"Then you're willing to give it a try?"
"I suppose there's no harm in getting more information," Joanna said. "But I'm certainly not committing myself, except for possibly a visit to the clinic."
"All right!" Deborah exclaimed. She stepped over to Joanna and high-fived her. "Venice, here we come!"
TWO
WAS A BEAUTIFUL FALL DAY with a riot of bright foliage stretching away from both sides of Route 2 as Deborah and Joanna sped northwest out of Cambridge toward Bookford, Massachusetts. The sun was conveniently behind them, although there were occasional flashes of glare reflecting off the windshields of the mass of commuter cars heading in the opposite direction into Boston. Both women were wearing sunglasses and baseball caps.
There had been no conversation since they had rounded Fresh Pond. Each was engrossed in her own thoughts. Deborah was mainly marveling at how quickly everything had fallen into place as if the whole affair involving the Wingate Clinic had been preordained. Joanna's musings were more inwardly focused. She couldn't believe how much her life had changed in a week and yet how much at peace she felt. On Sunday, when she'd finally deemed herself emotionally capable of talking with Carlton and handling what she expected would be his insistence on getting married in June, he was in such a snit that he'd refused to talk with her. She'd called and left messages for several days without result. Consequently they'd not talked for the entire week, a fact which made Joanna more convinced her sudden epiphany concerning her attitude toward marriage in general, and to Carlton in particular, had been appropriate. After all the episodes she'd had to endure of what she had interpreted as rejection, it seemed inappropriate that Carlton would act negatively in this instance. As far as she was concerned, it was not a good sign. Communication had a high priority in Joanna's value system.
"Did you remember to bring that list of questions you wrote down?" Deborah said.
"I sure did," Joanna answered. They were mostly questions about what to expect after the egg-retrieval procedure and whether there would be any limitations concerning exercise, etcetera.
Deborah had been impressed at how responsive the Wingate Clinic proved to be. She and Joanna had called the number listed in the ad in the Harvard Crimson on Monday morning, and when they described themselves and their possible interest in donating eggs, they were connected with a Dr. Sheila Donaldson, who offered to visit them straight away. Less than an hour later the doctor had arrived at their Craigie Arms apartment and had impressed them with her professionalism. In short order she'd laid out the entire program and had effectively answered all the questions Deborah and Joanna had had up to that point.
"We don't feel we have to hyperstimulate," Dr. Donaldson had said early in the discussion. "In fact we don't stimulate at all. We call it our 'organic' approach. The last thing we want is to cause any problems with our donors, which synthetic or pooled hormones can do."
"But how can you be sure you'll get any eggs at all?" Deborah had asked.
"Occasionally we don't," Dr. Donaldson had said.
"But you'd still pay, wouldn't you?"
"Absolutely," Dr. Donaldson had said.
"What kind of anesthesia is used?" Joanna had asked. It was her major concern.
"That will be your choice," Dr. Donaldson had said. "But Dr. Paul Saunders, the individual who does the retrievals, prefers light general anesthesia."
At that point Joanna had given Deborah a thumbs-up.
The day following the interview Dr. Donaldson had called first thing in the morning to say that both women had been accepted and that the clinic would like to do the procedures as soon as possible, preferably that week, and in any case, they'd like to hear back from the women that very day. For the next several hours, the women debated the pros and cons. Deborah was heavily in favor of going ahead with it. Eventually her enthusiasm won Joanna over. A call back to the clinic resulted in an appointment for that Friday morning.
"Do you have any second thoughts about this?" Joanna asked suddenly, breaking a quarter-hour silence.
"Not in the slightest," Deborah said. "Especially thinking about that Louisburg Square apartment we looked at. I hope someone doesn't nab it before we have the money in our hot little hands."
"It's also dependent on the seller willing to give us a second mortgage," Joanna said. "Otherwise it's far beyond our means."
The women had contacted real estate agents in both Cambridge and Boston, and had seen a number of condo units for sale. The one on Louisburg Square in Beacon Hill had impressed them the most.
It was one of Boston's finest addresses, centrally located, and close to the Red Line subway, which would whisk them over to Harvard Square in no time at all.
"To tell you the truth, I'm surprised the price is so reasonable."
"I think it's because it's a fourth-floor walkup," Joanna said. "And because it's so small, especially the second bedroom."
"Yeah, but that bedroom has the best view in the whole apartment, plus the walk-in closet."
"You don't think walking through the kitchen to get to the bathroom is a problem?"
"I'd walk through someone else's apartment to get to the bathroom for a chance to live on Louisburg Square."
"How would we decide who gets what bedroom?" Joanna asked.
"Hey, I'll be happy with the smaller one if that's what you're worried about," Deborah said.
"Seriously?"
"Absolutely," Deborah said.
"Maybe we could rotate somehow," Joanna suggested.
"It's not necessary," Deborah said. "I'd be perfectly happy with the smaller bedroom. Trust me!"
Joanna turned her head to look out the passenger-side window. The farther north they went the more intense the fall colors became. The red of the maples was so bright it almost didn't look real, especially when surcharged against the dark green of pine or hemlock trees.
"You're not having second thoughts, are you?" Deborah questioned.
"Not really," Joanna said. "But it's dizzying how quickly everything is happening. I mean, if everything goes according to plan, by this time next week we'll not only be landowners, we'll be in Venice. It's like a dream."
Deborah had gone on-line and had found surprisingly inexpensive seats to Milan via Brussels. From Milan they would take the train to Venice, arriving in the middle of the afternoon. Deborah had also found a small bed-and-breakfast in the San Polo sestiere near the Rialto Bridge where they'd stay until they could find an apartment.
"I can't wait!" Deborah exclaimed. "I'm psyched! Benvenuto a Italia, signorina!" She reached across and briefly tousled Joanna's coiffure.
Joanna leaned to the side, batted Deborah's hand away, and laughed. "Mille grazie, cara," she said in a playfully sarcastic tone. She then bent her head back and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair in hopes of returning it to some semblance of order. "I guess I'm a bit taken aback at how quickly the Wingate Clinic is making this all happen," she said as she used the rearview mirror to inspect her efforts with her hair. Joanna was moderately obsessive about her hair and general appearance, much more so than Deborah who often teased her about it.
"It's probably the two clients who are pressuring them," Deborah said. She readjusted the mirror.
"Did Dr. Donaldson mention that?" Joanna questioned.
"No," Deborah answered. "I just assumed as much. She did say that the clinic was only interested in two donors, so we're lucky we called when we did."
"There's a sign that says Bookford is the next exit," Joanna said, pointing ahead. The sign was small and set in front of a small clump of oak trees ablaze in lustrous orange.