Lightning (6 page)

She worked until one o'clock, and then she stretched and yawned, and put the files back in her briefcase. She was used to doing this. She got a lot of her work done at night, when it didn't interfere with anyone, and she could concentrate in the silent apartment.

Sam only stirred for an instant as she climbed back into bed next to him. He had never known she was gone, and when she turned off the light, she lay next to him, thinking about him, and about Annabelle, and about her trial the following week, and the new client she'd seen that day, whom she'd decided to decline, and the English prospective partner Sam had talked to her about. There was so much to think about, and to do, sometimes she almost thought it was a shame they had to waste time sleeping. She needed every hour she could get to do all that she had to do. She couldn't afford to give up a moment. But finally, in spite of everything on her mind, she drifted off to sleep beside Sam, and she was still dead to the world when the alarm went off the next morning.

Chapter 3

H
er day began, as it always did, with Sam waking her up, usually with a pat and a kiss, the radio was always on, and like most mornings, she was exhausted. Each day seemed to spill over into the following one, and she was usually tired from the endless demands on her, and the relentless stresses at the office.

She got up slowly, and went to wake Annabelle, who sometimes woke before they did, but this time she hadn't. She stretched sleepily when Alex kissed her awake, and Alex slipped into bed with her, and they giggled and talked until Annabelle was willing to get up. And then Alex took her to the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her hair, and her teeth, and then they went back to Annabelle's bedroom to pick up something for her to wear to nursery school. This morning's selection was a little outfit Sam had picked up on his last trip to Paris, it was denim with pink gingham trim, with pants, a little pink gingham shirt, and a matching jacket. It looked adorable on her with little pink high-top sneakers.

“Boy, you look cute today, Princess,” her father said admiringly, as Alex dropped her off in the kitchen for breakfast. Sam was already sitting there, shaved, showered, and dressed in a dark gray suit and a white shirt and navy Hermes tie, reading the
Wall Street Journal
, his bible.

“Thank you, Daddy.” He gave her cereal and milk, and put some toast on for her, while Alex went to shower and dress. They had the routine fairly well organized and were both flexible. When Alex had an early meeting, Sam did it all, and vice versa. This morning, they both had time, and Alex had already volunteered to take Annabelle to school. It was only a few blocks away, and she wanted to make up for the frenzy of the following week when she knew she couldn't.

Alex joined them in the kitchen forty-five minutes later, just in time to grab a cup of coffee and a piece of leftover toast. By then Sam was explaining the principles of electricity to Annabelle and why it was dangerous for her to stick a wet fork in the toaster.

“Right, Mommy?” Sam looked to her for reinforcement and she nodded and concurred as she glanced at the
New York Times
and saw that Congress had slapped the President on the wrist, and one of her least favorite superior court judges had just retired.

“At least I won't have to worry about him next week,” she said cryptically, with toast in her mouth, and Sam laughed at her. She had never been at her most coherent in the morning, though she made an enormous effort for their daughter.

“What are you up to today?” Sam asked her casually. He had a couple of important meetings with clients, and a lunch at “21” with the Englishman, which might shed a little more light on the situation.

“Nothing much. Friday's my short day,” she reminded him, but he knew. “I'm meeting with one of the associates to prepare for my trial next week. And then I've got a routine checkup at Anderson's, and then I'll pick Annabelle up and we're off to Miss Tilly's.” Annabelle's favorite day of the week was when she went to ballet school at Miss Tilly's. It was adorable, and Alex loved taking her, which was one of the reasons why she left her office early on Fridays, to be with her.

“Why Anderson? Something happening I should know about?” He looked concerned, but she didn't. Anderson was her gynecologist, and he was shepherding her through their attempts to have another baby.

“No big deal. I'm due for a Pap smear, no biggie. And I wanted to discuss the Serophene with him. It's a little hard to preserve my sanity, and my career, and still take the doses he's recommending. I was wondering if I should take less, or more, or what, or give it a rest for a while. I don't know. I'll let you know what he says.”

