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Show Motherlunge a novel 43 Pavia's pregnancy entered the second trimester. The fetus was probably the size of a joy buzzer. Probably, it had eyes and eyebrows. After a week of me researching at work and then describing to her the varieties of genetic mishap the fetus might be affected by-various eponymous syndromes, the results of chromosomes snapping off or misaligning on the helix like the teeth of a cheap plastic zipper-Pavia made the appointment with an obstetrician near our townhouse, downtown. "Physical exam, Woodwork, ultrasound-the works," she said. "So no more about the fluid-filled heads, all right?" As I have earlier mentioned, my sister had always had the calmness characteristic of certain beautiful people. This population is characterized by the unfurrowed brow, the unhurried gait, the modulated and pleasant tone of voice. As a group, they probably sleep well. They are not nail biters; they do not pick their scabs. Their shirts maintain all original buttons. They make excellent corporate trainers, supermodels, and (Fm thinking) ambassadors and ambassadors' wives. As sisters, they are reliable if inscrutable. So, as promised, Pavia arranged to take the afternoon off to go to the doctor's. I took the whole day off for the occasion, and met her at noon as she stepped off the commuter train. It was ten days before Christmas, cold. A few dry flakes of snow drifted sideways among the office buildings in a confused, retarded way. We walked with our coats pulled tight around us. "Exciting, right? Seeing the baby and all?" I asked. "Hmm." Pavia said. |