Thurston House Read online

  “You can’t be the judge of that.” He frowned at her. “If it happened, then perhaps it is. Perhaps one day, you’ll find it was the greatest blessing that you ever had.” He refused to give her what she wanted from him. And he stood up to indicate that the visit was at an end. “Now, I want to see you three weeks from now, Sabrina. And try to get off your feet as much as possible. There’s no reason why, at your age, you can’t give birth to a healthy child, but you want to be more careful than you might have been twenty years ago.” Twenty years ago … how ridiculous that this should happen now. She suddenly felt angry at him, and herself, and André, for getting her into this. For God’s sake, she was pregnant and forty-eight years old, or at least she would be in May, and by then she would be four months along. Damn.

  She left the doctor’s office and went home, her mind full of everything he had said to her … about the baby … and André … that it could prove to be the greatest blessing of their lives one day, but she refused to even think of that. She had to find an abortionist and fast. She knew she had only a few weeks left before it became very dangerous for her. And she had no idea whom to ask. How did one find an abortionist? She had never even thought of it before and she strained to think now, but as she did, the memory of the baby she had lost kept haunting her. She remembered her own grief at the loss, and John’s. How could she think of killing a baby now, because that was what it was. But how could she not? She lay down on her bed, feeling sick, thinking of it, just as the phone rang. It was Antoine.

  “What did the doctor say?” He had worried about her all day, and his father had just gone into town to buy some supplies, so he rushed to call Sabrina before André came back.

  “Nothing, dear. I’m fine. I told you, it’s just fatigue.” But her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears, and he didn’t sound convinced.

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “I promise you.” She lied to him, but what choice did she have? “I’ll come back tomorrow or the next day.”

  “I thought you were coming back tonight.” He sounded worried again, as though he had been her son, and she was touched to tears again. She had to fight to keep them from her voice. Suddenly everything that happened made her cry.

  “I found that I have a little work to do here. Is everything all right up there, Antoine?”

  “Yes, fine.” He told her what they had done all day. “You’re sure it’s nothing then?” He sounded a little bit relieved at last. It wasn’t cancer then. He always thought of that. And he had with her.

  “Positive.” Positive was certainly the right word this time, and she smiled ruefully as she talked to him, and then Andre came back and took the phone.

  “What are you up to there, m’amie?” He called her that sometimes, “my friend,” except when they were alone at night when he called her chérie or mon amour, my darling and my love.

  “Nothing much. I found a stack of mail I had to take care of sitting here. I really have to work something out about that. Maybe someone could send it to me when I stay in Napa for more than a few days.”

  “That’s a thought.” It was a relief just to hear his voice and she had an urge to tell him what the doctor had said, but she knew she couldn’t do that. She didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on him. What if he felt he had to marry her? It could ruin everything. It was better not to say anything. She would take care of it herself, and he would never know. “When are you coming back?” There was an urgency in his voice that made her smile. She loved him even now, perhaps more, and she was sorry again that it hadn’t happened fifteen years before. Maybe then she could have told him, and married him, and let the baby live. But not now.

  “I’ll try to come back tomorrow or the next day. I was just telling Antoine, I found a ton of work to do here, in my mail.”

  “Can’t you bring it up here?” It was unusual for her to linger in town. “Sabrina, is there something wrong?” He already knew her too well, but after a year of partnership and two months of sharing her bed, he knew her perfectly, down to the very depths of her soul. In some ways, he knew her better than anyone ever had, even in this short time, but they were soul mates in every way.

  “No, no, everything is fine.” She lied to him as she had to Antoine. “Honestly.” She had to fight back tears again.

  “Did you hear from Jon?”

  “No. Nothing. I suppose he’s busy at school. It’s the end of his senior year.…” She always made excuses for him.

  And André hated to ask, but he could hear something in her voice. “Something from Camille?”

  “No, thank God.” She smiled. She missed him so terribly, and it had been only a few hours since she’d seen him last. It seemed almost as though she needed him more now, but she couldn’t let him see that need.

  “Well, hurry home.” He would have offered to come in to be with her, but he had too much to do just then. “I miss you, chérie,” he whispered into the phone as the tears rolled down her cheeks and she fought to keep normalcy in her voice.

  “So do I.”

  She lay awake for most of that night, alternating between tears and an iron resolve, and the next morning, she picked a directory, and selected a doctor’s name in an unattractive part of town. His office hovered on the edge of the Tenderloin, and there were two drunks asleep on the street when she arrived there by cab at noon. She walked gingerly into the building, which reeked of urine and cabbage, and walked up the creaking stairs. She was relieved to see that the waiting room was immaculate, and when she was ushered in by an ancient nurse, she saw a short, fat, balding, spotlessly clean little man in a white coat. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved, and she took a deep breath before she spoke to him as he smiled reassuringly at her.

  “Doctor … I … I apologize in advance if what I’m going to ask is an affront to you.…” Her eyes watered as she spoke and looked at him. “I came to you because I’m desperate.…”

  He looked at her, wondering what would come next. He had seen everything in the past forty years at this address. “Yes? I will do whatever I can.”

