“Gina?” It was Mrs. White, in a business-like, American tone. She got right to the point. “I got your number from your boss. I hope you don’t mind me calling.”
“N-no,” said Gina. It came out in a kind of choked whisper.
“Honey,” the older woman began kindly. “You’ve been doing my hair for two years now, and I know when something’s wrong. Are you pregnant?”
Gina nodded into the phone, the tears falling down her face like rain. To make matters worse, she found herself stopped at the gate of the neighborhood playground. The tiny bambini running around, the mothers chatting -- it was too much. She began to sob, oblivious to the stares of the passers-by.
“Honey, I’m sending Carlo to pick you up,” Mrs. White snapped. “Where are you?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. White,” Gina protested through her tears. “That’s not necessary.”
But Mrs. White was a force to be reckoned with, and before long Gina found herself ensconced in the creamy leather interior of the Benz. The driver, Carlo, solicitously handed her a box of Kleenex before he shut the car’s solid door.
Mrs. White was waiting at the door of the underground parking garage to their luxury pre-war apartment building. Within an hour Gina had unburdened herself of her secret, while Mrs. White listened sympathetically.
“So, no chance this Marco will marry you?”
Gina sighed and sipped her tea. It seemed that Marco was unequal to the responsibility of marriage, and barely competent to raise the children he had. When she’d timidly told him that she was pregnant, his reaction had been catastrophic.
“Oh mama mia,” he’d rolled his eyes. “This is impossible.”
He continued to shake his head dolefully as she’d tried to explain how it happened.
“Gina, this is your fault,” he’d said, finally. “You played with fire – now you need to take responsibility.”
He would be generous, he sighed, and pay for the abortion. But she’d better be quick, he warned, as these things get more expensive as time wore on.
“And you have already been way too irresponsible, bella,” he’d said, winningly. One hand caressed her chin as the other ran through his thick, long mane.
“Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Mrs. White fumed. “This guy’s a real jerk.”
Gina nodded dully. It was true.
“Blaming this on you is the first sign of a true jerk. The second sign is this phony crap about caring for you. He cares about his pocketbook. Period.” Mrs. White was indignant.
REGINA | 78