Page 95 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The mother thanks me without words.
The air smells like wet paper and exhaust.
Brooklyn in a coat.
Halfway up the next block, I stop pretending I’m not going to call the doctor.
Mom is right.
My thumb is clumsy on the screen.
The office line rings and rings.
I brace for the receptionist voice that greets with three rules.
Instead, it’s Mira herself.
Dr. Conte answers like she expects bad news and doesn’t fear it.
“Conte,” she says.
“It’s Elisa,” I say. “I need to come in.”
“Today,” she says. It is not a question. “I have nine thirty. If anyone asks, you are a scheduling error.”
“I can be an error,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Bring water,” she says. “And don’t smell anything stupid on the way here.”
“Working on it,” I say.
I’m five minutes from the hospital if I cut through the small park.
I don’t cut through the small park.
I stay on the avenue where there are witnesses eating bagels and people who get in the way, which is exactly what I want.
The SUV pulls from the curb at a polite pace.
It keeps a car and a half between us like it read a handbook.
Knit cap from the bus stop crosses behind me and then ahead as if he forgot something.
Shoe-lace man disappears into a deli and reappears with nothing in his hands.
Maybe he was hungry for breath.
I pass the bakery where I used to work weekends when the ovens ran too hot for the day crew.
The new kid at the counter has my old apron.
He doesn’t wear it right.
He waves because I am still the woman who knows which buns to move to the top shelf when the line looks like cousins.
I don’t wave back.
My stomach has opinions.
