Travellers in Magic by Lisa Goldstein

I take out my license and show it to him. “I’m looking for one of your students. Carolyn Green, or Carolyn Hayes.”
    He nods, his mouth full of peanut butter.
    â€œDo you know her?” I ask.
    â€œOf course I know her. Brilliant girl. You don’t get too many undergraduates that good in ancient Greek.”
    Brilliant? I show him the photograph. “Yes, that’s her,” he says, taking it from me. “Don’t know who the man is, though.”
    â€œThat’s her husband,” I say. “Jack Hayes.”
    â€œHusband?” He puts down his sandwich, for which I am grateful, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “So that’s what happened to her. I’m sorry to hear it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œShe stopped coming to class a few months ago. I don’t usually stick my nose in my students’ business, but I was worried about her and I went to the registrar’s office to get her phone number. She doesn’t have a phone, it turns out.”
    I nod. I had already noticed that.
    â€œSo I thought, that was that,” he says. “Husband, you say. Sometimes you get a man who’ll pull his wife out of school, even in this day and age.”
    I say nothing. He’d be surprised if he knew what goes on in this day and age.
    He gives me the photograph back. “Shame,” he says, shaking his head.
    â€œDo you know anything about her?” I ask. “Any friends you might have seen her with? Acquaintances?”
    â€œNo. I never saw her outside of the classroom or my office.”
    I thank him and leave. The professors of her other two classes aren’t in, so I scribble something on the backs of two business cards and push them under the doors. As I drive back to the office I turn on the radio; someone is explaining how to put on snow-chains.
    There are two messages waiting for me at the office. A company I’ve worked for before asks me to run a credit check, and a friend wants to go see a movie tonight.
    I should call both of them back. Instead I take out a legal pad and write down columns of numbers. Stroller, car seat, crib, play-pen. So much for clothing, so much for medical expenses. College, and classes in Classical Literature with Professor Burnford. I’m staring at the pad of paper when the phone rings.
    I let the machine catch it. “I’m sorry I was angry with you the other day,” a voice says, much to my surprise. “We should talk. Please call me.”
    It’s my mother. She’s wrong, though; we have nothing to talk about.
    â€œYour test results came back,” the doctor says. “They’re positive.”
    I take a deep breath. “That was quick,” I say.
    â€œOh, we’re very efficient these days,” she says. She smiles; I guess she’s trying to put me at ease. “We don’t have to kill rabbits anymore.”
    For some reason this makes me think of Dr. Burnford, shouting at his student about rabbits and fertility symbols.
    â€œCan I ask—” The doctor pauses. “Is this welcome news?”
    I’ve checked the box marked “Single” on the intake form. “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “It was a one-night stand, really. A friend came into town unexpectedly. I don’t—”
    The vastness of what I’ve gotten into hits me; I have to stop and take another breath. I’m not going to break down in front of this woman, though; I’m not going to treat her the way my clients sometimes treat me, as if she’s a wisewoman capable of solving all my problems. If I start I’ll end up telling her about the screaming fight with my mother, about all my doubts, about God knows what else. “I’d just like some time to think about it,” I say.
    The doctor nods. She puts me up in those awful cold stirrups and examines me, and then, when I’m dressed, gives me some vitamins and a list of foods