Asymmetry - Lisa Halliday Page 0,56
around Maddie and hers and the two needn’t have overlapped. I had no share in this embryo. I had not asked her to do this. Later, Maddie would be in her room and I in mine, catching up on some reading over a Cup O’Noodle, having relinquished a few hours of my time but nothing more.
Anyway, would I mind so much if our circles overlapped?
All at once, my morals, whatever they were, felt too antiquated, too abstract. I threw the rest of my drink away and went inside to tell the receptionist that I was there with Maddalena Monti and how long did she think she would be? The receptionist said that it had been quiet and Maddie had not had long to wait but the anesthesiologist was running behind so it would probably be three hours at least. I sat down in the waiting room and picked up an old New Yorker. An unseen speaker softly played Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. The only other person in the room was a woman knitting, of all things, a baby sweater. After watching her needles gently fencing for a while I flipped through the magazine until I became distracted by an ad offering Finest Ruby Red Grapefruit From Florida’s Indian River! TREE-RIPENED—BRIMMING WITH JUICE—ORCHARD SWEET—NO SUGAR IS NEEDED—SATISFACTION GUARANTEED!
The receptionist’s phone rang.
. . . No, not here. . . . No. . . . None of that matters here, honey. You can come here and it doesn’t matter. . . . Between four and seven, depending on how far along you are. . . . You do the exam and ultrasound here. . . . Do you live in the area? . . . Okay, talk to him, and why don’t you guys call me together and we’ll schedule an appointment for you to come in. . . . Everything is confidential here, hon. . . . No. . . . No. . . . Monday through Saturday. . . . Do you know his schedule enough to schedule an appointment now? . . . Okay. But just don’t— . . . Just don’t— . . . Uh-huh. You know what, don’t . . . If I were you, hon, don’t bring him in. Forget about that, and— . . . You don’t have to call us back. Just come in before six thirty, okay? . . . My name is Michelle. . . . Okay? . . . Okay. . . . Okay . . . Bye.
Much later, when Maddie emerged, holding her coat, she looked smaller all over, though I couldn’t imagine why she should have.
I’m starving, she said.
We bought doughnuts in the coffee shop on the way back to Silliman and when we got to my room Maddie asked if I had anything to drink. On the mantelpiece I found a bottle of Midori that belonged to my roommate who wasn’t due to return until the following week. Maddie filled half a mug with the emerald syrup and drank, making a face. What’s it supposed to taste like? she asked. I looked at the bottle. Melon, I said. Honeydew, I guess.
She took off her boots and lay down on my bed. I put a CD on and sat in a chair to flip through the spring course catalogue. The CD was Chet Baker, and the first three tracks were deeply mellow, depressing really, so I was about to get up and look for something else when we were saved by what I think is the only upbeat song on the album:
They all laughed at Christopher Columbus when he said the world was round.
They all laughed when Edison recorded sound.
They all laughed at Wilbur and his brother when they said that man could fly.
They told Marconi, wireless was a phony; it’s the same old cry!
They laughed at me, wanting you, said I was reaching for the moon.
But oh, you came through; now they’ll have to change their tune!
They all said we never could be happy; they laughed at us, and how.
But ho-ho-ho, who’s got the last laugh now?
I thought Maddie was asleep, but when the trumpet interval came around she spoke without opening her eyes.
Do you know who Bob Monkhouse is?
No. Who’s Bob Monkhouse?
A British comedian my dad likes. Still alive, I think. And he tells this joke that goes: When I was a kid, I told everyone I wanted to be a comedian when I grew up, and they laughed. Well, they’re not laughing now.
• • •
Two years later, when Maddie