by Robin Leaf
“Yeah, I promised myself I wouldn’t go on drugs to make this happen.”
“So… don’t. Nothing says you have to if you don’t want to.”
She took a deep breath. “Hopefully, we won’t have to make that decision.”
~~~
“At this point, I’ll do anything, Dr. Bell.”
Wait. That’s not the decision we made. We talked about it last week, and we decided that after this third time, if she didn’t get pregnant, we’d take some time off.
It would be so nice to have time off.
Time where we didn’t talk incessantly about babies, and hormones, or getting pregnant. Or get teary, or worse, angry, every time we were out in public and saw a pregnant woman. Hell, I’d like to be able to hang out with Riley and Vanessa as a couple, but she can’t even do that. Last time we tried, it was a disaster.
So I tried to remain expressionless to this change in plan.
“Doctor, can we have a minute?”
“Sure, Darby. Take your time.” I watched as she left the room.
“Babe…”
“Don’t say it, Darby,” she spouted.
I bit my lips together to stop the snarky comeback from leaving my lips. I didn’t want to have yet another debate with her over the benefits of trying later.
“What do you think I was going to say, since you all of a sudden can read minds?”
That wasn’t too snarky, was it?
“That the universe is telling us we shouldn’t have a baby.”
I drew in a quick breath of air. That is not at all what I thought she was going to say about what she thought I was going to say.
Damn, I just confused myself.
“Allison, I wasn’t going to say that. I don’t feel that way.” Except I kinda did. “I was simply going to remind you of the decision we made…”
“You mean the decision you forced on me?”
I closed my eyes. “You think I forced it on you?”
“Maybe not forced… but coerced. And I made that decision with you before I knew I wasn’t pregnant this time. Now that I’m not, all bets are off.”
“So you get to make a decision that involves both of us all on your own now?”
She shot me a look that I can only describe as pure ire. “This doesn’t involve you. I will be the one taking the medicine. I am the one getting pregnant. I will do whatever it takes, Darby.” Her face transformed into something completely sinister. “And you will not stop me.”
I stood, walked to the door, and opened it. “Allison is ready for you, doctor.” I walked through it. “Apparently, I’m not needed, so I’ll be in the waiting room. Come get me when you’re ready to leave.”
I grabbed a magazine off the table and angrily flipped through it, completely oblivious to my surroundings. For ten minutes, I sat, seething, trying to calm myself down.
I looked around the room at the faces of the women in here, realizing they were trying to conceive just as hard as Allison was. One was sitting next to her husband, holding hands and whispering to one another. I gathered they were new to the fertility game since they seemed to still be talking to one another. Another woman looked patiently annoyed, not sure if it was because of the wait or the fact that they had to be here. Her husband was looking at his phone, turned slightly away from his wife. Yes, they had been at this awhile. Another couple looked nervous, probably getting ready to receive their first IUI or IVF. They leaned into each other, but neither spoke.
My anger began to evaporate. All these couples were in the varying stages of the process, all desperately hopeful that they could conceive and carry a baby, just like we were.
“Darby, she’s ready for you,” Samantha called.
I stood quickly in hopes no one heard her call me by my name.
She led me to the checkout counter where Allison was making her next appointment, papers and prescription in hand.
“You ready?” I asked, trying to avoid the edge in my voice.
She smiled tentatively. “Yes.”
We exited the office through the back door and entered the stairwell.
“I’m sorry, Darby, for the way I acted. I’m sorry I changed my mind.” Her voice cracked. “I just…” She stopped, looked deep in my eyes, with all the emotion she could muster. “I am not ready to give up on this yet. I want a baby so badly, and I need to try everything first before I just give up.”
“I’m not suggesting you give up, Ally. Just put it on pause. You are so focused on this, and it’s all we talk about or think about. It’s not fun anymore.”
She gasped. “You only did this because you thought it’d be fun?”
“Don’t go twisting my words. I meant that it’s coming between us, and you promised we wouldn’t let that happen.”
“You’re right. I did promise that. But that was before…” she ran her hand over her head and pulled on her ponytail. “I can’t give this up just yet.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Please… please stick with me. Don’t give up on this. I promise once you hold that baby, it’ll all be worth it.”
Forty One
“Freeze Frame” – J. Giles Band
In that waiting room on the day in the clinic, I was just too caught up in my anger to pay attention to the familiar clicking/shuttering noise that I’d been trained by Noah to hear.
See, someone sitting across the waiting room noticed and recognized me. I assumed it went down something like this: a fan took my picture and wanted to brag to his or her friends. She/he either sent it to them or put it on Snapchat, Instagram, or some other social media site, where it went viral. Totally innocent, I’m sure, except for the fact that the words “fertility clinic” were on the wall behind my head.
So five days after our appointment, everyone forgot the latest he-said, she-said celeb sex scandal, because the most talked about celebrity headline was, “Baby Fever: Single and Desperate Darby Cheetwood Visits Fertility Clinic.”