  “I need an abortion. And I picked your name out of the directory. I don’t know whom to ask, where to go.…” The tears rolled down her cheeks, and she expected him to leap to his feet and point to the door. Instead, he looked at her compassionately, and he seemed to weigh his words for a long time.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you feel you cannot have the baby, Mrs. Smith.” She had made the appointment as Joan Smith and suddenly remembered why he called her that, as he went on. “Are you sure there is no possibility of going on with the pregnancy?”

  He hadn’t refused her yet, and she slowly began to hope. Perhaps she had come to the right place after all. “I’m forty-eight years old. I’m a widow with a grown son who is graduating from college this year.” That seemed enough reason to her but not to him.

  “And the father of this child?”

  “Is my business associate. We are good friends,” she blushed, “obviously. He’s seven years older than I am, his son is even older than mine. We have no intention of marrying … it’s just impossible.…”

  “Have you told him yet?”

  She hesitated and then shook her head. “I only found out yesterday. But I don’t want to pressure him. I just want to take care of it and go home.”

  “You live elsewhere?”

  “Part of the time.” She was intentionally vague. She didn’t want him to know who she was. Hence the “Mrs. Smith,” he would undoubtedly have recognized the name, and he didn’t need to know.

  “Don’t you think you owe it to him to at least discuss it with him?” She shook her head and he looked at her with kindly eyes. It wasn’t the first time he had been asked for this kind of help, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. “I think you’re mistaken, Mrs. Smith. I think he has a right to know too. And your age doesn’t seem like an appropriate deterrent to me. Other women your age have borne children before. It
is a slightly greater risk, but this is not your first pregnancy, which reduces that risk considerably. I just don’t think you should do this without giving it a great deal of thought. How pregnant do you believe you are?”

  “Two months.” She knew it couldn’t be more than that, because they had only been sleeping with each other for slightly more than eight weeks. She had counted it out carefully the night before.

  The doctor nodded. “Then you don’t have much time.”

  “Will you help me then?”

  He hesitated. He didn’t do it anymore, although he had a long time ago, but a young girl had almost died, and he had promised himself not to do it again, and he never had. And for some reason, he felt that it would be wrong to do it for her. “I just can’t, Mrs. Smith.”

  Sabrina gasped almost angrily. “Then why did you … why … I thought when you listened to me—”

  “I’d rather convince you to have the child.”

  “Well, I won’t!” She leapt to her feet, crying openly now. “I’ll do it myself, dammit, if you won’t.” And for an instant he thought she might and it frightened him.

  “I can’t help you. For your sake or mine.” He could lose his license and never practice again. He could wind up in jail. But there was another possibility. He had given the name to someone before, and she had been pleased. He sighed and pulled his pad and pen toward him. He used a blank sheet, without his name, and scratched a name and phone number and handed it to her. “Call this man.”

  “Will he do it?” Her eyes were fierce as she looked at him. The doctor nodded somberly.

  “Yes, he will. He’s in Chinatown. He was a great surgeon once, but he got caught at this. I sent someone else to him.…” He looked sadly at Sabrina and told her what he thought again. “But I think you should have the child. If you were poverty-stricken, or diseased … or had been raped … or were a morphine addict … but you look like a decent woman to me, and probably your friend is too. You could give this child a home with love.” And he had noticed the fine wool of the black suit she wore. It was old but it had been expensive once. And even if her funds were slim now, a woman like this would find a way. “Think about it, Mrs. Smith. The opportunity may never come again. And you may always regret not having this child. Think of that. Think about it carefully before you call that name.” He waved at the sheet of paper she held in a trembling hand. “Afterward, there’s no turning back, and even if you have another baby after this, you may always regret this one.” He reminded her of the one she had lost. Even Jon had never quite filled that void. It was a dream forever gone, as this would be … but she could not allow herself to think like that. She had no choice. She stood up then and shook his hand.

  “Thank you for helping me.” She felt relieved. At least now she knew where to go.

  “Think about it carefully.” His words echoed again in her head as she left, and when she got home she sat at her desk for a long time, feeling ill and trembling violently. She had to dial the number three times before she got it right, and a woman with an accent answered the phone at the other end.

  “I’d like an appointment with the doctor please.”

  “Who gave you his name?” The voice was suspicious, and Sabrina’s hand trembled on the phone as she held her breath and then gave the name of the doctor she had just seen. There was a long silence then, as though someone else was monitoring the call, and then the woman answered her. “He’ll see you next week.”

  “When?”

  A pause again. “Wednesday night.” That seemed odd to her, but she knew that it wouldn’t be your ordinary office visit to a doctor downtown. “At six. Wait at the back door, knock twice, then knock again. And bring five hundred dollars with you, cash.” The voice was as harsh as the words, and Sabrina almost gasped, not at the amount but at the image it conjured up.

  “Will he do it then?” There was no point pretending now. They both knew what she wanted from him. Perhaps it was all he did. But why at night? What difference did it make, she told herself. She wondered how long it would take.

