Chapter 43
I HAD BEEN TEMPTED, after the run-in with Angela, to fake an illness, or maybe even my own death, if it meant never having to go back to the Intercultural Relations Seminar. But I decided I couldn’t risk word getting back to Paul or—worse—Mary Lou Jenkins that I’d bailed.
When I trudged up the stairs to the community room that second day, Angela was at the front of the room, writing something on the board.
“I offer free Italian lessons once a week on Thursdays, from ten thirty to twelve. They’re drop-in, and all ability levels are welcome,” she said as I slid into the chair beside Laura that I’d claimed the day before.
Where’s Maureen? I wrote on a fresh page of my notepad and tilted it toward Laura.
Bathroom, she wrote back. Took a test last night. She’s definitely PG.
When Maureen returned from the bathroom, a little green around the gills, Angela asked if she needed anything in a way that made clear everyone in the room had heard the news.
“I’m better now,” she said, softly.
Betsy dug around in her bag and handed her a crust of focaccia. “I bought this on the ferry this morning. Sorry I ate most of it.”
Angela had had enough with niceties and launched into a lecture on Sardinia’s bandit problem and how we should never get in a car with someone we didn’t know, on the off chance that they were trying to kidnap us and hold us for ransom.
But all anyone wanted to talk about was where and how Maureen was going to have her baby.
“Is it true we have to deliver in Naples?” one of the women asked.
“Well, it makes sense, right?” said Barb. “You wouldn’t want to have a baby on the island.”
Several women nodded in agreement, and I could tell Angela wanted to say something but was worried about opening a can of worms.
“I heard you have to camp out there like a month before your due date,” Siobhan said.
“What do you do if you’ve got other kids?” asked the woman from Palau, who I thought was maybe named Shelley.
“Could your mother come?” asked Beverly.
“We’re thinking about just waiting and not getting pregnant again until after our tour’s over,” said Siobhan, which was the first I’d realized she already had at least one kid at home.
“Ladies,” said Angela, quietly, but everyone kept right on talking, so she said it again, louder this time. “You most certainly can have a baby on this island. Women have been doing so for centuries.”
Barb opened her mouth like she was going to argue, then closed it again.
“We fly in an American ob-gyn once a month from Naples,” said Angela. “So if you are pregnant or are thinking about becoming pregnant, I’d urge you to stop by the clinic and ask when the next consultant day is scheduled.”
Laura looked relieved, and I wondered how long she’d wait before making an appointment.
“But what about delivering?” said Maureen, and everyone gave her a pitying stare because, of course, her question wasn’t hypothetical.
“If you decide that you do not want to have your baby at Ospedale Paolo Merlo here on the island, you may elect to travel to the U.S. Naval Hospital in Agnano, which is a suburb of Naples.”
“How early do you have to go?” Shelley asked.
“I don’t know what they’re recommending right now,” said Angela, diplomatically. “That would be something to discuss with your doctor.”
“Our sponsor said his wife was there three weeks,” said Barb.
Laura was writing something to me on her notepad. I heard they’ve got a wing in the marine barracks that they call the Stork’s Nest. It’s nothing but navy wives waiting to pop.
None of this sounded appealing, but it was Maureen who suggested we change the subject. “What’s the story with the potluck on Sunday?” she said, and everyone piled on, asking what they should bring.