Harriet clutched the test results in a white-knuckled fist, the paper slick with sweat. The corridor outside the womens health clinic was a chokepoint, a crush of strangers.
Harriet Clarke! a nurse shouted, voice cracking over the hum of fluorescent lights.
Harriet rose, pushed through to the doctors office. The physiciana middleaged woman with tired eyes and a weary smiletook the folder from Harriets trembling hands and flicked through the sheets.
Sit down, she said, her gaze sliding over the results with a practiced indifference. Everything looks normal. You should have your husband examined.
A cold dread settled over Harriet. Victor? But he
***
Back at home, Margaret, Victors mother, was hacking cabbage for a stew, the knife moving as if she were slicing through enemies.
So, love, any news? Margaret asked without looking up, her voice a practiced lull.
Everythings fine with me, Harriet muttered, pulling off her coat.
Then why? Margaret finally lifted her eyes, a flicker of alarm crossing her face. Victor needs a checkup.
The knife halted above the board. Margaret straightened, tension coiling like a drawn bow.
What nonsense! My sons perfectly healthy. This is your doctors faultthey dont know a thing. In my day women gave birth without any of these tests.
Harriet slipped into the hallway. A pair of socks lay on the sofaone navy, one black. She scooped them up automatically and tossed them into the laundry basket. After three years of marriage those mismatched socks had become a silent metaphor for their fractured life.
Victor came home late, shoulders slumped.
Whats with the funeral face? he grumbled, flopping into his armchair.
Victor, we need to talk.
What about?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then shoved them onto the coffee table.
And?
You need to get examined.
Why on earth? Victor sprang up, pacing the room. Im a healthy man! Look at me!
He was indeed broadshouldered, darkhaired, the picture of vigor, but health isnt always visible.
Please, Victor Harriet pleaded.
Enough! he snapped. If you dont want kids, just say it! Stop this drama with the doctors.
From the kitchen came the soft scuff of slippers. Margaret lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly it seemed to fill the room.
I want children more than anything, Harriet whispered.
Then why arent there any? Are you hiding something? Did you have an abortion and now youre scared?
The accusation landed like a punch. Harriet recoiled.
How could you
And how am I supposed to know? Three years together and still no result! And now these doctors tell me Im? Victors voice trailed off as his fists clenched.
The door burst open. Margaret stormed in like a tank.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all laziness. If you worked more and bothered the doctors less, wed be fine.
Harriet looked at her husband. He turned toward the window, eyes distant.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he rasped through clenched teeth. All I know is a healthy man never goes to the doctor.
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
Exactly, son. Its not a mans job to be crawling through hospitals.
Harriet felt something inside her snap, a taut string finally breaking.
Fine, she said, voice steadier than she felt.
The next morning began a war. Margaret seized on every tiny flaw: salt left unsifted, a pot not rinsed, dust on the dresser. Harriet clenched her jaw, teeth grinding.
Maybe you shouldnt be at home at all? Margaret sneered over dinner. Get a job instead of chasing doctors.
Victor chewed his meatball, eyes glued to the plate.
I work, Harriet retorted.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my job have to do with this?
Its got everything to do with it! My sons healthy, and you want to make him look sick! When there are no children, a woman is always to blame!
Harriet rose from the table, legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Margaret asked, startled. Youve just eaten and youre fleeing?
I’m tired, Harriet whispered.
Tired? From what? Three days a week of workwhat kind of load is that?
Victor finally lifted his gaze. A flicker of pity crossed his eyes, but he stayed silent.
That night Harriet lay listening to Victors snore, a sound that once soothed her now grated like a broken record. She hadnt realised how stubborn he could be until now.
At dawn she packed a few essentialsa couple of dresses, underwear, a makeup baginto an old canvas rucksack.
Where are you off to? Margaret called from the kitchen doorway, a teacup in hand.
To my mothers.
For how long?
I dont know.
Victor emerged from the bathroom, spotting the rucksack.
Harriet, whats this?
Its what you see.
Youre serious?
What else? You wont get examined, your mother blames me for everything. Why should I stay? He stepped closer, voice lowering.
Dont be daft. Where are you going?
To Grandma Flos.
To that cramped flat? Its only a mile away! Victor scoffed.