So many sweet strangers came out in support to offer me congratulations and well wishes all over my social media sites and through private messages.
Also, so many creeps came out of the woodwork to send me dick pics and offers of their “services.” Ick.
All of this helped an already very stressful situation between me and Allison become a nightmare.
Welcome, shit storm. I’m so glad you’ve made my life hell.
So, she was barely talking to me, which, honestly, I was not too unhappy about.
The morning after the story broke, I sat in Charlie’s office weighing my options. Luckily, our show had a day off due to script change rewrites, which meant I had the day free. That pesky universe did still love me occasionally.
“Alright, Darby. First option: we could tell the truth. You could out yourself in front of the world and take same-sex couples to the next level by publicizing your desire to have a child. We could detail the trials and tribulations a same-sex, or really any couple, go through to conceive when it can’t happen naturally.” She tapped her fingers together. “Ooh, it could be a publicity goldmine.”
I thought it was a worthy cause, but as I was not for outing our relationship for the same reasons I have always had; I still did not want to be a poster child for any cause, be it same-sex parenting or for infertility, nor did I want to make our very private situation become public. It was already stressful enough.
“Yeah, We’re under enough stress as it is. Doing the fertility thing with the world watching would just add to it. Therefore, I’m not on board with option one, so what’s the other one?”
“Okay, option two is we could say you were there in support of a friend who wishes to remain anonymous.”
I clapped my hands. “Perfect. Let’s write up the press release and get it done.”
She twisted her mouth to the side. “Don’t you need to discuss it with Ally first?”
“Nope,” I said with finality. “Don’t look at me like that. This is my career, not hers. Plus, she didn’t consult me when sh
e decided to go on the fertility medicine, so why do I have to consult her in making this decision, one designed to get the heat off of both of us?” She pursed her lips. “She’ll be fine, Charlie. Send the release.”
Right before I was set to walk out the door, she stopped me to tell me that she just now secured an interview on a famous talk show, which I lucked into due to another actor’s last-minute cancellation. I silently thanked the universe for offering this opportunity.
I rushed over to the studio in Burbank and made it in time. I only had to wait in the green room for about thirty minutes before I was announced.
My entrance music was not only a Bieber song, it was “Baby.” I had to force myself to smile and dance instead of roll my eyes and run off stage.
Once I was seated, we talked about mundane things, like the show, my character’s new direction (which again, I had to mask annoyance since I was uber unhappy with how my character was changing), until finally, she asked…
“So, Darby, let’s talk about all this media storm surrounding you.”
A picture of the headline flashed on the screen behind me, which made the audience laugh.
“Yes, apparently I’m Desperate Darby. Gotta say…” I looked back at the screen, “I’m not too happy with the nickname. Can’t they come up with something better, like Darling Darby?”
“How about Delightful Darby.”
“Ohh, I like,” I waggled my eyebrows, “Delicious Darby.”
After the audience reaction, she continued. “I think that one’s a winner for sure. So what were you doing in a fertility clinic?”
“I was there supporting a friend. She is having some difficulty trying to get pregnant.”
“So, it’s not you trying?”
“No, I can guarantee I have no plans to get pregnant anytime soon, and if I ever do, I might look into the reports, on the same show that made that headline, I might add, of how Zac Effron offered to help me out.” I fanned myself. “If only that was true.” Smiling at the camera, I added, “But Zac, if you’re watching, I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” I laughed and turned to the audience. “Could you imagine… me having Troy Bolton’s baby? Yeah, in your face, Gabriella Montez.”
We both laughed, and she thankfully changed the subject again before she took a commercial break, signaling my time was over.
“Thank you, Darby. That was fun.”
“You’re welcome. I know this was taped, so this one will air tomorrow or Monday?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Thank you for having me.”
Whew. I did it. I made it through the interview without looking like an idiot, and I effectively cast doubt on the stupid gossip show that ran my story in the first place.
Looked like the Flurkey luck was back in effect. Score.
~~~
I came home to an empty apartment and a note saying Allison would be home very late from her movie.
It was par for the course lately. She worked hard choreographing the fight scenes, and the actors sometimes had a hard time performing the difficult moves. This director wanted specific outdoor lighting, and set times were late all week. So, being the professional she was, she stayed to help the stunt coordinator oversee it all.
How would Allison have done this movie if she had been pregnant? I’m not saying women can’t work during pregnancy. I just know Allison. She would have put herself on lockdown once she found out she had a tiny peanut growing. She would probably self-induce bedrest to ensure nothing happened to that kid.
Being alone sounded fabulous, except alone is where I got lost in my thoughts.
And that was dangerous.
I thought things like how having a baby was not worth all the trouble and heartache we were currently experiencing, especially how Allison was willing to compromise her beliefs to make it happen. It should be joyous and happy, not cause a rift between the parents. And that’s the only way to describe us right now. Rifted. She acted like I was the enemy, and I kind of felt like she slipped down the slope from obsessed to possessed.
