Mindbend

CHAPTER 11

Jennifer never called, and the next morning Adam awoke still filled with anxiety. After shaving, he found himself pacing the bedroom floor. What was going on at the clinic? He was terrified at the thought of the strangely mechanical Vandermer continuing to treat Jennifer but didn’t know how to stop his wife from seeing him. If only he could figure out why the doctors changed so much after the cruises. If only he could go on one himself, maybe he’d be able to figure out a way of persuading Jennifer that Vandermer was dangerous.

Smyth had said his cruise was scheduled to leave from Miami this week. Adam wondered what would happen if he showed up instead.

“They’d tell me to get my ass off the boat,” he said out loud.

Suddenly he stopped pacing, went into the living room, and turned on the computer. By the time he got the phone hooked up to the modem, he was sure he was right.

In his usual two-fingered style, he called up Dr. Stuart Smyth’s file and was told again that the doctor was scheduled for a refresher course, a second cruise, that was to leave that very day.

Dressing quickly, Adam made up his mind. Christine had said he looked like Smyth, and he had seen the resemblance himself. He picked up the phone and dialed Miami information. When the operator answered, he requested the number for Arolen Cruises. The operator said in a nasal voice, “Sorry, but there is nothing listed under that name.”

Adam replaced the phone. Then he had another idea. This time he asked for a listing for the Fjord. No luck. There was a Fjord Travel Agency, but that didn’t sound promising.

Adam picked up his seersucker jacket and took it into the kitchen. The iron was on top of the refrigerator and he plugged it into the wall socket next to the sink. Folding a bath towel lengthwise, he put it on the kitchen card table and pressed out the jacket’s worst wrinkles. That was when he got the inspiration to call MTIC.

“There is no MTIC in the directory,” said the Miami operator, “but there is MTIC Cruise Lines.”

Elated, Adam took the number and tried to call. When a woman answered, he introduced himself as Dr. Stuart Smyth and asked if he were still expected on today’s cruise. His secretary had failed to confirm his reservation.

“Just one moment please,” said the woman. Adam could hear the faint sounds of a computer keyboard.

“Here it is,” she said. “Stuart Smyth of New York City. You’re expected with today’s OB-GYN group. You should be on board no later than 6:00 P.M.”

“Thank you,” said Adam. “Can you tell me one other thing? Do I need a passport or anything?”

“Any type of identification is fine,” said the woman. “You just need proof of citizenship.”

“Thanks,” said Adam, hanging up. How the hell was he going to get proof of Smyth’s citizenship?

For ten minutes Adam sat on the edge of the bed trying to make a decision. Except for the passport problem, the idea of impersonating Smyth on the Arolen cruise had a lot of appeal. There was no doubt in Adam’s mind that in order to change Jennifer’s impression of Vandermer he’d have to have damn good evidence of the man’s instability. Going on the cruise seemed the most promising course of action.

But could he impersonate a practicing OB man? And what if there were people on the cruise who were personal friends of Smyth? Impulsively, Adam decided he’d give it a try. What could he lose? If he ran into a personal friend of Smyth, he’d tell him that Smyth had sent him in his place. And if Arolen found him out, he’d simply say that he couldn’t function as a rep without more information. The worst they could do was fire him.

With the decision made, Adam jumped into action. His first call was to Clarence McGuire, whom he told that a family crisis would take him out of town for a few days. Clarence was instantly sympathetic, hoping that things would work out.

Adam’s next call was to the airlines to see what flight he could get to Miami. Between Delta and Eastern, he could go anytime he chose.

Finally, he worked up his courage to call Jennifer. His mouth went dry as he heard the connection go through. One ring. Another. Then Mrs. Carson picked up the phone.

Using all the graciousness he could muster, Adam said good morning and asked if he could talk with his wife.

“I’ll see if she is awake,” said Mrs. Carson coolly.

Adam was relieved when Jennifer said hello.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” said Adam.

“I wasn’t asleep,” said Jennifer.

“Jennifer,” said Adam. “I’m sorry about the other night. I don’t know what happened to me. But I want you to come home. The only trouble is that I have to go out of town for a few days for work.”

