"Then you'd better get dressed," Ron said, giving her a pat on her backside. " They drove to Bayside in Ron's silver-gray BMW 320i. Valerie wore a loose-fitting cotton sarong skirt in understated forest green purchased just the week before at Banana Republic. The pamphlet told her to avoid tight pants or anything encumber-ing. Her Costa Brava shirt in the same shade came from the identical source.
Though the March evening was warm and the sun had only just set, she wore a mock-aviator's jacket of dark olive cotton and still felt a shiver coming on.
Ron had not bothered to change from his charcoal-gray busi-ness suit. He drove silently, not attempting to engage her in any conversation. For her part, Valerie stared out the window, watching the planes fly in and out of Torrance, their lights bright and fairylike in the twilight. As the car smoothly turned off PCH into the parking lot, past the white and blue sign that read Bayside University Medical Center, Valerie broke the silence by quietly asking, "This is what you want, isn't it?"
He pulled into the nearest available parking space. "I want what's best for you, Valerie. You're not ready to be a mother, and I don't think I'm ready to be a father. Maybe in a few years. We have time to think about it. This will give us time to plan it, save for it, prepare our heads." He killed the engine, pulled the keys, and shut down the lights. "It's your body. You have to make the final decision." Valerie nodded and stepped out of the car.
They moved quietly up the walkway to the Reproductive Endocrinology Department. Valerie glanced around, relieved to see that the line of picketers had dispersed for the night. A cool evening breeze ruffled the palms and the trio of giant bird-of-paradise plants, brushing their leaves against the of-fice windows on the second story. The yellow-orange light from low-pressure sodium vapor lamps imparted harsh shadows to the dark corners of the entrance. Only a few lights glowed from the windows. She was so grateful that she would not be walking back to the car alone. She felt that she might have been able to enter the building, moving toward its marginal warmth and protec-tion. To leave it after her surgery, though, to step out into the eerie darkness of a nearly empty, windy parking lot, was some-thing she doubted she could do without a nagging murmur of fear.
Ron held her hand in his warm, firm grasp. The doors opened before them with a pneumatic hiss. Overhead, a tiny red light winked like a knowing, vulgar eye. We know what you're here for. The receptionist, a tired old woman with gray-blue hair and gravity-worn face, checked the calendar, then handed Valerie a clipboard, pen, and form.
"Fill this out, honey," she said in a voice that could sand furniture, "and give it back to me when you're done."
Valerie glanced over the release form, searching for the blanks to fill in. All it required was the date, a few initials, and her signature.
"Wait." Ron took the form from her. "Professional curiosity," he said, carefully reading each paragraph.
"Looks like a standard waiver and release from responsibil-ity," he muttered. "Four pages is probably longer than stan-dard, but if those pickets outside have tried any legal mischief, they're probably trying to cover their asses."
Valerie nodded, reaching for the papers. He held it back to read the last page. He looked up at the receptionist.
"What's this `waiver of claim to any tissues removed' part?" The receptionist eyed him with bored weariness. "If you want to take it home with you, hon, you'll have to ask the doctor."
It took a moment for Ron to realize what she meant. Valerie had already turned white at the thought of the nurse's sugges-tion. She seized the papers from his hands and signed them.
"Thanks, honey." The receptionist's tone was flat, almost mechanical.
"What a gross-" Ron began to whisper before Valerie shushed him.
"You do that every time I have to sign something," she said in a low, clipped tone. "This is a university hospital, for God's sake. They're not going to have me sign my soul away."
"You haven't heard about as many malpractice cases as I have." He looked up at the receptionist. Her gray-blue hair shimmered oddly in the fluorescent lights. "Excuse me," he said in a commanding lawyer's voice.
"Yes?"
"We'd like a copy of this." He handed her the form.
"Sure, hon," she said without looking up.
They sat in the waiting room. No one else was there. Occa-sionally, an elevator door would open somewhere nearby, and an orderly or resident would come around the corner to pass through wordlessly. Valerie felt strange, as if she were moving through her paces in some sort of low-grade horror film set in a hospital. Everything seemed to acquire altered meanings. The glance of an orderly, the clatter of gurney wheels against linoleum, the smell of Lysol and formaldehyde. She put her arm through Ron's and held tightly. His other hand stroked her blond head. A tan, leggy nurse entered through a doorway. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with deep auburn hair and hazel eyes. She looked as if she should have been in some vaudeville skit as a beautiful yet brainless comic foil. She carried herself with grace and dignity, though, and her icepick gaze belied any sense of vacuity.
She picked up a folder from the receptionist and said, in a voice with just the barest trace of a European accent, "Valerie Dalton, please follow me."
"May I be there?" Ron asked, standing.
"I'm sorry, sir. The doctor doesn't allow that."
Valerie rose, paused, then hugged Ron as hard as she could. "I love you," she said.
"I love you, too, sweetheart. I'll be right here."
"And I'll be right back."
He nodded, a sudden look of concern on his face. He tried to smile. "You do that." She turned to join the woman. The pair disappeared behind the light green door.
"They never let the man in there, hon," the receptionist said in her tobacco-scoured voice. "You guys just keep fainting."
He gave her a withering glance that went nowhere, since she wasn't looking up at the moment. He sat back and picked through the magazines on the table. If men spend their time out here, he thought, how come all they have is Redbook and Cosmopolitan?
The outer doors opened. Another couple walked in. The woman was in her twenties, brown haired, sweet looking. She wore a loose-fitting kaftan in a natural beige tone. Her purse was a leather hobo sack that hung lightly from her shoulder. She was about Valerie's height and seemed imbued with a nervous good cheer. She kept an arm around her escort.
The man she was with was a sort of sandy blond. His skin was sunburned pink, with the characteristic white zone around his eyes that marked him as a skier recently returned from the slopes. An aquamarine cotton windbreaker covered a blue shirt and jeans. He was muscular without being husky and radiated a ready enthusiasm.
Probably do this all the time, Ron thought with minimal char-ity.
The receptionist looked up and smiled. "Head right in. Nurse Dyer will get you ready." He frowned, his suspicion confirmed. Preferred customers. The blond man sat at the far side of the room, pulled a paper-back novel from his jacket, and calmly started to read. Ron shook his head. Some people could be too cavalier about it. " Valerie followed the nurse into a larger than normal exami-nation room containing white enamel cabinets and medical equipment.
"Is this where she'll do it?" she asked the nurse.
"Yes. Please undress and put this on." The tall woman handed Valerie a blue dressing gown. Valerie took it, thanked her, and waited for her to leave before disrobing. She hung her skirt and shirt on a hanger behind the door, put her panties in her purse, and slipped into the dressing gown. The rough fabric was cold to the touch.