I didn’t know how to bring it up to Allison. It was just that medicine… it was making her moody, way more irrational than usual. No matter what I said to her about this, it would be misconstrued, and that was because everything I said in the past few days was misconstrued. Even just a harmless “good morning” from me became an accusation in her mind. She was bonkers.
She seemed so down, obsessing that something was wrong with her, yet she didn’t want to take any steps to see why this was happening. The doctor offered to do some tests, but she refused. Probably because she doesn’t want her fears confirmed.
And the hits kept coming. Seriously, there was not one thing in my life that brought me joy. My job, my girlfriend, the media, and, well, I’ll just call it “other recent events,” all were sources of stress in my life. It came from every direction.
I was a true believer that outside things could not make a person happy. Happiness truly came from within, but bad shit from all angles sure did have the power to make a person miserable. That’s for sure.
I considered calling Riley and Vanessa to see if they wanted to hang out tonight, but the thought of being around overly sexed newlyweds, one with a particularly large baby bump, just did not appeal to me.
My circle of friends, the ones I’d spent one-third of my life with, all had other obligations and commitments, or they were tied to… the one who shall not be named.
The one who continually clogged my thoughts.
I had to do something to keep my mind occupied so I didn’t pine away for the one I kicked out of my life. The one I tried hard not to think about. The one who I almost called several times.
A movie night. That’s what I needed.
I decided to change into comfy clothes first. Laying on my bed was my large box of sentimental items collected over the years with a note in Allison’s disturbingly neat handwriting attached.
I found this cleaning out the closet in the spare room. We will talk about it later. –A
The taped box had been opened. So I sat down on the bed and started going through the box.
A cork from the first bottle of wine I legally consumed… the one he brought me on my twenty-first birthday.
A takeout menu from our favorite pizza place in San Francisco.
A movie ticket from Revenge of the Sith… I remember us walking out in the middle of the movie.
A doodle on a bar napkin… from when he was bored waiting for me.
A scented candle… one I liberated from the boutique hotel suite the night with my suitor.
More and more seemingly innocuous trinkets and keepsakes were contained the box, but they were neatly arranged by someone who seemed to take great care making sure this otherwise worthless junk was preserved. It wasn’t worthless to me. Only I knew the secrets they held.
Had I done that? I can’t remember. I must have because who else would have done it for me?
Well, Allison would have.
The one thing that drew my attention was the smaller, one foot square box stashed away in the corner of the bigger box.
I remembered that box quite well, and what it contained inside.
The sweetest, oddly romantic gesture that caused our downfall.
Fuck, if Allison peeked in that one, it’d all be over. Ten years of carefully crafting how I could withhold information so she didn’t learn the biggest secret I kept from her all these years.
That someone other than her was the love of my life.
Forty Two
“Basket Case” – Green Day
Five days passed. Allison and I had only seen each other a few times, only in passing. She was busy, and I was working. We didn’t speak. She pulled that female shit on me. You know, that thing women do where she made it a point to let me know that she was not speaking to me? I just brushed her off. I was so glad we kept our separate rooms. It made life slightly more quiet.
Strained, but quiet.
I m
ade it to the set early this morning, which didn’t happen but once in a blue moon. One of the production assistants approached me while I sat reviewing today’s script.
“Miss Cheetwood? Mr. Briscoe would like to see you.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Okay.”
Well, that was odd. The higher ups on this show were always asking to see my co-star to reprimand her for her behavior. I, to my knowledge, had done nothing wrong.
I followed him to the golf cart, where we began the forever-long trek to the office of the big boss of the show, Donald Briscoe. FYI, never jokingly call him Donnie Brasco; the man has absolutely zero sense of humor, which doesn’t make sense since all his shows have an element of comedy to them.
I walked into the office, and the man didn’t rise to meet me. He didn’t even look at me. This was not good.
“Mr. Briscoe? What’s up?”
He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.
“Miss Cheetwood, have a seat.” He motioned to the chairs in front of the desk.
I slowly made my way to the seat, never taking my eyes off the man, who still refused to look at me.
“Miss Cheetwood, I wanted to give you the changes to the script personally.” He handed me two stapled pages. “If you would, look it over right now, please.”
I continued to look at him; he continued to stare at the papers on his desk.
My focus diverted to the pages in front of me. My character had been tracking a murderer in the past few episodes, so my co-star and I were entering a building, along with the usual witty banter, following a lead from a sketchy witness. We had taped the set up to this scene yesterday, so this was falling in line. I was relieved that we would not have to re-shoot anything due to the rewrites.
The second page was nothing but stage direction. My character picks the lock on the door and opens it… nothing new. The old script had me opening the door, saying, “Oh my God,” as the scene faded to black. It was one of those mid-season cliffies they like to do right before Christmas.
This one has me getting shot in the head.
“What the fuck?” I shouted, jumping out of my chair.
“Now, Miss Cheetwood…”