The Lonely Lady [antikvár]

f She sat at the top of the stairs and cried. As she came out of the anesthesia, she saw the little girl weeping, her face covered by her hands and long golden-brown hair. She had seen the image of herself thousands of times in that fractional moment between waking and sleeping—ever since the death of her father. Her vision cleared and the doctor's face looked down at her, smiling. "Everything's okay, JeriLee," he said: She glanced around the room. There were several women on rolling beds near her. The doctor answered the question before she asked it. "You're in the recovery room," he said. "What was it?" she asked. "A boy or a girl?" "Does it matter now?" "It does to me." "It was too soon to tell," he lied. A hint of tears came into the corners of her eyes. "It seems like an awful lot of trouble to have gone through and not know what it might have been." "It's better this way," he said reassuringly. "Now try and get some rest." "When can I get out of here?" she asked. "This afternoon, as soon as I get the results of the tests." "What tests?" "Routine," he said. "We think you may have an Rh problem. If so, we have a shot we can give you so that there will be no complications with your next preg-nancy." She stared at him. "Would there have been with this one?"