Leaning against her station wagon, she felt confused and lost. At thirty-three, she’d believed she had a firm grasp on the future. Instead, a burning question darkened her horizon:
Now what?
Chapter Five
Franca’s heartbroken expression haunted Marshall over the next few days. She didn’t contact him about starting the new counseling program, and he let the matter ride.
She must have been too upset about her foster daughter, and he wasn’t eager to pursue the matter. Despite her example of how therapy had changed her attitude toward her mother, Marshall doubted enough of his patients would sign up to make the effort worthwhile.
Recalling Franca’s advice about writing to his mother, he tried to compose a letter. But after he penned the words Dear Mom on crisp gray stationery, nothing else came to mind. Writing, aside from the occasional prescription, had never been Marshall’s forte. Perhaps they could gradually resume a normal relationship after the wedding. And if she still didn’t return his phone calls, what more could he do? He couldn’t force her to care about him.
On Sunday, Marshall accompanied Nick and Caleb to rent matching tuxedos, which Zady had decreed they should wear. While Caleb was being fitted, Marshall asked where the couple planned to go on their honeymoon. “Unless it’s a secret.” He’d read that some couples hid their destination, presumably to prevent crashers.
“We’d love a week or two in Italy,” Nick said. “Gondola rides, Michelangelo and Roman ruins.”
“Sounds like fun.” As a high school graduation present, Marshall’s parents had taken him on a tour of Europe.
“That’s a joke,” Nick said. “We’re planning a three-day weekend in Las Vegas.” That was a five-hour drive from Safe Harbor.
“Hard to get away for longer,” Marshall sympathized.
“Yeah. Hard when you max out the credit cards, too.”
As they left the shop, Marshall presented Caleb with his new bear. “Wow!” Dark eyes shining, the three-year-old inspected the furry animal in its tux.
Nick grinned his approval. “It’s a cutie pie, like my son. Thanks, Marsh.”
“My pleasure.”
Gazing at his brother and nephew, with their dark hair and lopsided smiles, Marshall felt his throat tighten. If only I had a son. Before that was possible, though, he had to find the right woman, and not get distracted by one whose approach to life was incompatible with his.
After his breakup with Belle, Marshall had had a few casual relationships during medical school and his residency in Boston. As a fellow in reconstructive surgery at the Cleveland Clinic, he’d tried an online dating site. Of the half dozen women he’d met for coffee, one had lied about her profession, one had asked him to prescribe painkillers for her, and another had talked about how she’d always dreamed of marrying a doctor. The others had been pleasant but uninspiring. No one had generated the kind of connection he’d felt with Franca.
Why did his thoughts keep homing in on her?
As Marshall said goodbye to Nick and Caleb, he recalled the previous day’s scene in the café, especially her distress over her foster daughter. It was exactly the kind of trouble that he suspected went hand-in-hand with fostering older children. How frustrating that she insisted on getting involved in such situations.
That fellow Axel could be dangerous, and in Marshall’s opinion, to put her daughter at his mercy showed Bridget to be an unfit mother. And there was nothing Franca could do.
The next child she took in might come with an equally risky situation. But no matter how much Marshall wished to protect her, Franca had a right to live as she chose.
How lucky Nick and Zady were, to be well-suited and in love. Over the next few days, Marshall’s nurse hummed as she went about her duties.
“What’s that you’re humming?” he asked on Thursday afternoon as he reviewed the face sheet for his next patient.
Zady’s blushed to the roots of her short reddish-brown hair. “Uh...darn. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’”
“Not a bridal march?” he teased.
“It’s Caleb’s favorite.” She leaned against the counter of the nurses’ station. “We were dancing to it with the tuxedo bear you gave him.”
“I’m glad he likes the toy.” Marshall smiled at the notion of her and his nephew dancing the stuffed animal around.
