When he finished, he felt restless. He didn't have any weed—he'd been too scared to score after his expulsion from school—and his dad's liquor cabinet did not hold much appeal. Neither did the zillion and two offerings on television, which he clicked through furiously before abandoning the remote in disgust. He tried the porn on his computer, but even his favorite sites felt all wrong. These girls were getting
paid
to do this shit. That had never mattered before, but tonight, it just turned him off.

The computer was still on, though, and on impulse, he navigated away from the picture of the naked girl on her knees, blowing some guy with a shaved head. He wanted to write something, but he wasn't sure what. It had to do with the day he'd spent, at least the part of it before he had gotten home and it had taken a nosedive. No, he was thinking about the first part, with that, like, hard, enamel blue of the sky above him, the smell of the soil, the bright burst of flowers—he didn't know their names—the way his back and shoulders ached, but in a good way, from all that raking and bagging. The thing with the iPod would be part of it. Summer too. Also a poem about gathering leaves by Robert Frost he'd read when he was still in school. He remembered the first few lines and easily found the rest online. Sweet. He'd call his essay or whatever it was “A Day in the Garden,” and it would be, like, a little of everything: memoir, journalism, even poetry. He started tapping, furiously, impatiently, on his laptop. Seven pages later he looked up. It was almost eleven o'clock. He went into the kitchen for a glass of water, returned to the laptop, and tapped out another five pages. Then he read it once, twice, a third time, making little changes as he did. And then, for no reason that, like, made any sense, he sent the whole thing off to his former English teacher at Morningside. She loved the paper he'd done on Robert Frost; maybe she'd like this too.

It was after midnight when he got into bed. Lying in the dark, he heard his dad's key in the lock, and a minute later, his dad's voice outside his door. “Oliver?” Andy called softly. “Are you still up?” But he didn't answer, and his father went away. The words he'd written seemed to carry him up and over some crest, and he fell asleep with their rhythm still tapping softly in his brain.

T
he sid
ewalk in front of the hospital was so jammed Andy had to fight his way to the entrance. Not only was there the usual crowd of paparazzi associated with any move Xiomara made, but there was also a construction crew; now that her delivery was imminent, she had paid the hospital some exorbitant sum of money for the privilege of redoing the VIP suite where she would give birth. The workmen were supposed to use the service entrance, but clearly some of them had not gotten the memo.

Andy was fed up with the media circus. It just made his job so much harder. But he knew he'd do the same thing next time he was asked. Once these women sat across from him, poured out their stories—miscarriages, stillborns, ectopics, moms who'd taken DES—he listed toward them like plants in the sun. “Excuse me,” he said, trying to get past a camera-wielding guy blocking his path. “Coming through.” The guy was planted like a redwood in the middle of the sidewalk. “I'm a
doctor
; I
work
here and I need to get in.” Still no response. “Could you please move?” Finally, acting like he was doing Andy a major favor, the guy stepped aside.
Je
-
sus.

The VIP suite, down at one end of the maternity ward, was sectioned off by double doors that could be locked. It was as spacious as some Manhattan apartments, with a kitchenette, a large private bath that had both Jacuzzi and sauna, ample closets, and three good-sized windows that the construction workers were now covering with plywood—Xiomara was taking precautions against an intrepid photographer scaling the walls of the hospital and finding a way to snap pictures of the birth itself. Wouldn't those fetch a nice price? Though he'd heard that she had agreed to sell the first shots of the baby to
People
or
Us
for some ungodly sum—this to appease the media gods no doubt—and then planned to donate the money to a women's hospital in Africa. There were also painters and a carpet installer at work; someone was overseeing the arrangement of various pieces of rented furniture as well as a fifty-odd-inch plasma TV. What a production.

Andy watched for a few minutes before heading out the door and back down the hall. It was excessive, to be sure, but if rich people wanted to pay for the right to redecorate, why not let them? The hospital could certainly use the additional revenue. He'd have to tell Christina about this—then he remembered he wasn't seeing Christina anymore. God, he missed her. Missed her more than he'd expected given they had only been seeing each other for a few months. She didn't have a big presence, but damn, she had an enduring one. He wondered whether she had started seeing anyone else; he hadn't, though one of his old college buddies, Joey Colabella, was trying to fix him up with someone. Andy agreed to meet the woman but then kept putting it off; he just didn't seem to have the heart. He was going to be seeing Joey and the rest of his college crew soon and he hoped Joey wouldn't harp on it.