“Be sure to do that.” He smiled at her, touched that she was willing to go to such lengths to have his baby. “And good luck with the trial prep.”

“Good luck with Simon. I hope he either trips himself up, or makes you feel more confident about him.”

“So do I,” Sam said with a sigh, “that would certainly make life simpler. I just don't know what to make of him, or whether to trust my gut, or his pedigree, or my partners' instincts. Maybe I'm losing it, and I'm just getting paranoid in my old age.” He was turning fifty that year, and very impressed by it, but Alex did not think he was paranoid by any means, and he had always had brilliant instincts.

“I told you. Trust your gut. It's never let you down yet.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” They both picked up their coats, and Alex helped Annabelle into hers, and the three of them turned off the lights, locked the door, and waited for the elevator to take them to their busy days. Sam kissed them both on the street and then hailed a cab, and Alex walked Annabelle to school on Lexington, as Annabelle chattered to her, and they laughed and joked all the way there. Annabelle scampered into school easily, and Alex hailed a cab and headed downtown a moment later.

Brock was already waiting in her office for her, with all the pertinent files spread out, and there were five messages waiting on her desk, all unrelated to the Schultz case. Two of them were from the previous day's prospective client, and she jotted a note to herself to call him before she left the office.

As usual, Brock was extremely organized, and his notes on the case were extremely helpful. She thanked him, and praised him for his hard work, as they finished their work around eleven-thirty. There were still half a dozen things she needed to do before she left, but her doctor's appointment was uptown at noon, and she only had time to make a few phone calls.

“Anything else I can do to help?” he asked in his usual casual style, and she glanced at the notes on her desk, feeling frantic. She could come back to work, of course, that afternoon, and let Carmen take Annabelle to ballet, but she knew Annabelle would be disappointed. But she always seemed to be late or rushed, or trying to do too many things. Her life always felt like a relay race, with no one to pass the baton to. She certainly couldn't pass it to Sam, he had his own life to lead, and his own business headaches to attend to. At least she had Brock to help at the office. And as she thought of it, she handed him two of her messages, and asked him to return the calls for her.

“That would really help.” She smiled gratefully at him.

“Happy to do it. Anything else?” He looked at her warmly. He liked working with her, he always had, their styles were amazingly similar. It was like dancing with the perfect partner.

“You could go to my doctor for me for a checkup.”

“Happy to do that too,” he grinned, and she laughed in exasperation.

“I wish you could.” It almost seemed like a waste of time now. She was fine, and she knew it. She had never felt better. And she could talk to him on the phone about the Serophene. And as she thought of that, she glanced at her watch and made a quick decision. She dialed his number from memory, and was going to postpone the appointment, but the line was busy, and she didn't want to be rude and just not show up. He was good at what he did, and he had been very attentive to her. He had delivered Annabelle, and had been part of the three-year pursuit of pregnancy since then. It didn't seem right to just stand him up. She tried again, found the line still busy, and stood up and grabbed her coat, in spite of her irritation.

“I guess I'd better go, he probably has his phone off the hook,” she joked, “so he doesn't lose business. Call me if you think of anything we missed on the Schultz case. I'll be home all weekend.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll call if I need to. Why don't you just forget about it. Everything is really ready for him. And we can review it all on Monday. Enjoy your weekend.”

“You sound like my husband. And what are you going to do?” she asked as she shrugged into her coat and picked up her briefcase.

“Work here all weekend of course. What do you think?” He laughed.

“Great. So don't make me any speeches.
You
enjoy
your
weekend too.” She wagged a finger at him, but she was glad that he was so conscientious, and he knew it. “Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it.”

“Just forget it. It's going to go perfectly on Wednesday.”

