The Fourth Child by Jessica Winter (best classic novels TXT) 📕

A pause as Charity considered. “You know, I think this could be very powerful for the patients,” Charity said. “There’s the whole teen-mom thing that the two of you have—I mean, if you feel comfortable going into that, but also, just that picture of a mother and her daughter out there on their own, trying to make that connection.”

“Mmm,” Jane said. “Thank you.”

“Although I think sometimes people think you’re sisters!”

“Sometimes!” Jane said.

Wednesday morning. A rare, regrettable break in Mirela’s regimen. Pat would be in charge of the egg timer during Lauren’s“doctor’s appointment.” Pat would be responsible for adding the right amount of milk to Mirela’s oatmeal—not too stodgy, nottoo runny—so as to keep it from splattering on the kitchen walls. Jane felt both anger and relief that he didn’t ask why Laurenneeded to go to the doctor, what type of doctor.

“You want me to be ashamed,” Lauren said to her mother. They were sitting in the dragon wagon in front of Judy’s Hair Cutz.Mrs. Rosen, who worked as her husband’s receptionist, had told Jane to park at the post office on one side or at Judy’s HairCutz on the other and go through the back entrance, even on a slow day, just in case. But Jane already knew all that.

“Ashamed of what?”

“Of what I did. Of what I’m making you do.”

“No.”

“What you are making me do.”

“Lauren, I’m not making you do anything. It’s up to you. You can get out of the car and go in there, and I’ll come with you,or we can go home. Or you don’t have to go home if you don’t want to—you could go to Paula’s house if she’s around, whatever.It is what you want. It is your decision.”

Lauren’s eyes bored holes in the glove compartment. “Don’t you want to know who it was?”

“It’s none of my business,” Jane said.

“It’s not?”

“Lauren,” Jane said. “I know who it was.”

Lauren’s hands twisted in her lap. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Are you going to tell?”

“I will not tell a soul unless you ask me to.”

“Well, I wanted it. I wanted it to happen. I don’t care what you think.”

“Lauren, I don’t know if this is going to make sense,” Jane said, “but in this case, it doesn’t matter what you wanted.”

Lauren snorted. Like somebody hit her and she was trying to laugh it off. “Does it ever matter to you what I want?”

“It matters deeply to me what you want. But in this case, no, it doesn’t.”

Lauren opened the car door. Even in June, the mornings took a while to warm up. The light was still low. They approached aline of scrubby trees that marked the border of the small back lot, enough for a half-dozen cars. Jane was mildly surprisedto see two escorts chatting at the back entrance—a skittish aftereffect of the Spring of Life, perhaps.

Jane held Lauren’s arm to halt her walking. It was Bridie and Jill. They hadn’t seen Jane and Lauren approaching yet. It wasn’ttoo late. They could turn back now. Jane squeezed Lauren’s hand.

“Mom, I’m fine,” Lauren said, tugging her forward.

“What’s your first and last name, honey?” Bridie was already asking.

“Lauren Brennan,” she said.

Bridie smiled. “That’s the name we were after. Welcome, Lauren.” Bridie pushed a ringer on the back door and looked up ata camera mounted overhead, waving and giving the okay sign.

“I know you,” Jill said. “Jane. We’ve met before. Remember Jane, Bridie?”

“Sure do,” Bridie said, smiling. “Big part of my job, Jane, is to never forget a face.”

“Yes?” a scratchy voice on the intercom bleated.

“We have our eight thirty patient here. You can let her in.” The door buzzed, and Bridie opened it, still smiling.

From the scrubby trees, a robin peeped. “Everything is going to be okay,” Bridie said to Lauren, pushing the door open wide for her and Jane to climb the stairs. “It’s a nice, quiet day today.”

In the waiting room, magazines were neatly stacked on racks and on low circular tables. Bouquets of wildflowers and sepia-coloredbrochures, arranged in fans. Floral-print sofa, throw pillows. Picasso and Degas posters from the Albright-Knox were tapedonto the brick covering the windows. A television set with the volume down low, murmuring morning pleasantries. Janice Cortusaappeared with the weather report, and Jane imagined Mirela watching closely, Pat reminding her to keep an arm’s length fromthe television set, taking hieroglyphic notes on her sketch pad on cloud coverage and expected highs, the egg timer tickingbeside her. As Jane and Lauren took their seats, Jane mapped and measured in her head where she would have been standing duringthe Spring of Life, if her own voice might have penetrated the brick and reached the patients in this waiting room, and when,and what words she would have been saying.

A woman in blue scrubs pushed through the pair of swinging doors adjoining the receptionist’s area. She looked down at herclipboard and called out Lauren’s patient number. Lauren looked over at Jane, who smiled and patted her arm. Lauren got up,brushed past the nurse, and walked straight through the swinging doors.

At one time Jane had memorized Dr. Rosen’s schedule, his comings and goings—everyone in Respect Life had, all the Oh-Rs had,too.

Jane imagined that the nurse in white linens waited on the other side of the swinging doors.

Lauren was stalking back into the waiting room. She stopped short in front of her mother, tipping forward slightly with fumingmomentum. Her voice was barely audible.

“I just wanted to check that you don’t want to be with me,” Lauren said.

“Do you want me there, Lauren?” Jane asked.

Lauren stared at her mother. She looked dumbfounded. Her anger was beating back her sorrow.

“Why,” Lauren said, “why do I always have to ask.” It wasn’t a question.

“Lauren? Honey, please, I don’t understand.”

“Why do I have to say it,” Lauren whispered. “Why do you make me say it.”

Lauren turned and left the waiting room again before Jane could respond. Jane stared at the doors swinging behind her, exchangingplaces back, forth, brushing past, again, past, again, and when the doors