28

I met with the new obstetrician in another whirlwind of an appointment. They didn’t have a wheelchair handy, so after my visit with the doctor a nurse had to help me to my next stop: the financial administrator’s office. The nurse was a petite young woman whose extra-small scrubs hung loosely on her delicate figure. I was a foot taller and, at eight months pregnant, about a hundred pounds heavier, and I had to use her as a sort of human crutch in order to walk. Each time I dug my fingers into her shoulder and leaned onto her to cope with the surges of pain, I worried that I would crush her.

The nurse helped me into the windowless office. The administrator tried to talk to me as soon as I flung myself into the visitor’s chair in front of her desk, but I held up my hand to request a pause. I put my foot up on the chair next to me, craned my neck back, and squeezed my eyes shut as if I could somehow wring out all the pain through my eyelids. Finally, after a few seconds, I had it under control enough that I could tell her to go ahead.

She asked if it was correct that our health insurance didn’t cover maternity. When I said yes, she wasted no time getting to the point: “Between Dr. Martin’s fees and the hospital expenses, you’re looking at between ten and fifteen thousand dollars.”

I pretended to pat my shorts for my wallet. “Let me see if I have it on me.” I forced a laugh.

Her businesslike expression didn’t budge. “We can put you on a payment plan, but we do need a two-thousand-dollar deposit. And we’ll need that up front.”

Joke time was over. I was struck with the overwhelming urge to go home, bury myself under the covers, and go to sleep for a day or five. “We’re small business owners. I don’t have it,” I said.

Her blank expression gave me the perfect opportunity to use her as a canvas on which I could hurl all my colorful neuroses. She thought I was a deadbeat. Irresponsible. Lower than low. Certainly not the type of person who would live in her respectable middle-class neighborhood, where people had money to cover their bills. She had no problems in her own life and saw me as a pathetic, hopeless figure, in an untouchable caste far removed from hers.

“This payment isn’t negotiable, Mrs. Fulwiler,” she finally said. “If you’re sure you can’t cover it, we may have to,” she pursed her lips as she searched for the right words, “make other arrangements for your care.”

My mind went into overdrive, thinking of anything I could pawn to come up with the money. I had a couple of ideas, but none that would get me the cash quickly enough. “There’s no way I could get it now, but I might be able to have it by next week,” I told her.

That seemed to be an acceptable answer. “That will be fine. You can deliver a check to me or mail it in. But if we don’t have it by your next visit, your appointment will be canceled.”

We were done. I grabbed my purse off the floor and put my foot down to walk out, but there was no way. I had to ask her for help. “Could you call a nurse? Not sure I can get out by myself.”

“Oh, certainly.” She hastily pressed a button on her phone and asked the receptionist to send a nurse to her office to help Mrs. Fulwiler. When she assured me that someone would be right here, I noticed pity in her voice. After a moment of painful silence, she asked me what gender the baby was.

“A girl,” I said. “We also have a son who’s almost two.”

“How sweet.” She smiled for the first time since I’d been in there. Glancing down at my leg, she added, “So I guess you’re done now?”

On her desk sat a gold-framed portrait of two blonde, smartly dressed children, a boy and a girl, probably four years apart in age. They were smiling and healthy, with straight teeth and crisp clothes. My Neurotic ESP kicked into gear again, and I was certain that if I answered her question about being done with anything other than, “Hand me that letter opener and I’ll sever my own fallopian tubes right now,” I would be deemed irresponsible and unworthy of respect. To preserve my dignity, I pretended to have a new surge pain in my leg that prevented me from answering.

The nurse came in and helped me to my feet. It was that same girl, who probably weighed as much as one of my thighs. When I first put my weight on her, I thought I saw her and the financial administrator exchange nervous glances. We made it out into the waiting area, and with each step I let out a deep groan, which completed the “wounded yeti” look nicely. When we walked by the check-in desk, people in line paused cell phone conversations to stare at us.

My mom jumped up from her seat in the waiting room, and the two of them basically carried me out to the car, the pain so bad I thought I might pass out.

Back at home I went straight to bed, as usual. After I had recovered from the pain, I fumbled around on my bedside table for a green note card with a long string of numbers on it. When I found it, I picked up the cordless phone and began dialing slowly, checking each digit to make sure it was right. For a few seconds there was only a crackling sound, then came the sounds that were like the tones you hear on a hearing test. Then, my dad’s voice. “Hey, did I wake you up?” I asked.

My dad had moved to Abu Dhabi the year before to manage the construction of a huge new airport. He had spent decades moving all over the country for work, and most of the jobs that I could remember left him stressed out and frustrated, sometimes bitterly disappointed. Before he left for Abu Dhabi he had been giddy with hope. “This could be the job I’ve been waiting for all my life!” he said the day before we took him to the airport. But things had already begun to go awry, and his dream job was turning out to be anything but. I knew from emails that his stress level was high, and the last thing I wanted to do was add to it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice.

We had been keeping him posted with regular emails about the status of the DVT, and so it wasn’t a surprise when I told him that new complications had come up, this time involving finances. “We’ve been hit with a ton of medical bills this week. . .” I began sheepishly. I hated asking for money. I decided to just spit it out. “I, uhh, find myself in need of about two thousand dollars.”

“Of course.” He didn’t hesitate for a millisecond. “I can do an online transfer before I go to bed tonight.”

“Here’s the thing. I don’t think I can pay you back. Certainly not any time soon.”

“I don’t care, Jen,” he said, almost annoyed that I even brought it up. “There’s nothing I can do for you guys out here on the other side of the world. It’s frustrating. Helping you out with money is the one way I can give back.”

I mumbled thanks, so overwhelmed by his generosity that I hardly knew how to respond.

He began to say something else, but the loud sound of a man singing filled the line, as if someone had picked up another phone in my dad’s condo and began shouting Arabic tunes into it.

“The call to prayer speaker just came on!” my dad shouted. I could still barely hear him. “Hang on a sec!”

I always snickered at the fact that my atheist father managed to move into the one condo in his part of the building that had a call to prayer speaker installed on the balcony. “God’s trying to get your attention!” I said when he could hear me again.

He laughed. “I keep telling my Muslim friends over here that a more authentic way to live their faith would be to have the call to prayer done the old way, with one guy shouting from the minaret.”

Though he could have done without the speaker outside his window crackling to life multiple times per day, sometimes before five o’clock in the morning, my dad had developed a deep respect for Muslims since he’d been in Abu Dhabi. He regularly remarked on seeing businessmen stop meetings to wash up for prayer time, and he was amazed that nobody ate or drank anything during daylight hours for Ramadan, even in the furnace-like heat.

“So, how is your religious stuff coming along?” he asked.

Though we didn’t talk about it often, we’d had a few friendly debates over email, and he knew we were reading up on Catholicism. He thought my conclusions about God and Jesus were incorrect, of course, but he was more concerned about the thought process I used to arrive at them.

I forced a laugh. “Oh, it’s great. It’s causing a bunch of drama with my doctors and generally kind of messing up my life.”

“Well. . .” he thought for a moment. “Do you think it’s true?”

His voice was distant and muffled by the eight thousand miles that separated us, but his question filled my mind as if it had been shouted by someone standing next to me. I was quiet for so long that he said hello to make sure we hadn’t been disconnected.

“I’m here,” I said, still thinking. After another second I answered, “I guess that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

It’s not easy, I almost added. But I stopped myself and wondered: What am I really looking for? What is easy? Or what is true?