The Three of Us by Joanna Coles Page A

her pristine oven to store her jumpers.
    But sushi, comprising as it does almost entirely raw fish, presents a problem for the pregnant. According to the American pregnancy bible, What to Expect When You’re Expecting, sushi is ‘completely taboo’. But this, though widely read, is a mean-spirited tome whose advice on how expectant mothers should treat themselves includes this: ‘Before you close your mouth on a forkful of food consider “Is this the best I can give my baby?” If it will benefit only your sweet tooth or appease your appetite, put your fork down.’
    I am thinking of mutinying against What to Expect When You’re Expecting, as it seems to suggest one can only expect bad things pretty much throughout the pregnancy, so I call Dr Levy and ask his advice.
    â€˜You can eat everything,’ he assures me. ‘Just do it in moderate amounts.’
    â€˜Even sushi?’
    â€˜Well,’ he hesitates slightly, probably weighing up the legal repercussions if he gets it wrong. ‘I’d say probably no more than once a month.’
    I call Helen, a writer friend, to ask her advice. Now on her second pregnancy, she is significantly more relaxed than I am and I was impressed to see her tucking into a large bowl of clams last week – another food strictly verboten by What to Expect When You’re Expecting. She laughs and assures me her doctor has told her she can eat as much sushi as she likes. ‘After all, Japanese women do,’ she says.
    â€˜Well, Japanese women eat it all the time when they’re pregnant,’ I retort, when Peter protests at my suggestion of calling Sakura with our regular sushi order.
    â€˜Well, it’s up to you,’ he says, ‘but imagine how awful you’d feel if you miscarried because of a piece of raw squid.’
    I concede grudgingly and call our regular order in to Mama Buddha, our local Chinese, instead.
    Wednesday, 22 July
    Peter
    I accompany Joanna to her amniocentesis tests under some protest and we are both squeezed into Jeannette Patrazzi’s little office, high above Third Avenue on 17th Street. The notice on her door describes Ms Patrazzi as a Genetic Counsellor – an entirely alien concept to me – but then New Yorkers have counsellors for most things, so why not genetics?
    She sits us down to interrogate both of us in turn about our families’ medical histories, searching for any signs of inherited diseases. On her clipboard, with all the speed of a pavement artist, her pen flashes out our genetic heritage. It is a macabre family tree that is devised by cause of death. She quizzes us about our ethnic backgrounds with all the finesse of a Nazi purist, but explains that this is necessary because you can run but you can’t hide from your genetic history. It will always catch up with you.
    Each ethnic group, she explains, has its own special genetic booby trap, the downside of otherwise useful environmental mutations. Blacks have a hereditary predisposition for sickle cell anaemia (a condition causing severe organ damage and blocked blood flow) which is associated with heightened resistance to malaria. Ashkenazi Jews have a 1:200 chance of carrying the gene for Tay-Sachs disease, which is otherwise associated with resistance to TB, ‘a serious killer in the East European ghettos’, Ms Patrazzi reminds us. ‘Babies with Tay-Sachs don’t live beyond the age of three. They suffer from mental retardation, paralysis, dementia, blindness and cherry red spots on the retina.’
    Caucasians’ genetic cross to bear is cystic fibrosis, which causes abnormal secretions in the pancreas and trachea. Eventually, she goes on, infected bronchial secretions can block the lungs and can often lead to death.
    When bombarded with the concentrated treatise of what may be wrong with our baby, it seems to me amazing that anyone ever gives birth to a normal baby. With my tendency to gloomy