  “Yes. And if you get sick afterward, don’t call us back. He won’t help you then.” Their approach was certainly direct, and Sabrina wondered who she would call in an emergency. Perhaps the doctor who had referred her to him. She couldn’t call her own, or could she … the questions raced through her head like bats, and when she hung up the phone again, she felt as though she might throw up, and eventually she did. She was violently ill as she knelt on the bathroom floor, thinking of the appointment she had made. Wednesday night. At six. It was six days away, and she dreaded it. But there was no turning back now.

  She drove back to Napa the next day, and pretended that all was well with her. She chatted a lot, worked too hard as usual, even offered to cook, in answer to which all the men teased and laughed. They were used to cooking for her now, but when they did, she ate almost nothing that night or the next day, and she saw Antoine glance at her once or twice, but he didn’t ask her about the doctor again. And André seemed totally unconcerned. They made love almost every night, except finally on Tuesday night when Sabrina turned away and feigned sleep, and he believed she was, but the next morning when he awoke, she had left the room, and he found her downstairs, before dawn, just sitting there, staring out at the fields and hills, deep in thought. He tiptoed to her and sat down, and then she started and turned to him with a quiet smile.

  “What are you doing up, André?”

  “I was going to ask you that, m’amie.” He was right, almost. They were friends. But not in this. She glanced at the kitchen clock behind where he stood. It was five after six. Twelve hours from now she would be in Chinatown, paying five hundred dollars in cash to kill his child … the thought made her head swim and she felt ill just sitting there. “What’s wrong?” He sat down next to her and pressed her fingers gently to his lips. “I know you’ve been upset for days, my love, and I didn’t want to pry until you were ready to say something to me.” But she looked worse now than she had all week. She was almost green. “What is it, my love? Is that woman tormenting you again?” He was afraid that Camille was bothering her. She shook her head, not sure what to say, fighting tears. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she couldn’t tell him what it was.

  “Sometimes, André, there are things one has to take care of oneself. And this is one of those things.” This was the first time she had shut him out and it cut him to the quick, but he nodded understandingly and then looked at her.

  “I cannot imagine anything I would not understand, m’amie, and I would do anything to help you if I could. Is it Jon?” She shook her head. “Financial worries again?” They both had their share of those, but she shook her head again.

  “It is something I must deal with alone.” And then, as she sighed and straightened her back, avoiding his eyes, “I’m going into town for a few days.”

  And then, with a tone of fear, “Is it us, Sabrina? You must tell me if it is.” He loved her so much. He had to know. He was too old for another heartbreak now. “Are you sorry that we—” But she was quick to allay his fears with a kiss, a gentle smile, her fingers on his cheek.

  “Never. Not that. It’s something entirely unto myself.”

  “There is no such thing. There is nothing we do not share.”

  “Not this time.” Sadly, she shook her head.

  “Are you ill?” She shook her head again.

  “No. I’m upset, but I will be fine again. I’ll come back on Saturday.” She had given herself three days to recuperate, and she hoped that was enough. Three days to ache and cry bitterly for the child that would die … for five hundred dollars cash.…

  “Why will you be gone so long?”

  “Because I’m going to grow a beard and shave my head,” she teased him now as the sky turned to gray, then mauve, as the sun came up.

  “Why will you not talk to me and tell me what it is?”

  “Because I have to take care of this myself.”

  “Why? T
here is nothing I would not share with you.”

  She nodded. She felt the same. But not this time, and she forced both of the doctors’ words out of her head … he has a right to know … ask him … tell him … give him a chance.… “André, just let me handle this. On Saturday, I will be back and we can go on.” But she wondered now if it would stand between them anyway. She was deeply sorry that he suspected anything was wrong, and she had tried so hard to keep up a good front, but he knew her too well. And, just then, two of the French laborers came downstairs, and Sabrina went back upstairs to dress. There was a small problem with one of the machines after that, and a new piece of machinery arrived, Antoine needed Andre’s help, and before they spoke again, Sabrina was ready to leave for town. It was two o’clock and she would arrive just in time to stop at Thurston House, bathe, change her clothes, and go to Chinatown. She kissed André good-bye now, and Antoine, feigned enormous cheerfulness that fooled none of them, and got in her car.

  “See you on Saturday … behave yourselves.…”

  “I’ll call you tonight,” André called out to her, but he did not look pleased. It had been a dreadful day so far, and she was not helping anything. He was worried sick about her, and she saw it in his eyes and hated herself for it.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call you.” She just hoped that she could talk when she got home. She had no idea how long it would take, how she would feel, or even how she would get home. She planned to drive herself there, and would have to drive herself home afterward.

  She drove off then and left them there, and André said almost to himself, “Something’s wrong.” And by then, Antoine had had enough of it.

  “I think she’s sick.”

  André suddenly wheeled to face his son. “What makes you say that?”

  “She almost fainted in my arms in the fields more than a week ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?” His voice was loud and sharp as he looked at Antoine. It was a relief though to have someone to talk to about her. They had both been worried for days, and her pretense only made it worse.