Kids were resilient, as Caleb demonstrated. The little boy had lost his mother in a boating accident last year, then adjusted to moving from his maternal grandparents’ large home to Nick’s one-story rental.
Marshall had been surprised when his nurse, who had hardly known his cousin, agreed to move in and babysit during Nick’s overnight shifts in exchange for room and board.
She’d explained that it was a great way to save money. Also, she’d been caring for her toddler goddaughter, Linda, for an extended period while the parents traveled on business. Zady had believed the little girl would enjoy having Caleb as a live-in playmate. Marshall, who’d stopped by with an occasional gift, had grown fond of both children.
One example where an untraditional model of parenting had worked out. Although with Zady and Nick getting married and Linda back with her parents, both children were now in more traditional situations. So what did that prove?
Marshall had no chance to dwell on it; his next patient was waiting. On the face sheet, the reason for the visit was listed as follow-up. Marshall had performed a vasectomy reversal on the patient eight months ago, and his sperm counts had risen and remained high since then.
“Why does Hank Driver need follow-up?” he asked Zady.
“He requested it,” she said. “He declined to state a reason.”
“Guess I’ll find out.” Marshall knocked on the examining room door, waited for a “Come in!” and entered.
A stocky man in slacks and a sport shirt swiveled toward him. “Hey, Doc.” The other man thrust his hand out and Marshall shook it firmly. He already knew the patient’s age was thirty-seven and his occupation was police detective, but he’d forgotten Hank’s disconcerting gaze, as he had one blue eye and one brown.
“Nice to see you,” Marshall said. “What seems to be the problem?”
Hank perched on the edge of the examining table. His light brown hair had begun to thin, but he was in good shape, without the potbelly that often signaled the approach of middle age for men.
“Are you sure everything’s okay with my sperm, Doc?”
At the computer terminal, Marshall brought up Hank’s records. “At your six-month checkup, your sperm count, motility and morphology were normal. Motility, you’ll recall, is the sperm’s ability to move effectively, and morphology refers to the shape. I can order a retest, but in my opinion, it’s too soon. Is there something specific that’s troubling you?”
Just because the surgery had succeeded didn’t rule out some other medical problem. Any symptom might be meaningful.
“My wife’s still not pregnant.” Hank blew out a breath. Twice divorced, the other man had obtained a vasectomy in the belief that marriage and fatherhood had passed him by. Then he’d fallen in love with a police dispatcher and remarried. He’d promised his new wife to do his best to reverse the procedure.
“The average period from surgery to conception is about a year,” Marshall advised him.
“Maybe so, but she’s thirty-five and she’s upset that it’s taking so long.”
Marshall read over the records again. “You told me previously that she had a full workup and no problems surfaced.”
Hank began pacing. “Sex with my wife is starting to feel like a race against time. She denies blaming me, but we can hardly talk without fighting.”
Marshall remembered the support group. Might as well see how Hank reacted. “Have you considered counseling? The hospital is considering starting a therapy group for male infertility patients.”
“Stop right there.” Hank scowled. “I’m not seeing some shrink.”
“
There would be a team running the sessions, including our staff psychologist and me,” Marshall said. “I’d address medical questions that might arise.”
Hank’s expression softened. “Everybody in there would be guys?”
“Yes, except for the psychologist, Dr. Brightman.”
“And you recommend this?”
Marshall had to be honest. “I’ll admit I resisted when the idea was first raised.” He recalled Franca’s statements about the benefits of therapy. “However, I understand that infertility is stressful, and stress can have a medical impact.”
“Worrying can add to the problem?”
“Yes,” Marshall said. “Counseling can help you develop tools for dealing with the pressure. However, if you’d rather, you could both participate in a couple’s group.”
“Nah.” Hank folded his arms. “I like the idea of it being all guys. Less touchy-feely stuff. When did you say this program starts?”
“We haven’t set a date,” Marshall said.
“Keep me in the loop, will you?” the patient replied.