“I see,” said Jennifer.

“I’d prefer not to explain right now, but it is probably best for you to stay with your parents for a few more days.”

“I suppose you’re going down to Puerto Rico,” said Jennifer icily.

“No, I’m not,” said Adam.

“Where are you going?” asked Jennifer.

“I’d rather not say,” said Adam.

“Fine,” said Jennifer. “Have it your way. Incidentally, just in case you’re interested, I had the amniocentesis yesterday.”

“I know,” said Adam.

“How did you know?” asked Jennifer. “I tried calling you from seven in the morning on. You were never in.”

Adam realized that Mrs. Carson had not even told Jennifer that he’d phoned the previous evening. Getting his wife back was going to be an uphill battle.

“Well, you have a wonderful time on your trip,” said Jennifer coldly, and she hung up before Adam could even tell her how much he loved her.

Jennifer put down the phone wondering what could be so important that Adam would leave her at this difficult time. It had to be Puerto Rico, and yet Adam had never lied to her before.

“Anything new?” questioned Mrs. Carson.

Jennifer turned to face her parents.

“Adam is going on some kind of trip,” she said.

“How nice for him,” said Mrs. Carson. “Where is he going?”

“I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Could he be having an affair?” asked Mrs. Carson.

“By George, he better not be,” said Mr. Carson, who lowered his Wall Street Journal and glared at the two women.

“He’s not having an affair,” said Jennifer irritably.

“Well, he’s surely acting inappropriately,” said her mother.

Jennifer got some Raisin Bran cereal and cut up a banana. Since she’d started the pregdolen, her nausea had all but disappeared. She carried her breakfast to the table and sat in front of the TV.

The phone rang again, and she leaped up, thinking it was Adam calling, having changed his mind about the trip. But when she picked up the phone, it was Dr. Vandermer on the other end.

“I’m sorry to be calling so early,” he said, “but I wanted to be certain to get you.”

“It’s all right,” said Jennifer, her stomach doing a flip-flop.

“I’d like you to come back to the clinic today,” said Dr. Vandermer. “I need to talk to you. Could you make it this morning some time around ten? I’m afraid I have surgery this afternoon.”

“Of course. I’ll be there at ten,” said Jennifer. She hung up the phone, afraid to ask what he wanted to talk about.

“Who was it, dear?” asked Mrs. Carson.

“Dr. Vandermer. He wants to see me this morning.”

“What about?”

“He didn’t say,” said Jennifer softly.

“Well, at least it can’t have anything to do with the amniocentesis,” said Mrs. Carson. “He told us the results take about two weeks.”

Jennifer dressed quickly, her mind trying to guess what Dr. Vandermer was going to tell her. Her mother’s comment about the amniocentesis test made her feel a bit better. The only other thing she could think of was that one of the blood tests had shown she was low on iron or some vitamin.

Mrs. Carson insisted on driving Jennifer to the Julian Clinic and going in with her for her appointment. They were escorted immediately to Dr. Vandermer’s new office, which smelled of fresh paint.

Dr. Vandermer stood when they entered and motioned for Jennifer and her mother to take the two chairs in front of his desk. Looking at his face, Jennifer knew that something was seriously wrong.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said in a voice that betrayed no emotion.

Jennifer felt her heart leap. All at once the room felt intolerably hot.

“Normally it takes two weeks to get the results of an amniocentesis,” said Dr. Vandermer. “The reason is that tissue cultures have to be made in order to see the nuclear material properly. Occasionally, however, the abnormality is so apparent that the free cells in the amniotic fluid tell the story. Jennifer, like your mother, you are carrying a baby with Down’s syndrome. The karyotype is of the most severe type.”

Jennifer was speechless. There had to be a mistake. She couldn’t believe that her body would deceive her and produce some sort of monster.

“Does that mean that the child won’t live more than a few weeks?” Mrs. Carson asked, struggling with her own memories.

“We believe that the infant wouldn’t survive,” said Dr. Vandermer. He walked over to Jennifer and put his arm on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news. I would have waited for the final results, but it is better for you to know now. It gives you more time to make a decision. It may not seem much consolation to you, but try to remember that you are a very young woman. You can have lots of other children and, as you mentioned yourself, this is not the best time for you and Adam to have a baby.”

