“I guess I'd better go, he probably has his phone off the hook,” she joked, “so he doesn't lose business. Call me if you think of anything we missed on the Schultz case. I'll be home all weekend.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll call if I need to. Why don't you just forget about it. Everything is really ready for him. And we can review it all on Monday. Enjoy your weekend.”

“You sound like my husband. And what are you going to do?” she asked as she shrugged into her coat and picked up her briefcase.

“Work here all weekend of course. What do you think?” He laughed.

“Great. So don't make me any speeches. You enjoy your weekend too.” She wagged a finger at him, but she was glad that he was so conscientious, and he knew it. “Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it.”

“Just forget it. It's going to go perfectly on Wednesday.”

“Thanks, Brock.” She flew out the door then with a wave at Liz, and five minutes later she was in a cab on her way to Park and Seventy-second. She felt a little stupid going to him, she had nothing new to report, and her complaints about the effects of the Serophene weren't new to him either. But she needed a Pap smear anyway, and it always soothed her to discuss her reproductive problems with him. John Anderson was an old friend, and he listened to her worries and complaints with concern and interest. And he was deeply sympathetic to her fear that she wouldn't get pregnant again. He reminded her that there was nothing wrong with either of them, but there was no denying that she hadn't gotten pregnant in three years. There was no specific medical reason for it, but her job was stressful certainly, and she was just that much older. They discussed the Pergonal shots again, their advantages and risks, and the possibility of in vitro fertilization, though at forty-two she was not thought to be an excellent candidate for it. They discussed ZIFT, and GIFT, and the newer technologies like donor eggs, which did not appeal to her at all. And in the end, they decided to stay with the Serophene, and he talked to her about trying artificial insemination with Sam's sperm the following month, if he'd agree, to give the egg and the sperm a better chance to “meet up,” as he put it. He made it all seem very simple, and a lot less upsetting than it could be.

And then he did a routine exam, and the Pap smear, and after looking at her chart, asked her when she'd last had a mammogram, because he didn't see the results for any the previous year, and she admitted she hadn't had one.

“I haven't had one in two years.” But she'd never had a lump or problem, and there was no history of it in her family. It was one of those things she just didn't worry about, although she was religious about getting annual Pap smears. And there were a variety of theories about mammograms at her age anyway, about whether to have one every year, or every other.

“You really ought to get one every year,” he scolded. “After forty, that's important.” He was of the “every year” school of thinking. He palpated her breasts, and found nothing there. She was small-busted, and had nursed Annabelle, all of which were supposedly good news against breast cancer, and she'd already been told that the hormones she was taking did not increase the risk of cancer, which she had found reassuring. “When are you ovulating again?” he asked offhandedly, glancing at her chart.

“Tomorrow or the next day,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Then I think you ought to get a mammogram today. If you get pregnant tomorrow, it could be two years before you have one. You won't want to get one while you're pregnant, and they're inaccurate while you're nursing. I really want you to get one today, and then it's done with, and we don't have to think about it for another year. How about it?”

She glanced at her watch, feeling mildly exasperated. She wanted to pick Annabelle up at school, and take her home to lunch, and then to Miss Tilly's. “I really shouldn't. I've got things to do.”

“This is important, Alex. I think you should make time for it.” He sounded unusually firm, which worried her, and she looked at him with a sudden question.

“Do you feel something that warrants it?” He had palpated her breasts very carefully, but he always did that. And he shook his head no in answer to her question.

“Not at all. But I don't want you to have a problem later. You don't want to be careless about mammograms, Alex. They're just too important. Please. I think you should do it.” He was so insistent that she didn't have the heart to ignore him, and he was right, if she got pregnant that weekend, however unlikely it might seem, she wouldn't be able to get a mammogram for a year or two, so it was probably a good idea to do it.

“Where do I have to go?” He jotted down an address that was only five blocks away. She could easily walk it.