He stopped in to the see the patient he'd delivered the day before; both she and her twins were doing well. Then he thought of Artyom Petrinovic and he decided to stop in at the neonatal ICU to see how he was doing; maybe Perry could update him. Perry wasn't around, but Andy managed to find a nurse he knew on this unit. “How's the Petrinovic baby?” he asked. “Last time I checked, he'd gained a couple of ounces.”

“You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?” It wasn't looking good.

“We lost him. Not even an hour ago. Dr. Perry was going to call you.”

“Jesus.” He shook his head. “Where are the parents?”

“They're here, filling out some paperwork. Come on, I'll take you.” She brought him to a small office where Valentin and Olga Petrinovic sat, a mountain of forms in front of them on the table.

“I just heard,” he said. “And I can't say how sorry I am.”

They swiveled, as if in unison, toward him. “Thank you, Dr. Stern,” Valentin said. His normally ruddy cheeks were pale and his eyes were red. Olga did not speak at all, but pressed her face into her husband's chest. There was something so intimate about the gesture that Andy felt he had trespassed simply by witnessing it. “I haven't spoken to Dr. Perry yet, but from all accounts, this was some horrible twist of fate, some fluke—”

“God's will,” Olga said bitterly. “If you believe in God. Which I do not.”

“What I mean to say,” Andy began again, “is that no one could have predicted this. No one. And if you ever consider trying again, I hope you'll let me be the one to help you through.”

Valentin put his arm around his wife. “If we try again . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

Andy was glad to get out of there. He was through seeing patients for the day and ready to head back home, but he continued west and stopped in at the florist's on Lexington Avenue. “Hello, Andy,” Gus said. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a bouquet of flowers, very simple, very elegant,” said Andy. “And all white. You can call Joanne in the morning; she'll give you the address.”

“Your friend in Brooklyn? Don't worry; I've got her on file—”

“No, not her,” said Andy. “This is a condolence bouquet. A patient's baby died.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Gus said. “I'll take care of it first thing. And when you need to send flowers to Brooklyn again—”

“I don't know when I'll be doing that,” said Andy. “Or if.”

“You look like you had a tough day. Rotten day, in fact.”

“That I did,” Andy said.

“I'm just about to close up here; what do you say we go and knock one down together? My wife's got her book club tonight, so I'm on my own.”

Andy waited while Gus closed up and then they sat together over a couple of beers. Gus ordered chicken potpie and Andy, broiled halibut. He didn't talk about the Petrinovics' baby or the split with Christina. Instead, they moved from the Yankees to the Jets, to soccer and then golf. It was only after they'd finished and Andy had handed his credit card to the waiter, waving off Gus's attempts to chip in, that the conversation turned somber again. “Your Brooklyn friend?” Gus said. “I thought she seemed . . . special. Like she might be the one.”

“You met her?” Andy said.

“She came into the shop, don't you remember? You sent her.”

“Oh that's right.” Christina had had a job helping stage an apartment for a Realtor; she'd needed some flowers and Andy had recommended Gus.

“I liked her a lot,” Gus continued. “I thought she was a real lady.”

“Maybe
too
much of a lady.” Andy looked down at the crumpled napkin in his hand. “We were just too different.”

Back in his apartment, everything was quiet and dark. He thought Oliver was out but decided to peek into his room just the same. He was almost startled to see his son, body curled like a comma, asleep on his side. His face was not visible, only the mass of blond curls; this was the way he used to sleep when he was a toddler. Andy was about to close the door quietly and leave, but some impulse sent him into the room, where he stood, hovering. He had an urge to kiss him on the top of his fair, curly head, and he gave in to it—lightly, stealthily—hoping he would not get caught.

The next day, he had to slog through his session with Cassie; he'd been chased out of a lousy night's sleep by a series of nightmares that involved tunnels, swamps, and an earthquake thrown in for good measure. But he got through the workout and, as always, felt better as a result. Oliver was up early and ate a bowl of cereal while Andy had his coffee; their conversation wasn't stellar, but it wasn't barbed either. He then walked briskly to his office feeling like he'd been restored, at least partially. Yeah, he was still dejected over the breakup with Christina and deeply saddened by the death of the Petrinovic baby. But today offered a fresh start.

His first patient of the day was Beth Klein. She was pregnant, just over three months, which meant she had passed safely through the most vulnerable stage. He wasn't taking any chances, though; he would continue to monitor her very closely. He sent her into the ultrasound room and waited a few minutes before following.

When he stepped inside, the lights were turned down and the screen and monitor all ready. Pam, the technician, had everything set up just the way he liked; the lubricating jelly had even been warmed, so he did not have to deliver the cold, rude squirt onto his patient's bare skin. “How are you feeling?” he asked, applying a smooth coat of the jelly.