Jennifer listened in shocked silence. Dr. Vandermer turned and caught Mrs. Carson’s eye.

“I think you should go home and discuss the situation with your family,” Dr. Vandermer continued. “Believe me, it’s better to come to a decision now than after a lengthy and difficult labor and delivery.”

“I can vouch for that,” said Mrs. Carson. “Dr. Vandermer’s right, Jennifer. We’ll go home and talk. Everything is going to work out fine.”

Jennifer nodded and even managed a smile for Dr. Vandermer, whose face finally revealed a trace of emotion.

“Please call me whenever you want,” he said as they left.

The two women passed through the clinic, descended into the parking garage, and retrieved their car in silence. As they drove up the ramp, Jennifer said, “I want to go home to my apartment.”

“I thought we’d go right back to New Jersey,” said Mrs. Carson. “I think your father should know about this.”

“I’d like to see Adam,” said Jennifer. “He didn’t say what time he was leaving. Maybe I can catch him.”

“Maybe we should call first,” said Mrs. Carson.

“I’d prefer just to go,” said Jennifer.

Deciding this was not the time to argue, Mrs. Carson drove her daughter downtown. When they went up to the apartment, Jennifer saw that Adam’s two suitcases were still in the closet and none of his clothes seemed to be missing. She felt reasonably confident that he had not left.

“Well, what do you want to do?” asked her mother.

“Wait and talk to him,” said Jennifer in a tone that brooked no further debate.

“I’m going to have to charge you a fee if this happens again,” teased the porter at the university information booth.

Adam took the white coat and slipped it on.

“I just can’t stay away from this place. I’m homesick.” The sleeves were two inches too short and there was a big yellow stain on the pocket. “Is this the best you can do?” he joked.

Confident in his medical disguise, Adam took the elevator to Neurology, went directly to the nurses’ station, smiled at the ward clerk, and again pulled Smyth’s chart from the rack.

All he really wanted was the information on the front sheet. Turning his back to the clerk, Adam copied down all the personal information he could find on Smyth: health insurance information, social security number, wife’s name, and birth date. That was a good start.

Returning the chart to the rack, Adam took the elevator back down to the library on the main floor. A research assistant directed him to a compendium of American physicians. Looking up Stuart Smyth, Adam checked the schools the man had attended from college through residency and was interested to note that he’d done a year of surgical training in Hawaii. Adam also memorized all of Smyth’s professional associations.

His final act before leaving the medical center was to call Christine at GYN Associates under the pretext of setting up an appointment with Baumgarten and Stens the following week. He managed to learn that Smyth was an avid tennis player, a lover of classical music, and a movie buff.

Back in the Buick, Adam drove across town and tumed right on Eighth Avenue. As he approached Forty-second Street, the city changed from office buildings and warehouses to garish movie theaters with harsh neon lights and adult bookstores advertising twenty-five-cent X-rated flicks. Streetwalkers in high-heeled sandals and miniskirts beckoned to him as he parked his car.

Adam wandered east, lingering in front of magazine stands. After many offers of drugs, he was approached by a thin man wearing one of those narrow mustaches that Adam remembered from thirties films.

“You interested in a real lady?” asked the man.

Adam wondered if a real lady was the opposite of the kind that you had to inflate. He was tempted to ask but wasn’t sure if the thin man would appreciate his humor.

“I’m interested in some ID cards,” said Adam.

“What kind?” asked the man as if it were an everyday request.

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a driver’s license and a voter’s registration card.”

“A voter’s registration card?” repeated the thin man. “I never heard of somebody asking for that.”

“No?” said Adam. “Well, I’m sort of new at this. I want to go on a cruise, and I don’t want anyone to know who I really am.”

“Then you want a friggin’ passport,” said the man. “When do you need it?”

“Right now,” said Adam.

“I trust you got cash.”

“Some,” said Adam. He’d been careful to lock most of his money, plus his own identification cards, into the glove compartment of the car.

