ANNA FELT THE bed creak and sag as Tom rolled over. He made faint sounds and nuzzled his pillow. How could he sleep? Her thoughts were loud enough to drown out the recorded rain. She was amazed he didn’t hear them, didn’t respond like she’d spoken aloud.
This is it. This time is the one.
I’m going to be a mother.
Please, God, let this be it.
But then.
That cramping feels awfully familiar.
Don’t be PMS.
I can’t do this again.
The hardest part about IVF was that she was indisputably pregnant. Her harvested eggs had been combined with Tom’s sperm. This last cycle they had even gone for intracytoplasmic injection, injecting each egg with a single sperm. Of the five eggs they had harvested, three had been successfully fertilized. Three microscopic embryos. Babies.
Because this was their fourth cycle of IVF, the doctors had transferred all of them. Which meant she was not just pregnant, but pregnant three times over. There were babies alive inside of her. But they would stay alive only if they attached to her uterus. If they didn’t live, it was her fault.
Stop, she thought, the reaction routine to the point of a mantra. She knew fault didn’t enter into it. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done everything: the diets, the exercise, the post-sex positions, the vitamins, the hormones, the prayer. But none of it mattered to the voice in her head, the one whispering that every other woman could do it, that it was the most basic thing in the world, that to fail at that was like failing at breathing. Women gave birth. That was what made them women.
Stop. This time is the one. You’re going to be a mother.
Please, God, let this be it.
SHORTLY AFTER SIX, he gave up, tiptoed across creaky floors to the bathroom. He tuned in WBEZ as the shower warmed: news of the war, the indictment of a telecom CEO, a commercial for Eight Forty-Eight, Steve Edwards promising to talk about the governor’s latest tax plan and interview a local poet. It felt normal, comfortable, the same sounds from the same tinny radio, the sputter-kick of the water, the faint sourness of morning teeth.
But today could be the last day of your old life. He smiled as he rubbed shampoo into his hair.
Afterward, he quick-dried and wrapped the towel around his waist. In the bedroom, Anna lay on her back, blankets pulled to her chin, hands on her stomach, staring at the unmoving ceiling fan.
“How you feeling?”
“Fat.”
He laughed. “Fat’s good, right?”
“I think so.” She pushed off the covers and started to sit, then leaned back with a groan.
“You okay?” He was beside the bed without realizing he’d moved.
She nodded, took his hand to pull herself upright. “Just cramps.”
“Cramps?” She had vicious ones with her period, which was one of those bits of information, like her body temperature to two decimal places, that he’d never anticipated knowing. He could see she was scared, so he put a hand on her shoulder, said, “It’s the hormones.”
Anna blew air through her nose, then nodded. “You’re right.” She stood slowly, started for the bathroom. “Tell you one thing, I won’t miss sticking myself every day.”
He waited till he heard the water, then pulled on slacks and the gray cashmere sweater she’d given him for Christmas a couple of years back. Kettle on, eggs cracked into a pan, bread in the toaster. He left everything going as he unlocked the front door, went downstairs, and stepped out into a crisp spring morning. A haze of clouds sizzled against the beginnings of a bright blue day. He stooped for the Trib, then turned, saw Bill Samuelson staring at him, and nearly flipped backward off the porch.
“Jesus.” Tom put a hand to his pounding heart. “You scared me.”
“Easy to do.” Their tenant took a drag from his cigarette, paused to spit a scrap of tobacco. “Don’t you ever look around?” His voice was low and rich, a silk-smooth contrast to his generally pissy attitude.
“Just a little jumpy this morning, I guess.” Tom shifted from one leg to the other, the cement cold against his bare feet. He itched to bum a smoke, reminded himself that he’d quit. “Kind of a long night.”
It was the sort of comment that would prompt most people to say, Really? Why’s that? But Bill just looked away. Since he’d rented the bottom floor of their two-flat, they’d barely spoken. He kept to himself, never seemed to have guests, disappeared for long stretches of time, and on the rare occasions they did bump into each other, was always right on the verge of rude. But his check hit the mailbox every month, and that was about all Tom cared about.
Back in the kitchen he dumped the Trib on the counter, poured tea, flipped eggs, and tried not to think about acronyms.
IT WAS GOING TO BE FINE. The sky was blue, spring was here, and she was pregnant. Sunlight made all the difference. Who wasn’t nervous at 4:12 in the morning? A terrible hour to be the only one awake.
She reclined in the passenger seat, the back tilted thirty degrees to take some of the pressure off her belly. Her cramping was a little better, but her breasts were unbelievably sore. She’d had to dodge Tom’s hug this morning, and she could tell that had bothered him.
Which was fair. More than. She’d make it up to him. But right now, she could think about only one thing. And all the physical symptoms had to be good signs. She felt different this time than the others.
The morning rush hour was on, and people filled the sidewalks, men and women in business casual. Life casual. Her cell phone rang, and she leaned forward to dig it from her purse, wincing as her breasts swung. She flipped it open, checked the caller ID. Shook her head and tucked the phone away unanswered.
“Who was it?”
“Work.”
He cocked his head.
“I’ll call them later,” she said. “After.” She could feel his stare. “It’s just a phone call. Don’t read into it.”
The clinic was in a nondescript office complex. Orange pillars, bland signs, a cramped parking lot. Tom found a spot for the Pontiac and came around to help her out of the car. The air was cool but the sun on the top of her head felt good.
Even at a quarter to nine, the waiting room was packed. She signed in and took a seat. Tom had his BlackBerry out and was punching buttons, mouth curled into a small frown. Anna felt a surge of anger – not like e-mail couldn’t wait – but wrote it off to hormones.
She pulled a magazine off the table, a People three weeks out of date, the cover given over to the “Shooting Star” robbery. When it had happened, the tabloids had been full of it, and she’d followed the story with that voyeuristic tingle that came from something lurid happening in her backyard. But now, as she flipped the pages and stared at the photos – the Star raising one hand to block photographers, somber police standing outside a dance club, a driver’s license photo of the dead bodyguard – it couldn’t hold her attention.
When she’d been a kid, Christmas had killed her. The waiting, the anticipation, it was too much. She even had a special Countdown-to-Christmas dance, which basically involved flailing spasmodically in front of the tree, arms and legs flying, dizzy with need. Her parents had found it hysterical. The wait for their name to be called reminded her of that time. Maybe I should have a Find-Out-If-You’re-Pregnant dance.
Finally a nurse in blue scrubs led them back to an examination room. A poster on the wall detailed her anatomy, uterus and fallopian tubes and ovaries and the rest of it, all drawn in pastel colors and labeled.
“How are you feeling?” The nurse busied herself collecting swabs and tape.
“Okay. Some cramping, but I’m feeling better.”