How to Talk to a Widower

appointment?”
    “What?”
    “She just left.”
    “Hold on a minute … ” There’s some muffled noise and the sound of a door slamming, and then Debbie comes on the phone again. “She went alone?”
    “She said it was no big deal.”
    “Of course it’s a big deal. How long ago did she leave?”
    “Just now.”
    “Do you know who her doctor is?”
    “No.”
    “I’ll call Mom and find out. Then I’ll meet you there.”
    “What about your meeting?”
    “Doug,” she says, sighing. “Claire is a mess, or haven’t you noticed?”
    I think of Claire curled up on the couch like a little girl, her head in my mother’s lap as she slept, and it occurs to me that I may have missed a few things. “Crap,” I say, feeling like a schmuck.
    “Doug,” Debbie says softly.
    “I know,” I say, cutting her off. “I’m trying.”
    “Try harder. She needs you.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And so do I.”
    “Pooh,” I say, but she’s already gone.

    An hour later, Debbie and I are in a medical suite at Lenox Hill Hospital. The suite serves a practice of five doctors, whose names are screened onto the opaque glass door, and the waiting room is a crowded sanctum of hushed women with silent, patient smiles. I’ve never been to an OB/GYN office before, and you can almost see fractal bends in the air from all of the estrogen floating around in here. Like Claire, all of the women are well dressed and made up, and it strikes me as both sweet and odd that they feel the need to look good for anyone who’s going to get into their pants, even under these clinical conditions. Many of the women are in various degrees of pregnancy, and seated awkwardly next to some of them are restless-looking men who fidget like children, checking their watches, reading newspapers, tapping aimlessly on wireless devices, or holding muted conversations with their wives, who flip calmly through women’s health magazines, responding without looking up, humming along quietly to the soft rock being piped in through discreetly mounted speakers.
    A little while later, we’re still trying to talk our way past the bitchy receptionist, when my mother comes bustling through the door, flushed and slightly out of breath. “Mom,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
    “Where’s Claire? Did I miss it?”
    “We’re working on it,” Debbie says, turning back to the receptionist, a sullen-eyed girl with fake eyelashes, more lipstick than lip, a tiny diamond stud like a sparkling pimple in the pocket of her nostril curve, and hooked fingernails like painted claws.
    “I’m not allowed to take anyone back there once the exam is in progress,” the girl says firmly.
    “I understand,” Debbie says, matching her tone. “But we are her family and she wants us there. We’re just a little late.”
    “She didn’t say nothing to me about it. I can only take the father back.”
    “The father is out of the picture for now,” Debbie says. “For all intents and purposes, she is a single mother, and I’m sure you can see how she might need our support right now.”
    “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
    My mother steps over to the desk to look down at the girl. “I am Claire’s mother.”
    The girl nods, unimpressed, and then picks up a ringing phone. “Doctor’s office,” she says, still meeting my mother’s gaze.
    My mother looks at her for a long moment, then she nods slowly, smiling sweetly, and, without breaking off eye contact, shouts “Claire!” at the top of her lungs and the girl practically falls back off her seat in shock. Rather than wait for her to recover, my mother turns and marches down the long hallway leading to the examination rooms.
    Everyone in the waiting room looks up, and the receptionist jumps to her feet and calls after her, “Hey, lady, you can’t do that!”
    “Claire!” my mother shouts again, disappearing down the hall.
    Debbie and I look at each other and quickly follow her, with the receptionist in hot pursuit. “You’re not allowed back there!” she calls out, grabbing Debbie’s elbow. Debbie turns on her like a whip, eyes blazing. “Are you absolutely positive you won’t be needing that hand anymore?” she says.
    The girl pulls her hand off and steps back with a defensive shrug. “Whatever,” she says.
    A guy about my age in scrubs and a badge that says “Medical Technician” steps out of one of the examination rooms and sees us. “Excuse me,” he says, turning to face us.