“I will.” Marshall jotted a note in the computer. After further discussion revealed no other concerns, they shook hands and Hank went out.
Marshall hadn’t formally committed to co-leading the group. Still, the other man’s interest indicated his patients might be more receptive than he had assumed.
Lost in thought, Marshall wandered down the hall. A throat-clearing sound drew his attention to Reid Winfrey, who tilted his head toward a commanding russet-haired figure standing near the nurses’ station. “Here to see you,” the other urologist murmured.
Fertility program director Owen Tartikoff seemed affable enough as he chatted with Reid’s nurse, yet the usually relaxed, wisecracking Jeanine had gone rigid. Surely she didn’t find the surgeon that intimidating. On the other hand, Owen had once fired a nurse who’d argued with him, Marshall recalled.
“Owen.” As he stepped forward, hand outstretched, Jeanine seized the chance to vanish into the break room.
“Marshall.” Tartikoff shook his hand firmly. “I heard from Jennifer Martin that you and Brightman might be starting a men’s group. Excellent plan.”
The director didn’t beat around the bush. “I’m surprised Jennifer mentioned it.”
“Her office is down the hall from mine. I stop in to keep current on hospital news,” Owen said.
His thoroughness was impressive. Also inconvenient, from Marshall’s perspective. “I assure you, the talks have been quite informal.”
“Let’s make them formal.” A steely command underlay Owen’s words. “It’s important for Safe Harbor to stay ahead of the curve.”
Talk about tipping points—the project had just flipped from potential to inevitable. “I’ll get on it.”
“Good man.” Clapping him on the shoulder, the surgeon nodded to Reid, who’d remained on the sidelines, and strode out.
“Wow, the big man himself,” Reid murmured. “I’ll be curious about how this group pans out.”
“Me, too.” En route to his office, Marshall rejected the impulse to request a meeting with Franca over the weekend. This was business, not a personal matter, and should be conducted during regular hours. After checking his schedule, he wrote her a quick email mentioning Owen’s interest and suggesting they confer Monday morning.
Marshall didn’t usually schedule surgeries on Mondays so he could be available to patients who’d developed severe problems over the weekend. Although urology involved fewer emergencies than many specialties, they did occur, and he also sometimes received urgent referrals from other urologists due to his advanced training in microsurgery.
He sent the email and received an immediate response. Eleven a.m. Monday, my office, okay?
Marshall sent a confirmation, and squelched an impulse to inquire if she’d heard anything more about her foster daughter. Or to ask her opinion about the toast he’d begun composing for the bride and groom.
He had no reason to involve her in anything not work-related. No reason at all.
* * *
SEWING DOLL CLOTHES cleared Franca’s mind. The simple tasks of laying out fabric on her cutting board, pinning the tiny pattern pieces, and cutting and then stitching them soothed her.
She jumped whenever her phone rang, though, in case it was news about Jazz. But it was always just the usual telemarketers. She struggled to be polite with them, since she’d read that many worked from home because they were disabled.
This past week, she hadn’t been able to start on the doll clothes without breaking into tears. But over the weekend, the turmoil of the previous Saturday’s encounter had yielded at last to a resolution.
If your dreams change, change with them. Instead of agonizing, she’d sorted through her options.
At thirty-three, Franca had a good chance of conceiving, but that would decrease with every year that passed while she searched for Mr. Right. Her best choice, she decided, would be to conceive via artificial insemination. She was fortunate to work at a hospital that offered a full range of services associated with AI.
Franca had no illusions about the challenge of raising a child on her own, and she believed fathers had an important role to play in children’s lives. Too bad her younger brother, Glenn, lived in Montana and was too far away to serve as a father figure, she reflected as the sewing machine flew along a tiny seam. She planned to research the psychological implications for her baby, but other moms managed.
As her plan formed, her sense of helplessness, of having lost her goal in life, was fading. What a relief.