“Thanks, Brock.” She flew out the door then with a wave at Liz, and five minutes later she was in a cab on her way to Park and Seventy-second. She felt a little stupid going to him, she had nothing new to report, and her complaints about the effects of the Serophene weren't new to him either. But she needed a Pap smear anyway, and it always soothed her to discuss her reproductive problems with him. John Anderson was an old friend, and he listened to her worries and complaints with concern and interest. And he was deeply sympathetic to her fear that she wouldn't get pregnant again. He reminded her that there was nothing wrong with either of them, but there was no denying that she hadn't gotten pregnant in three years. There was no specific medical reason for it, but her job was stressful certainly, and she was just that much older. They discussed the Pergonal shots again, their advantages and risks, and the possibility of in vitro fertilization, though at forty-two she was not thought to be an excellent candidate for it. They discussed
ZIFT
, and
GIFT
, and the newer technologies like donor eggs, which did not appeal to her at all. And in the end, they decided to stay with the Serophene, and he talked to her about trying artificial insemination with Sam's sperm the following month, if he'd agree, to give the
egg
and the sperm a better chance to “meet up,” as he put it. He made it all seem very simple, and a lot less upsetting than it could be.

And then he did a routine exam, and the Pap smear, and after looking at her chart, asked her when she'd last had a mammogram, because he didn't see the results for any the previous year, and she admitted she hadn't had one.

“I haven't had one in two years.” But she'd never had a lump or problem, and there was no history of it in her family. It was one of those things she just didn't worry about, although she was religious about getting annual Pap smears. And there were a variety of theories about mammograms at her age anyway, about whether to have one every year, or every other.

“You really ought to get one every year,” he scolded. “After forty, that's important.” He was of the “every year” school of thinking. He palpated her breasts, and found nothing there. She was small-busted, and had nursed Annabelle, all of which were supposedly good news against breast cancer, and she'd already been told that the hormones she was taking did not increase the risk of cancer, which she had found reassuring. “When are you ovulating again?” he asked offhandedly, glancing at her chart.

“Tomorrow or the next day,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Then I think you ought to get a mammogram today. If you get pregnant tomorrow, it could be two years before you have one. You won't want to get one while you're pregnant, and they're inaccurate while you're nursing. I really want you to get one today, and then it's done with, and we don't have to think about it for another year. How about it?”

She glanced at her watch, feeling mildly exasperated. She wanted to pick Annabelle up at school, and take her home to lunch, and then to Miss Tilly's. “I really shouldn't. I've got things to do.”

“This is important, Alex. I think you should make time for it.” He sounded unusually firm, which worried her, and she looked at him with a sudden question.

“Do you feel something that warrants it?” He had palpated her breasts very carefully, but he always did that. And he shook his head no in answer to her question.

“Not at all. But I don't want you to have a problem later. You don't want to be careless about mammograms, Alex. They're just too important. Please. I think you should do it.” He was so insistent that she didn't have the heart to ignore him, and he was right, if she got pregnant that weekend, however unlikely it might seem, she wouldn't be able to get a mammogram for a year or two, so it was probably a good idea to do it.

“Where do I have to go?” He jotted down an address that was only five blocks away. She could easily walk it.

“The entire procedure will take five minutes.”

“Will they give me the results right there?”

“Probably not. They collect the films for the doctor to look at, when he comes in, and he might not be there. He'll call me next week, and give me the results. And of course I'll call you if there's a problem, but I'm very sure there won't be. This is just good medicine, Alex. It's wise to do this.”

“I know, John.” She appreciated how careful he was, it was just annoying to have to make time, but she knew it was worth it.

She called Carmen from his secretary's desk and asked her to pick up Annabelle at school. She said she'd be home for lunch, and she would take her to ballet. She just had an errand to do on the way home. And Carmen said it was
no
problem.

Alex left Dr. Anderson's office then and walked briskly down Park Avenue to Sixty-eighth Street between Lexington and Park, and into what looked like a very busy office. A dozen women were sitting in the waiting room, and several technicians appeared frequently in the doorway to call their names and keep them moving. Alex gave her name to the receptionist, and hoped it wouldn't take too long, as two more women arrived. They seemed to be doing a booming business, and she noticed that with the exception of only one fairly young girl, most of the women were her age or older.