“Fine,” she said. “But I'm being super careful, just like you told me.”

“Good,” he said. “Careful is good.” He passed the wand over her abdomen. The fetus was about three inches in length by now. The neck was developed even though its head was still disproportionately large; he could see it clearly on the screen. He could see the tiny arms and legs too. Everything looked just as it should. He moved the wand up and down, back and forth. He might even have been able to tell the sex if the legs had been splayed, but he didn't bring that up; some patients wanted to be surprised.

He put down the wand and reached for the Doppler. Last time Beth had been here, she'd heard the heartbeat for the first time—fast, like a horse galloping down the track—and she had wept with joy. He wanted her to hear it again today and he pressed the Doppler against her skin, trying to pick up the heartbeat. But in the contained space of Beth's uterus, there was only silence. Andy felt the first prick of anxiety.

“Is anything wrong, Dr. Stern?” asked Beth.

Andy said nothing. Though he tried to be so careful, she quickly picked up on his apprehension. They all did. And of course this was the one time the husband wasn't here.
Shit.
Even in the dim light he was aware of Pam watching intently; he did not want to catch her eye. He kept moving the Doppler. Nothing. He put it down and took a slow and exacting breath. “All right,” he said, touching her on the elbow. “You can get dressed now. I'll see you in my office. We can talk there.” Pam shot him a look; it was filled with dread and pity. He took a quick look at Beth's face; it was a mask of wordless panic.

Andy waited in the examining room, trying to compose himself. There had been a heartbeat two weeks ago, loud, clear, and steady. Those early fetal heart tones were much faster than those in an adult; they made a very distinct sound. So why couldn't he hear them now? He knew the answer but could not admit it to himself. There was no heartbeat because the fetus was dead.

“Dr. Stern?” Pam poked her head in the room. “She's waiting for you; I think she's crying.”

He sighed, a massive, resigned sigh. “I'll be out in a second,” he said.

“You couldn't find the heartbeat. . . .”

“Because there
was
no heartbeat.” Goddamn it to hell. Why couldn't this woman get a break?
Why?
She was doing everything right; he was doing everything right. There had been no bleeding, no spotting, no warning of any kind. But the little heart, no bigger than a pea, had stopped. Just like that. Nothing to do with her previous history. A
vanilla miscarriage
was the term. No particular reason. Statistically, a certain number of pregnancies ended that way. Though statistics would be of no consolation to Beth Klein.

When Andy finished delivering the crushing news, he was in serious need of a drink. He'd sat there while she got her husband—in Chicago on business—on speakerphone, and offered his support and sympathy during the tearful conversation that ensued. Then he'd had Joanne schedule Beth for a D & C. He did not want to discuss the next step yet. But he was not sure this woman could endure another pregnancy, and if he continued to feel that way, it would be his professional, to say nothing of ethical, obligation to tell her.

It was after five when he left the office, a mild and balmy evening. He was just deciding whether he wanted to stop in for that drink on his way home or wait until he got to the apartment when his phone buzzed. It was Xiomara. “I hate to bother you,” she began. “But I was wondering if I could see you? Like now?”

“Is there a medical emergency?” he asked. She'd been in fine shape the last time he'd examined her. But look at Beth—things could change quickly.

“It
is
an emergency,” she said. “Though I'm not sure it's medical.”

“Well, I was just leaving my office. I could go back and meet you there. Are you nearby?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

Andy walked to the office. It was not the first time he'd been “summoned” by a celeb patient. And it was not the first time he'd said yes. These women were used to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it. He'd had one who treated him like a glorified errand boy, another who berated him for the strict rules he'd imposed, never mind that they were for the safety of her baby. Xiomara wasn't like that, though. She'd always behaved respectfully and seemed to value his expertise. He thought of the VIP suite he'd seen at the hospital the day before and supposed that a woman who thought it necessary to install wall-to-wall carpeting—and then pay to have it taken out again—in a room she'd be inhabiting for three days max would not think it excessive to tell her doctor she needed to see him right away.

Joanne and Pam were gone; the office was quiet and the waning light filtered through the windows in the waiting room. He went and sat down at his desk. When the doorbell buzzed, he went to answer it. And even though he knew who would be standing there, he was unprepared for the effect she had. To accommodate the girth of her very pregnant belly, she wore a long, loose dress of some crinkly, golden material; above the low-cut neckline, the column of her firm, brown neck rose splendidly. Her hair had been piled high on her head, and her lips gleamed. She looked at the burly bodyguard who stood by her side. “Wait in the car, Felix,” she said. “I'll text if I need you.” Felix grunted in assent and turned to go. He was so muscle-bound that walking seemed like an effort.