beauty since he saw Angie in her little black dress standing at the front door of her house on the night of their first date. That was over six years ago and a lot of women had passed before his eyes, but none that could match this woman. Her almond shaped eyes, deeply dark and seductive; her shoulder-length hair, as black and shiny as a still lake on a starry night; her smile, full and wide, with perfect white teeth, like petals of a daisy. She reminded him, for some unknown reason, of a young Egyptian princess, like he imagined Cleopatra would have once looked, including her delicate olive skin and the dark beauty spot above her left lip. Their eyes met briefly, then quickly away.
He handed the last file to her. She thanked him for his help and stood up. Michael stared, unmoved from his hunched position as she walked toward the elevators with brisk strides, adjusting the white uniform on her curvaceous backside as she went. Standing slowly, he heard his name being shouted. It was Angie.
He searched the direction of her voice and saw her waiting near the reception beneath an information sign that hung on chains from the ceiling. Like this morning, she had her hair pulled into a bun and she was wearing her blue, two-piece work suit. The suitcase, however, had been swapped for a matching handbag. Her rimless glasses were also nowhere to be seen, probably replaced with contact lenses. She seemed relieved that he was here.
With a smile he waved and she waved in return. He was immeasurably glad to see that she was well, even more so that his earlier concerns about her wellbeing were probably nothing more than the result of an over-enthusiastic imagination. He quickly crossed the lobby to where she was standing and pecked a kiss on her red lips.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
For a brief moment she stared blankly into his eyes, misunderstanding the question, and then said, “Yeah, no more pain.” She seemed unaware that she was running her hand over the lower part of her belly. “I told you it wasn’t anything to worry about.”
He scrutinized her face, trying to ascertain whether she was telling the complete truth or not. He decided to let it pass and took her by the elbow. “Come on, then,” he said, eager for this to be over and done with. “Let’s not hang around in here. Let’s do it.”
They passed the shops toward a set of white double doors marking the west wing of the hospital: TO MATERNITY, NEONATAL AND PEDIATRIC WARDS, OUT PATIENTS AND ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT. Just as they passed beneath the sign, Angie stopped.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” she asked. There was hesitation in her voice. “I mean, I don’t want you – us – to do anything we might regret.”
Michael could sense her anxiety. He had the feeling that he if just said the word, she would be more than willing to leave with him right now. The idea was appealing, but he remembered what his father had said about women blaming themselves for being unable to conceive. The last thing he wanted was for Angie to spend the rest of her life mired in guilt. “I’m not going to pull out at this stage,” he said, smiling lopsidedly, “not unless you want me to.”
She bit her bottom lip, like someone given the opportunity to finally do something they had always desired but were struggling with the reality that it was actually happening, frightened by it coming true. He could see the ambivalence in her caramel eyes. Then she shook her head, and said, “No, Mikey. I want to make sure we have done everything we can before we give up hope.”
Five minutes later, they arrived at the outpatient department on the second floor. A plump, middle-aged nurse ushered them into a side door marked “Fertility Clinic”. Her hair, predominantly grey and streaked with black and white strands, was tied into a ponytail with a rubber band. Forty years ago, Michael thought, it would have been a pink ribbon. She had sad eyes, and thanking her with a smile and a nod he followed Angie into the waiting room. The clatter of fingers over a keyboard alerted them to a secretary with a blonde bob sitting behind the reception desk. They walked up to the desk and patiently waited for her to acknowledge their presence. She didn’t. From where he stood, peering down onto her, Michael could see dark roots sprouting out of her head like unwanted weeds. An appointment book was lying face up next to the keyboard.
The secretary continued to type, deliberately ignoring them, so Michael surveyed the waiting room. Around its perimeter, empty green-grey seats backed the white walls. A glass coffee table bedecked with a fern pot plant and a scattering of women’s magazines occupied the center of the room. At the far end, next to a large print of an aerial photograph of Adelaide, was a closed door, on which his gaze fell upon a gold plaque with black etching he could only just read: DR. B. ROUBEN. It was a name he wasn’t familiar with, and he pondered on its origins, whether it was French, or maybe some other European country.
In the meantime, the ingénue behind the reception desk was still typing on the computer. Angie absolutely hated rudeness and Michael could tell that her already thinning patience was being stretched to its limits. She cleared her throat, deliberately loud, and the keyboard fell silent, though several seconds passed before the secretary raised her eyes above the computer screen.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her brow gouged into a severe frown. On her right cheek was a large pimple that throbbed like a recent bee sting.
“Hello,” Angie said, sweetly, her lips twitching into a cynical grin. “My name is Angie Joseph. I believe I have an appointment to see the doctor at five.”
The secretary glanced at the clock above the entrance. “You’re late,” she said, and reached for the appointment book. “The doctor is a very busy man. He can’t be expected to wait for patients to arrive whenever they want.”
To Michael, it was clear this secretary felt “the doctor” was her private property. He had an idea she dreamed of jumping beneath the sheets with him and screwing his brains out, and for a brief moment he felt pity for this woman with the dark roots. She sighed loudly and flicked through her appointment book.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Angie Joseph.”
“Hmm. Yes, here it is.” She took a pencil and slashed through Angie’s name, almost, Michael thought, like an executioner. “Go and take a seat. I’ll call you when the doctor is ready.” Pointing with the pencil to the empty seats, she closed the book with a snap.
Michael followed his wife to a seat at the far wall beneath the aerial print of Adelaide. She snatched from the sprawl of magazines atop the coffee table a ragged copy of Woman’s World, on the cover of which a model smiled with an exotic beauty that reminded him of the nurse he had accidentally collided with in the lobby. He spied a glossy pamphlet lying on the seat to Angie’s left and picked it up as he sat down. At first he thought it was a package holiday brochure, but soon realized upon closer inspection it was, in fact, a brochure for the hospital briefly describing its facilities.
Angie flipped through the pages of the magazine while he read about the “impressive” services of St. Mary’s Hospital. No sooner had he finished, the door to the doctor’s office opened. Some cheery voices said goodbye to each other and then a woman and her husband walked out. Given the bulge of her stomach, Michael guessed she was almost ready to give birth. The moment the couple passed the secretary on their way out, Michael heard a muffled, static voice from the intercom behind the reception desk asking for the next patient to be brought in.
Unhappy and unsmiling, the secretary picked up a wafer thin medical file. As she walked toward them, Michael saw that it was marked ANGIE JOSEPH HT950765P in thick black marking pen, and that beneath her décolleté dress she also had a pair of surprisingly long and shapely legs. When she asked them to follow, it was not so much a question as an order. He took Angie’s hand and
