Eleanor Whitaker clenched the lab results in her fist, the paper slick with her sweat. The hallway of the womens health centre in the cramped town of York seemed to fold in on itself, no room to turn a corner.
Whitaker, Eleanor! a nurse shouted, voice echoing off the tiled walls.
Eleanor rose, slipped into the consulting room. The doctora stout woman with tired eyestook the folder from her hands, flicked through the pages with a detached glance.
Sit down, she said, her tone as flat as the morning fog. She skimmed the results, eyes indifferent. Everything looks normal. You should have your husband examined.
A chill ran through Eleanor. Victor? But he
***
At home, Margaret Hargreaves was chopping cabbage for a stew, the knife flashing as if she were slicing through invisible foes.
Whats the news, love? she asked without looking up.
Everythings fine with me, Eleanor muttered, shedding her coat.
And why then Margaret finally lifted her eyes, a flash of worry crossing them. Victor needs a checkup.
The knife hung in the air above the board. Margaret straightened, a taut string.
What rubbish? My son is perfectly healthy! Its your doctors who dont understand. Women used to bear children without any of these tests.
Eleanor drifted into the living room. On the sofa lay two socksone blue, one black. She absentmindedly gathered them, tossing them into the laundry basket. In three years of marriage those socks had become a metaphor for their lives: mismatched, never forming a pair.
Victor stumbled home late.
Whats with the funeral face? he grumbled, collapsing into his armchair.
Victor, we need to talk, Eleanor said.
About what? he asked, sliding a mountain of papers across the coffee table.
She handed him the report. He skimmed it, then flung it aside.
And then? he demanded.
You need to get examined.
Why on earth? Victor sprang up, pacing the cramped room. Im a healthy man! Look at me! He was broadshouldered, darkhaired, the picture of vigor, though health can hide behind a sturdy exterior.
Please, Victor Eleanor pleaded.
Enough! he roared. If you dont want children, just say so! Why all these theatrics with doctors?
The clatter of slippers came from the kitchen. Margaret lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly each inhale seemed to vibrate the walls.
I want children more than anything, Eleanor whispered.
Then why none? Are you hiding something? Had an abortion perhaps? Margarets accusation cut sharp.
The blow was painful. Eleanor recoiled.
How could you
How could I? Three years together and nothing! And now some doctor tells me Im Victors words hung unfinished as he clenched his fists.
The door burst open. Margaret stormed in like a tank.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all laziness. If you worked more, you wouldnt be chasing doctors all the time.
Eleanor stared at her husband. He turned toward the window.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he muttered through clenched teeth. One thing I know: a healthy man doesnt go to the doctor.
Margaret nodded triumphantly. Exactly, son. Its not a mans business to wander hospitals.
Eleanor felt something snap inside, a taut string finally breaking.
Fine, she said, voice flat.
The next day the house turned into a battlefield. Salt spilled, a pot left unwashed, dust on the dresser. Eleanor clenched her teeth, kept silent.
Maybe you shouldnt be staying at home at all? Margaret sneered over dinner. Find a job instead of prancing around doctors.
Victor chewed a meatball, eyes downcast.
I work, Eleanor reminded him.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with this? Victor snapped.
Its all the same! My sons healthy, and youre trying to make him sick! When there are no children, the womans to blame! Thats always been the case!
Eleanor rose, legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Margaret asked, puzzled. You eat and then run off?
Im tired, Eleanor whispered.
Tired? From what? Three days a week of work isnt a mountain! Margaret hissed.
Victor finally lifted his gaze, a flicker of pity there before he shut his eyes again.
That night Eleanor lay listening to Victors snore. Once it had been soothing, a sign of a loved one close. Now it grated, a reminder of his stubbornness she had never truly noticed.
At dawn she packed a few belongings into an old sports backpacktwo dresses, underwear, a small makeup bag.
Where are you off to? Margaret asked, cradling a tea cup at the kitchen doorway.
To Grans.
For how long?
I dont know.
Victor emerged from the bathroom, eyes landing on the backpack.
Eleanor, whats that?
Just what you see.
Youre serious?
What else? You refuse the checkup, my mother blames me for everything. Why should I stay? He leaned close, voice low. Dont be foolish. Where will you go?
To Gran Elsies cottage.
To that tiny shack? Its only a few miles away!
Its cramped, but Im not angry.
Margaret sneered, Fine, let her go. Shell learn how lovely it was here once shes lived with an old woman.