Its tight, but Im not angry.
Margaret snorted. Fine, let her go. Shell learn how good it was here.
Victor shot a furious glance at his mother but said nothing.
Harriet hoisted the rucksack and headed for the door.
Harriet! Victor called.
She turned, his wettousled hair plastered to his forehead.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Grandma Flo gasped when she saw her granddaughter appear with a sack.
Harriet! Whats happened?
Ive had a fight with Victor. Can I stay with you?
Of course, love. Its cramped, but well make do.
The flat was tinyone bed, a table, two chairs, a battered tube TVbut it was clean and scented with vanilla; Flo loved to bake.
Sit down and tell me everything, Flo said, setting a kettle on the stove.
Harriet poured out the whole story. Flo nodded, her silver hair swaying.
Men, love, theyre proud. Admitting somethings wrong to them feels like death.
And Im supposed to wait forever for him to finally go to a doctor? Flo asked.
No, you did right leaving. Let him think it over.
The first days were quiet. Harriet settled onto a folding cot in the corner, helping Flo with chores. Victor called occasionally, but she let the calls go to voicemail.
Then Flo complained of chest pains. An ambulance rushed her to the hospital.
Dont worry, dear, Flo whispered as the paramedics lifted her. Im old, things happen.
At the ward, Flos condition improved. Harriet visited daily, bringing homecooked meals and news.
Hows Victor? Flo asked one afternoon.
Nothing much. Hes shouted at me a couple of times.
You ever answer?
Once, then I stopped. Whats the point of hearing the same lies?
Maybe hes finally gone to see a doctor?
Unlikely.
In the busy corridor, Harriet nearly collided with a young doctor in a white coatblond hair, kind eyes.
Excuse me, she muttered.
No harm done. Where are you headed?
To my grandmothers room, Ward Seven.
Oh, Mrs. Eversham! Shes a lovely patient. Im Dr. Denis Hart, cardiologist.
Harriet, she replied, shaking his hand.
Pleasure. Dont worry, your grandmother will be fine. Shes just getting on in years. He spoke about Flos treatment while Harriet watched his long, neat fingers.
Thank you for caring, she said.
He lingered after his rounds, and over the next days Harriet found herself arriving early, hoping to see him again.
Harriet, the doctor wants to know if youll be in today, Flo teased one evening with a sly smile.
The doctor? Harriet raised an eyebrow.
Yes! He asked, Hows your granddaughter? Hes a good sort, and single.
Harriet flushed.
Grandma, what are you blabbing about?
Youre practically free. That Victor of yours
Im married.
Pah!
A week later Denis was transferred to another ward. On his final day he stopped by Harriet in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
And I you, she admitted.
He handed her his card.
If you need anything or just want to talk.
Harriet took it, their fingertips brushing.
Thank you.
And one more thing, Denis hesitated. Youre beautiful, but you look so sad. I hope that changes soon.
Flo was discharged and grew stronger, yet Harriet still feared leaving her alone. Victors calls became rarer, sometimes a shout accusing her of being a spoiled girl, and she hung up, never to answer again.
A month later a strangers voice rang through her phone.
Harriet? This is Deniss mother. He gave me your number
Is everything alright?
No, nojust that his birthday is tomorrow and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Harriet hesitated, then Flo, listening at the kitchen door, waved her on.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had fun?
The birthday went wonderfully. Denis was attentive, never overbearing, and when he walked her to the door he said, Id like to see you again. May I?
Yes, Harriet whispered.
They began seeing each other slowly, gently. Denis never pressed for explanations, simply stayed close. Sometimes Harriet spent the night at his modest flat.
Then, unexpectedly, she discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Denis asked when she told him.
Yes, she laughed, tears of joy spilling.
A year later Harriet pushed a stroller along a leafy lane. Denis walked beside her, telling a joke that made their son, little Milo, giggle in his sleep.
Ahead, Victor and Margaret appeared, frozen as they saw Harriet, her baby, and Denis.
Harriet kept her pace, head held high. In Victors eyes she read pain, regret, and a dawning understanding.
Margaret tugged Victors sleeve.
Come on, Victor.
He stood still, watching the stroller, the smiling faces, the life Harriet had built. He realized he had missed his chance, but it was too late.