On Monday morning, however, her cheerful mood faltered when she entered the hospital by the staff door and heard the chatter of parents and children arriving at the day care center. Jazz ought to be skipping ahead of Franca, eager to join her friends.
No other child could replace the one Franca loved. Eyes stinging, she hurried to the elevator, and was grateful not to run into anyone with whom she’d have to converse.
Slowly, Franca regained her calm. Someday in the not-too-distant future, she would deliver a baby no one could take from her.
Her spirits rising, she exited the elevator on the fifth floor and followed the corridor past the administrative offices to her suite. Franca relished working in such a varied and challenging environment. The regular paycheck and benefits didn’t hurt, either.
Her executive assistant, Maggie Majors, hadn’t arrived yet. Since Franca was early and Maggie had to drop off her seven-year-old daughter at school, she didn’t mind.
In the counseling room, Franca dressed the dolls in their new blue finery. How precious they looked! If only Jazz were here to play with them.
Stop torturing yourself. She hurried next door to her office.
The morning flew by. After administering psychological tests to three potential egg donors, Franca met with a family about their newborn baby’s heart defect. While surgery should eventually correct the problem, few people were emotionally prepared for such a frightening diagnosis. Franca offered both emotional support and information about the journey ahead.
She finished the consultation with fifteen minutes to prepare for Marshall’s eleven o’clock visit. In her computer, she opened a file of ground rules she’d compiled for therapy groups.
Scanning them, she wondered what minefields lay ahead in co-leading a therapy group with Marshall. Not only did he lack experience, but he’d seemed cool to the idea. His cryptic message requesting today’s conference had puzzled her until Jennifer mentioned that Dr. Tartikoff had leaped on the proposal. Still, if Marshall opposed participating, he wasn’t the sort of person to let a bigwig push him into it.
Her phone rang. If he’s canceling, I’ll call him a coward to his face...or ear.
But the familiar male voice didn’t belong to Marshall. “Hey, sis.”
“Glenn!” He rarely called; he and his wife, Kerry, kept busy running a hardware store in a small Montana town. “What’s up?”
“Can’t
I just call to say I miss you?” She pictured a teasing gleam animating his tanned face.
“Absolutely.” She wished she’d had a chance to talk more with Glenn and Kerry at the holiday gathering in Reno. There’d been little opportunity, though, since the group at their mother’s home had also included their sister, Gail, and her husband, plus their stepfather, his five children and their families. “But you have another reason, too, right?”
“Okay, so you’re psychic. I mean, a psychologist,” he said. “I’m calling with news. Kerry’s pregnant.”
“How wonderful!” she said. “I’m thrilled for you both.” And at the confirmation that he was truly putting down roots.
Her brother had had a restless youth, moving from job to job and from state to state. In Montana, he’d fallen in love with Kerry and settled down, eventually winning both her hand and her parents’ approval.
“I was afraid this might be painful, because of what happened with Jazz.” He’d met her little girl at Christmas.
“Not at all.” It occurred to Franca that he might have another reason for caution. “How did Gail react?”
He sighed. “She congratulated us—used all the right words, but her voice was really strained.”
“I hope she hasn’t had another miscarriage.” That would make four.
“She didn’t say,” Glenn replied. “But she’d hardly bring it up, would she? Now, don’t go calling her! She’ll assume I put you up to it.”
“I won’t.” Despite all her training, Franca wasn’t equipped to comfort her sister’s grief.
“I wish the doctors would figure out whether it’s genetic,” Glenn said. “If it is, maybe she could move on.”
Genetic. The word hit Franca like a slap.
Their mother had lost two pregnancies during her first marriage, then gone on to bear three children. One of her aunts, after repeated miscarriages, had remained childless. Because Franca hadn’t planned to bear children, she’d never connected the family history to herself. When she’d decided to pursue insemination, she’d assumed that she had a normal chance of carrying a child to term. What if she didn’t?
The Would-Be Daddy Page 5