“It will cost you twenty-five for the driver’s license and fifty for the passport,” said the thin man.

“Wow,” said Adam. “I only have fifty on me.”

“Too bad,” said the man. He turned and started toward Eighth Avenue.

Adam watched him for a moment, then continued walking toward Broadway. After a few steps he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sixty bucks for both,” said the thin man.

Adam nodded.

Without another word the man led Adam back toward Eighth Avenue and into one of the many stores that were plastered with hand-lettered signs reading “Going Out of Business! Last Three Days! Everything Reduced!” Adam noticed that the “Last Three Days!” sign was brittle with age.

The store sold the usual assortment of cameras, calculators, and videotapes and a handful of “authentic Chinese ivories.” A center table supported a line of miniature Empire State Buildings and Statues of Liberty, plus coffee mugs with “I Love New York ” on the sides.

None of the salesmen even looked up as the thin man led Adam through the length of the store and out the rear door. In the back of the building was a hall with doors on either side. Adam hoped he wasn’t getting himself into something he couldn’t handle. The thin man knocked on the first door, then opened it and motioned Adam into a small, dark room.

In one corner was a Polaroid camera on a tripod. In another was a drafting table, set under a bright fluorescent light. A man with a shiny bald head sat at the table. He was wearing one of those green visors Adam remembered seeing on cardplayers in old westerns.

The thin man spoke. “This kid wants a driver’s license and a passport for sixty bucks.”

“What name?” asked the man with the green visor.

Adam quickly gave Smyth’s name, address, birth date, and social security number.

There was no more talk. Adam was positioned behind the Polaroid camera and several pictures were taken. Next, the man with the green visor went over to the drafting table and began to work. The thin man leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

Ten minutes later Adam walked back through the store, clutching his phony IDs. He didn’t open them until he reached the car, but when he did he found they looked entirely authentic. Pleased, he turned the car toward the Village. He had only an hour or so to pack.

When he reached the apartment, he was surprised to find the police lock unengaged. He pushed open the door and saw Jennifer and her mother.

“Hi,” he said, quite amazed. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I was hoping to catch you before you went to Puerto Rico,” said Jennifer.

“I’m not going to Puerto Rico,” said Adam.

“I don’t think you should be going anyplace,” said Mrs. Carson. “Jennifer has had a shock and she needs your support.”

Adam put his things on the desk and turned to Jennifer. She did look pale.

“What’s the matter?” asked Adam.

“Dr. Vandermer gave her some bad news,” replied Mrs. Carson.

Adam did not take his eyes from Jennifer’s face. He wanted to tell Mrs. Carson to shut up, but instead he stood directly in front of his wife. “What did Dr. Vandermer say?” he asked gently.

“The amniocentesis was positive. He said our baby is severely deformed. I’m so sorry, Adam. I think I’ll have to have an abortion.”

“That’s impossible,” said Adam, slamming his fist into his palm. “It takes weeks to do the tissue cultures after an amniocentesis. What the hell is wrong with this Vandermer?”

Adam strode to the phone.

Jennifer burst into tears. “It’s not Dr. Vandermer’s fault,” she sobbed, explaining that the abnormality was so severe that tissue cultures weren’t needed.

Adam hesitated, trying to remember what he’d read. He couldn’t recall any cases where tissue culture wasn’t needed.

“That’s not good enough for me,” he said, putting through a call to the Julian Clinic. When he asked for Dr. Vandermer, he was put on hold.

Mrs. Carson cleared her throat. “Adam, I think that you should be more concerned about Jennifer’s feelings than about Dr. Vandermer.”

Adam ignored her. The Julian Clinic operator came back on the line and told Adam that Dr. Vandermer was doing a procedure but would call back. Adam gave his name and number and then dropped the receiver into its cradle.

“This is crazy,” he mumbled. “I had a strange feeling about the Julian Clinic. And Vandermer…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“I think the Julian Clinic is one of the finest hospitals I’ve ever been in,” said Mrs. Carson. “And except for my own doctor, I’ve never met a more caring man than Dr. Vandermer.”