Victor shot a bitter look at his mother but said nothing.
Eleanor hoisted the backpack and headed for the door.
Eleanor! Victor called.
She turned. He stood in the hallway, hair still wet from his shower, bewildered.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Gran Elsie gasped when she saw her granddaughter arrive, backpack in tow.
Ellie! What happened?
Ive had a fight with Victor. Can I stay here?
Of course, love. Its a bit snug, but make yourself at home.
The cottage was indeed tinyone bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient televisionbut spotless and scented with vanilla, as Gran liked to bake.
Tell me whats going on, Gran asked, setting a kettle on the stove.
Eleanor poured out everything. Gran nodded, her silver hair bobbing.
Oh dear Men can be so proud. To admit something is wrong feels like a death sentence to them.
Must I spend my life waiting for him to finally see a doctor?
No. Youve done right leaving. Let him think.
The first days passed quietly. Eleanor made a bed on a foldout sofa in the corner, helped Gran with chores. Victor called now and then, but she let the phone ring.
Later Gran complained of chest pains. An ambulance rushed her to the hospital.
Dont worry, love, Gran whispered as she was taken away. Im old, these things happen.
At the hospital Grans condition improved. Eleanor visited daily, bringing homecooked meals and the days gossip.
Hows Victor? Gran asked one afternoon.
Nothing much. Hes called a couple of times, yelling into the handset.
You answer?
The first time, yes. The second, no. Whats the point of hearing the same complaints?
Do you think hes finally seen a doctor?
Unlikely.
In the ward corridor a crowd of visitors swarmed. Eleanor headed for the exit and nearly collided with a young doctor in a white coat, blond hair, kind eyes.
Excuse me, she murmured.
No trouble at all. Who are you looking for?
For Gran, in Ward Seven.
Oh, Mrs. Elsie Hart! Shes a wonderful patient. Im Dr. Daniel Cooper, cardiologist.
Eleanor Whitaker, she replied, shaking his hand.
Pleasure. Dont worry, Gran will be fine. Its just age. He talked about her treatment, and Eleanor watched his long fingers, neatly trimmed nailssteady hands, reliable.
Thank you for your care, she said.
He lingered a little longer each day, then the day after, hoping to see her again. Eleanor began arriving early, hoping their paths would cross.
Ellie, the doctor wants to know if youll be coming today, Gran teased one evening with a mischievous grin.
The doctor? Why?
Because he asks, Hows your granddaughter? Hes a good bloke, by the way, andsingle.
Eleanor blushed.
Gran, what are you saying?
Youre practically single. That Victor of yours
Im married.
Pfft.
A week later Daniel was transferred to another ward. On his final day he approached Eleanor in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
And Ill miss you, she admitted.
He handed her a business card.
If you ever need anything or just want to talk. Their fingers brushed.
Thank you.
And also Daniel hesitated. Youre very beautiful, but also very sad. I hope someday that changes.
Gran was discharged, grew stronger at home, yet Eleanor still worried leaving her alone.
Victors calls became sporadic; sometimes she answered, sometimes she let it ring out. The last time he shouted into the receiver, calling her a capricious girl, she hung up and never lifted the phone again.
A month later an unfamiliar woman called.
Eleanor? This is Daniels mother. He gave me your number Is everything alright?
No, no! Its just that tomorrow is his birthday and hed really like to see you. Could you come?
Eleanor hesitated, but Gran, overhearing, waved her on.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had fun?
The birthday went wonderfully. Daniel introduced Eleanor to his friends, was attentive without being overbearing. When she left, he said, Id like to see you again. May I?
Yes, she whispered.
They began seeing each other slowly, gently. Daniel never pressed for explanations, just stayed close. Sometimes Eleanor spent the night at his flat.
Then, unexpectedly, she discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Daniel asked when she told him.
Of course, she laughed, joy spilling out.
A year later Eleanor pushed a pram along a leafy lane. Daniel walked beside her, making jokes. Their son, Milo, snored softly in his seat.
Ahead, Victor and Margaret Hargreaves approached. Seeing Eleanor, they froze as if rooted in place.
Eleanor kept her pace, head held high. In Victors eyes she saw the full spectrum of pain, regret, and understanding.
Margaret tugged Victors sleeve.
Come on, Victor.
He lingered, staring at the pram, at Eleanors smiling face, at Daniel, realizing too late the path hed missed.