“The entire procedure will take five minutes.”

“Will they give me the results right there?”

“Probably not. They collect the films for the doctor to look at, when he comes in, and he might not be there. He'll call me next week, and give me the results. And of course I'll call you if there's a problem, but I'm very sure there won't be. This is just good medicine, Alex. It's wise to do this.”

“I know, John.” She appreciated how careful he was, it was just annoying to have to make time, but she knew it was worth it.

She called Carmen from his secretary's desk and asked her to pick up Annabelle at school. She said she'd be home for lunch, and she would take her to ballet. She just had an errand to do on the way home. And Carmen said it was no problem.

Alex left Dr. Anderson's office then and walked briskly down Park Avenue to Sixty-eighth Street between Lexington and Park, and into what looked like a very busy office. A dozen women were sitting in the waiting room, and several technicians appeared frequently in the doorway to call their names and keep them moving. Alex gave her name to the receptionist, and hoped it wouldn't take too long, as two more women arrived. They seemed to be doing a booming business, and she noticed that with the exception of only one fairly young girl, most of the women were her age or older.

She glanced absently at a magazine, looked at her watch several times, and ten minutes after she'd arrived, a woman in a white coat came to the doorway of the waiting room and called her name. There was something very loud and impersonal about the way she said it, but Alex followed her without a word. There was something strangely invasive about having people search you for disease, as though you were carrying a concealed weapon. There was an implication of guilt just by being here, and as Alex unbuttoned her blouse she realized that she felt both angry and frightened. It was terrifying. What if there was something there? What if they found something? But as her mind started to play tricks on her and convince her she was doomed, she forced herself to realize that this was just routine. It was no more ominous than her Pap smear. The only difference was that it was being performed by strangers instead of by people she knew, but other than that, there was no difference.

The woman in the white coat stood by while she undressed, and she offered her a gown, and told her to leave it open down the front, but other than that, there was no conversation. She pointed to a sink and some towels and told Alex to wipe off any deodorant or perfume, and then pointed to a machine standing in a corner. It looked like a large X-ray machine, and had a plastic tray and some shields somewhere in the middle. Having washed while the other woman watched, Alex walked to the machine, anxious to get it over with, and the technician rested Alex's breast on the plastic tray, and then proceeded to slowly lower the upper part of the machine down on her breast and squeeze it. The technician tightened the machine as much as possible, draped Alex's arm awkwardly, told her to hold her breath, and then took two pictures, and repeated the same procedure on the other side, and told her it was over. It was actually very simple and it was more uncomfortable than truly painful. It would have been nice to know the results then and there, but Alex felt confident that they would be fine when they called her doctor on Monday.

She left the office as quickly as she had come, grabbed a cab home, and was there in time to watch Annabelle finish her lunch and dress her for ballet. And for some odd reason, it felt better than ever to be there. One couldn't totally ignore the statistics that forced women to have mammograms each year. One in eight or one in nine women would be struck with breast cancer in their lifetime, depending on the source of the statistics. Even having been near them, having been tested for it, made one shudder a little, and be grateful for the simple blessings in one's life, like taking a child to a ballet class. And Alex couldn't help but think how lucky she was, as she stooped to kiss Annabelle's bright red curls as they left for Miss Tilly's.

“Why didn't you pick me up at school?” Annabelle asked plaintively. Alex picking her up at school on Fridays was a ritual she was used to and loved, and she resented any deviation from it.

“I had to go to the doctor for a checkup, and he took longer than I thought, sweetheart. I'm sorry.”

“Are you sick?” She looked suddenly worried and protective of her mother.

“Of course not.” Alex smiled. “But everybody has to get checkups, even mommies and daddies.”

“Did he give you a shot?” She looked intrigued, and Alex laughed as she shook her head.

“No,” but they squeezed my boob flat as a pancake … “I didn't need one.”

“Good.” Annabelle looked relieved as she skipped along beside her mother.