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everything else about this was. “Did the note say why he wanted to see me?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Is there someone I might talk to who could give me some idea why he wants to see me?”
    “No.”
    Vivien was too busy trying not to hyperventilate to take the receptionist’s one-word responses personally. This was New York; abrupt was a way of life.
    “Look, all I’m saying is it’s pretty unusual to be seen so quickly. Maybe you could help me find out whether it’s something serious or not. So I can be prepared. Because frankly, one more shock could send me right over the edge. Work with me a little here. What do you think I should do?”
    There was a pause, presumably while the woman searched for a sufficient one-word answer. Finally she said, “I’m going to go out on a limb on this one. But I think you should show up at two thirty like the doctor asked you to. So that he can tell you whether you need to be worrying or not.” Then there was dial tone.
    In New York, abrupt might be a way of life, but sarcasm was the national pastime.
    And so it was that Vivien Armstrong Gray clutched her box of stuff to her chest and boarded the 57 bus to the Iris Cantor Women’s Health Center, where at 2:42 P.M. Dr. Peter Sorenson blew what remained of the world as she knew it the rest of the way out of the water.

4
    I ’M WHAT?” VIVIEN asked, certain she’d misheard. “You’re pregnant.”
    “No, I’m not.” She shook her head from side to side, adamant.
    “Well, according to the hCG levels in your blood you are.” Dr. Sorenson shrugged, equally certain there was no arguing with science. “I’ve scheduled you for an ultrasound next door so we can confirm how far along you are. There are several really great ob-gyns practicing here at the center. I’ll be glad to refer you to one of them.”
    “But I can’t be pregnant.”
    He looked at her face, which she knew was crumpled in horror and disbelief and the vain attempt to hold back tears. “Ah, so I guess those aren’t tears of joy.”
    He handed her a tissue, which she used to try to staunch the flow. “I am way too old to have a baby.”
    “Apparently not,” he pointed out not unkindly.
    “And I’m not married.”
    “Not really a requirement,” he said.
    “And as of today I don’t even have a job.” The tears started again. “And I’m a complete emotional train wreck.”
    He smiled. “That part will go away in about twenty years.”
    Vivien sniffed and blotted some more. “I don’t even particularly like children.” God, she sounded so pathetic she could hardly stand it.
    “Look,” he said gently. “I can see this is a shock. Let’s just take it one step at a time, okay? You’ll go have the ultrasound, see if it confirms how far along your blood levels indicate, and then you’ll know what your options are.”
    Numb and weary, she stood and followed a nurse to the ultrasound department where they confirmed that she was somewhere between eight and nine weeks pregnant. An embryo the size of an orange seed was inside her womb.
    On her fortieth birthday last year someone had given her a card that read, “Cheer up. You could be this old and pregnant, too!”
    And now, apparently, she was.

    FOR THE NEXT week Vivien barely left her apartment except to pick up the odd cracker item or buy a lottery ticket at Fairway Grocery; in her current state of mind, winning millions of dollars seemed more likely than producing real income.
    Alone in her hidey-hole, seeking every ounce of comfort it offered, she grappled with what to do. She was barely pregnant, the embryo so tiny she could barely imagine it as more than the seed it resembled. And yet this tiny, seed-shaped thing would alter the course of her life forever, whatever she decided to do.
    Intellectually, politically, she had always believed in a woman’s right to choose. Had argued vehemently that those who disapproved of abortion and birth control should be forced to adopt all the unwanted