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Show Motherlunge a novel 31 "All this what?" I demanded, but she was already tripping down the front steps after her dog looking like a model in an autumn clothing catalog-all woolens and outdoor high jinks-and in her cheeks as she turned back to look at me, a sudden healthy high color. In the next several days we didn't talk about whether Pavia would have an abortion. My sister hinted that the fetus might, like Jack, go away with the right kind of discouragement on her part. She was eight weeks along. She was still running every day, wearing tight pants, using toxic cleaning products. She was still drinking coffee and cocktails. If she had morning sickness, she wasn't admitting it. "It's a tradition for people in our family to just drop dead one day," she told me, citing Grandma Alva and Grandma Claudia. "What if it's just the women, though? This could be a boy. Plus, think about mom." We both knew implicitly: Dorothy would be the lingering type. Pavia shrugged. There was still plenty of time for something to happen. Every trip to the bathroom, Pavia confirmed, included a probing, exploratory wipe for signs of a mishap. But there was nothing like that. Instead, over the next weeks and then months in the big city, all developments quietly developed. Jack called a lot, but seemed to be titrating downward. Pavia bought a cordless phone so she could move around the house while she listened to him. Cradling the phone |