“I’m going over there,” said Adam, ignoring his mother-in-law. “I want to talk to him in person.” Picking up his keys, Adam strode toward the door.

“What about your wife?” demanded Mrs. Carson.

“I’ll be back.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs. Carson was furious. She couldn’t believe that she had originally favored the marriage. Hearing Jennifer weep, she decided it was better not to say anything. She went over to her daughter, murmuring, “We’ll go home. Daddy will take care of everything.”

Jennifer didn’t object, but when she got to the door, she said, “I want to leave Adam a note.”

Mrs. Carson nodded and watched Jennifer write a short note at Adam’s desk, then put it on the floor by the door. It said simply: “Gone home. Jennifer.”

Adam drove uptown like an aggressive New York City cabbie, pulled directly in front of the Julian Clinic, and jumped out of the car. A uniformed security guard tried to stop him, but Adam merely called over his shoulder that he was Dr. Schonberg and it was an emergency.

When he reached Gynecology, the receptionist acted as if he were expected.

“Adam Schonberg,” she said. “Dr. Vandermer said for you to wait in his office.” She pointed down another corridor. “It’s the third door on the left.”

Adam thanked the girl and went to the office she’d indicated. The room was impressive, the shelves filled with books and medical journals. Adam glanced at a row of model fetuses, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to vandalize the place. He wandered over to the desk. It was a large, inlaid affair with claw feet. On top was a pile of typed operative notes awaiting signatures.

Dr. Vandermer came in almost immediately. He was carrying a manila folder under his arm.

“Won’t you sit down?” he suggested.

“No, thank you,” said Adam. “This won’t take long. I just wanted to confirm my wife’s diagnosis. I understand you believe she’s carrying a chromosomally defective child.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Dr. Vandermer.

“I thought it took weeks to do tissue cultures,” said Adam.

Dr. Vandermer looked Adam directly in the eye. “Normally, that is true,” he said. “But in your wife’s case there were plenty of cells for us to examine directly in the amniotic fluid. Adam, as a medical student, I’m sure you understand these things happen. But as I told your wife, you’re both young. You can have other babies.”

“I want to see the slides,” said Adam, preparing himself for an argument. But Vandermer just nodded and said, “Why don’t you follow me?”

Adam began to wonder if he’d been too hasty in his judgment. The man seemed genuinely sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.

On the fourth floor Vandermer led Adam to the cytology lab. Adam blinked as they went through the door. Everything was white: walls, floor, ceiling, and countertops. At the back of the room was a lab bench with four microscopes. Only one was in use, and a middle-aged brunette woman looked up as Dr. Vandermer approached.

“Cora,” he asked, “I hate to bother you, but could you get us the slides on Jennifer Schonberg?”

Cora nodded and Vandermer motioned for Adam to sit down at a teaching microscope with dual viewing heads.

“I don’t know if you wanted to see the B scan ultrasonography or not,” said Dr. Vandermer, “but I brought it anyway.” He opened the folder he’d been carrying and handed the images to Adam.

As a medical student, Adam had not had any experience with ultrasonography, and the pictures looked like inkblots to him. Dr. Vandermer took the photo that Adam was examining, turned it over, and outlined the developing fetus with the tip of his finger. “The technique is getting better and better,” he said. “Here you can plainly see testicles. A lot of times at this age you can’t tell the sex by ultrasound. Perhaps this little guy takes after his father.”

Adam realized Vandermer was doing his best to be friendly.

The door swung open and Cora reappeared with a tray of slides. Each had a tiny cover glass over its center. Dr. Vandermer selected one that had been labeled with a grease pencil. He placed it under the optical head of the microscope, put a drop of oil on it, and lowered the oil-immersion lens. Adam sat up and looked through the eyepiece.

Dr. Vandermer explained that the specimens had been specially stained to make viewing of the chromatin material as easy as possible. He said they had to find a cell in the process of division. Finally, he gave up and asked for Cora’s assistance.

“I should have let you do this in the first place,” he said, changing seats with the woman.

It took Cora about thirty seconds to find an appropriate cell. By manipulating the hairline pointer, she showed Adam the chromosomal abnormality.

Adam was crushed. He had hoped the results would be ambiguous, but even to his inexperienced eye, the problem was clear. Cora continued pointing out other minor problems that had been noticed, including the fact that one of the X chromosomes also appeared slightly abnormal.

Finally, Cora asked if he would like to see another case that demonstrated a more common type of Down’s syndrome.

Adam shook his head. “No, but thanks for your time.” He put both hands on the lab bench and started to rise. Halfway up he stopped. Something was wrong. He leaned forward and peered into the microscope. “Show me that X chromosome abnormality again,” said Adam.

Cora leaned forward and put her face to the eyepiece. Soon the hairline pointer moved to a pair of identical chromosomes. Cora started to explain the suspected abnormality, but Adam interrupted her.

“Are those X chromosomes?” asked Adam.

“Absolutely,” said Cora. “But…”

Adam again interrupted her and asked Dr. Vandermer to take a look. “Do you see the X chromosomes?”

“I do,” said Dr. Vandermer, “but like you, I can’t appreciate the abnormality that Cora is talking about.”

“I’m not concerned about the abnormality,” said Adam. “I’m concerned about the two X chromosomes. Just a moment ago on the ultrasound image you pointed out that my child is a boy. This slide we are looking at is a girl.”

Dr. Vandermer had straightened up when Adam had begun to talk. His face wiped clean of all expression.

Cora immediately turned to the microscope. “He’s right,” she said. “This slide is of a girl.”

Slowly Dr. Vandermer raised his right hand to his face. Cora flipped over the edge of the slide tray and checked the number. Then she checked the number on the slide. They matched. Getting the main register, she checked the number there. The name was Jennifer Schonberg. Looking very pale, Dr. Vandermer told Adam to wait for a moment.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” asked Adam when the doctor had gone.

“Never,” said Cora.

Dr. Vandermer reappeared with a large man in tow. Like Dr. Vandermer, he was wearing a long white coat. Dr. Vandermer introduced him to Adam as Dr. Ridley Stanford. Adam recognized the name. He was the author of the textbook on pathology that Adam had used during his second year of medical school, and had been chief of pathology at University Hospital.

“This is a disaster,” said Dr. Vandermer after Dr. Stanford had taken a look.

“I agree,” said Dr. Stanford, his voice as emotionless as Vandermer’s. “I can’t imagine how this could have happened. Let me make some calls.”

Within a few minutes there were ten other people crowded around the microscope.

“How many amniocenteses were done yesterday?” asked Dr. Vandermer.

Cora glanced at the book. “Twenty-one,” she said.

“They all have to be repeated,” said Dr. Vandermer.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Stanford.

Turning to Adam, Dr. Vandermer said, “We owe you a vote of thanks.” The others echoed his sentiments.

Adam felt as if a huge black cloud had been lifted from over his head. His child was not some kind of genetic monster. The first thing he wanted to do was call Jennifer.

“We would be honored if you would stay for lunch,” said Dr. Stanford. “There’s a fabulous pathology lecture on retroperitoneal tumors which you might find interesting.”

Adam excused himself and hurriedly descended to the main lobby. He couldn’t believe that in the face of the current disaster they wanted him to stay for lunch and a lecture! There was no question but the place was weird. Passing the front door en route to the telephone, Adam was pleased to see that his car was still where he’d left it.

Adam first called the apartment, but there was no answer. Thinking that Jennifer might have gone home with her mother, he dialed the Englewood number, but there was no answer there, either.

After a moment’s hesitation, Adam decided to go back to the apartment. He ran out of the Julian Clinic, got in his car, and started for home.

His excitement at the good news was beginning to give way to a heightened sense of uneasiness about the Julian Clinic and Dr. Vandermer. It had been only a lucky break that he’d noticed the discrepancy. What if he hadn’t and Jennifer had had an abortion!

Adam felt all his anxieties return in a rush. He’d narrowly averted one catastrophe, but unless he could get Jennifer to switch from both Vandermer and the clinic, there might be more. For a while he’d abandoned the thought of the Arolen cruise. Now it looked again as if it might be the only way to get the evidence to prove Vandermer was dangerous. Adam looked at his watch. It was twelve-twenty. Still time to make the Fjord by six o’clock.

Reaching his apartment door, Adam was disappointed to find the police lock engaged. He found Jennifer’s impersonal note and decided to call Englewood once again. He was pleased when Jennifer answered instead of her mother.

“I’ve got good news and bad.”

“I’m in no mood to play games,” said Jennifer.

“The good news is that they got your specimen mixed up at the clinic. Someone else’s baby has the bad chromosomes. They mixed up the slides.”

For a moment Jennifer was afraid to ask if Adam were telling the truth or if this were just some sort of plot to make her lose faith in Vandermer. The news seemed too good to be true.

“Jennifer, did you hear me?”

“Is it true?” asked Jennifer tentatively.

“Yes,” said Adam, and he described how he’d noticed the discrepancy in relation to the sex of the cell.

“What did Dr. Vandermer say?” asked Jennifer.

“He said that all the amniocenteses done that day have to be repeated.”

“Is that the bad news you were referring to?” asked Jennifer.

“No,” said Adam. “The bad news is that I’m still going out of town, unless you promise me something.”

“What do I have to promise?” asked Jennifer skeptically.

“Promise to see Dr. Wickelman for the remainder of your pregnancy and stop taking pregdolen.”

“Adam…” said Jennifer, drawing out his name impatiently.

“I’m more convinced than ever that there is something strange about the Julian Clinic,” said Adam. “If you agree to see Dr. Wickelman, I’ll promise not to interfere with anything he suggests.”

“Mistakes happen every day in hospitals,” said Jennifer. “Just because one happened at the Julian Clinic doesn’t mean I shouldn’t go there. It seems like the ideal place to have my baby now that I’ve gotten over that episode with Cheryl Tedesco. I like the people there and the atmosphere.”

“Well,” said Adam. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Where are you going?” asked Jennifer.

“I’d rather not say,” said Adam.

“Under the circumstances,” said Jennifer, “don’t you think that you should stay here? Adam, I need you.”

“That’s a little hard to believe with you at your parents’ and me alone in the apartment. I’m sorry, but I have to run. I love you, Jennifer.”

Adam hung up and called Eastern Airlines before he had time to have second thoughts. He booked a seat on a flight leaving for Miami from LaGuardia in forty-eight minutes.

Adam got his small Samsonite suitcase from the closet and began packing. Just as he was cramming in his toilet articles, the phone rang. Adam reached out his hand, but then, for once in his life, ignored the sound. Even a minute’s delay would make him miss his flight.

Jennifer waited, letting the phone ring on and on. Finally, she hung up. Right after speaking with Adam, she’d decided that she’d be willing to see this Dr. Wickelman if it meant so much to Adam. She could at least give the man a chance, and if she didn’t feel comfortable with him, she could always go back to Dr. Vandermer. But Adam had apparently left. Jennifer felt abandoned. Before she took her hand off the receiver, the phone rang again. Hoping it was Adam, she picked it up before the first ring was complete. It was Dr. Vandermer.

“I assume you have heard the good news.”

“Yes, Adam just told me,” said Jennifer.

“We are very grateful to your husband,” said Dr. Vandermer. “It is unusual for someone to notice a secondary abnormality in the face of an overwhelmingly positive finding.”

“So it is true that I am not carrying a defective child,” said Jennifer.

“I’m afraid I can’t go so far as to say that,” said Dr. Vandermer. “Unfortunately, we have no idea of the result of your amniocentesis. We’ll have to repeat the procedure. I’m terribly sorry this happened. There were twenty people besides yourself who had amniocentesis that day, and all of them have to be repeated. Obviously it will be done at the clinic’s expense.”

“When do you want to repeat the test?” asked Jennifer. She appreciated Dr. Vandermer’s willingness to accept responsibility even though the error was undoubtedly made by someone in the lab.

“As soon as possible,” said Dr. Vandermer. “Remember, we are up against a time constraint if there really is a problem.”

“How about if I get back to you in the morning?” said Jennifer.

“That will be fine. There’s no rush, but the sooner we do it, the better.”