What Is Missing

by Michael Frank

  “There’s so little I know about your past, Henry. Please.”

  Henry looked into the mirror for a moment. Then he turned around to face her. “Schoenfeld and I were in the same class in medical school. We were fellows together in Peter Harris’s clinic, and we worked for him afterward. Later on we went into practice together ourselves. We lost a good deal of money at first. Judith’s father helped us out, and Judith had a good head for business, but it wasn’t enough. Schoenfeld’s parents put up a lot more. They had deeper pockets. I wanted to keep things equal, even so. I felt our work and our ideas were where the value was, not in who contributed this many or that many dollars. Schoenfeld, or his family, I never really understood, disagreed. They had a lawyer draw up a document. That’s where it all started to unravel. We didn’t even really have a chance to get our practice going, not properly.” He paused. “Satisfied?”

  “You felt Schoenfeld should have stood up to his parents more? Taken more of a stand?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he disappointed you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, money can have a very—a very particular effect on people.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “I really thought we were onto something.”

  “And you were.”

  “Now it looks that way. But now is a different story. In the early years, it would have been easier to endure all the disappointments, all the challenges, with a partner. Someone to share all the hard times with.” Again he paused. “Okay? Enough?”

  * * *

  Vuillard et Waroquy, a rectangular canvas of about six by eight feet, hung in one of the smaller rooms that extended the Met’s story of Impressionism. Henry led Costanza to the picture, then took a step to one side, presenting it to her as a child might a prized toy. Rendered in a limited palette of grays, browns, and watery greens, it was a double portrait of the artist and his friend. Vuillard was standing in the foreground, with Waroquy just behind him, and they were looking into a mirror, which was actually the canvas, or what the canvas was pretending to be—only a bottle (of wine, or liquor) in the lower right-hand corner, reflected in the mirror/canvas, gave away the trick.

  “Fantastic, isn’t?” Henry said. “He’s painting a painting of himself painting a painting of himself, while his friend watches. It’s almost like it’s happening in real time.”

  “Fantastic, yes.” Costanza studied the painting. “Very imaginative. But…”

  “Go on.”

  “Quite honestly, something else stands out to me. This morning you talked about Isaac Schoenfeld. You gave the impression that it was a friendship that you’re still haunted by. Then you bring me to see this painting of two male friends looking at us—trying to say something to us—across time. Don’t you think that’s—curious?”

  “Honestly, it never occurred to me.”

  “But it seems so obvious.”

  “Is this how it always is with you?” Henry asked lightly. “This constant examining?”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  “You want to know how I feel about that?”

  She nodded.

  “Excited.” He kissed her on the neck.

  “Thank you, Henry, but I feel that you’re deflecting me.”

  “Not at all. For years Judith didn’t seem interested in listening to me or understanding me. Now I want to be listened to, I want to be known. Especially by you.”

  “Then you have to answer me. You have to show yourself to me.”

  He looked back at the canvas. “Maybe bringing you to see this picture is a way of revealing something I myself don’t understand, how much this part of my past still—troubles me. There. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “What I’m looking for, Henry, is the truth.”

  “I believe that is the truth. I’m just seeing it now…” He studied the painting for a few moments, then faced her. “Your turn. What is it that you’re not showing me?”

  “That’s easy. How lost I feel.”

  “Still, even now?” As he said this, he gestured, indicating himself, then her.

  “Especially now. Questioning, or doubting things—it’s how I was born, Henry. And also, I’m afraid.”

  “Of the cycle?”

  She nodded. “From your point of view, I know, it’s routine. But not for me. I don’t know what it will feel like, whether it will work—even you can’t know that. I don’t know whether you and I will survive it. The quest for a baby finished off my marriage to Morton, you see.”

  “But surely it wasn’t only that,” Henry said soberly.

  “Not only. But mostly. At least that’s how I’ve come to think about it. Also I worry that if the treatment doesn’t work, I may fall into—into a state of mind, a darkness, like my father’s. He’s been on my mind a lot right now.” She looked back at the painting. “How come he didn’t have a friend to look over his shoulder, to watch over him—to help him?”

  Henry took her hand. Tenderly he said, “From my own experience, Costanza, I’ve learned that when you have a child, when you grow and rear a new being, it lightens the weight of the past. My own father was an enormous burden to me, right up until Justin was born. This is not to say I’ve shaken completely free of Leopold. But it’s not as it was. Not nearly. And even though the circumstances with your father are different, I believe that something similar will happen to you. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  * * *

  On Thursday at just about noon, after putting in three hours on her translation, Costanza went to the bathroom to pee. When she wiped herself, the toilet paper was bright red. As she’d been instructed, she left a message with the nurses at Henry’s office.

  She arrived at the clinic at eight o’clock the next day. Costanza was no longer the outsider now, observing from a cool distance. She was one of the women who put their names on the sign-in sheet and with that one simple act set the whole experience in motion. She was one of the women who sat down and raised a magazine shield, then peered over its edge to survey the waiting room. And she was one of the women who, hearing her name called from a doorway, leaped up to flee that waiting room as fast as she could. She followed a nurse, JASMINE, it said on her name tag, into a room divided by half walls into cubicles. She sat down, and Jasmine drew her blood. Afterward she led Costanza into an examining room and instructed her to undress. Costanza undressed, climbed up onto the table, and covered herself up. Sometimes it was almost a relief to follow directions.

  Within minutes there was a burst of light, noise, warm air. A young doctor stood before her. His ears branched out from his head like handles on a pitcher; he looked as if he should be studying for his biology final in high school.

  “Good morning, Costanza. I’m Dr. Sommers, a fellow here at the clinic, and I’m going to do your baseline ultrasound this morning.”

  Jasmine, who had returned with him, began entering information into the computer.

  “If you’re Dr. Sommers,” Costanza said crisply, “then I’m Ms. Ansaldo.”

  “Well, if you’re Ms. Ansaldo, then I’m Dan.” He smiled at her. “Your first time?”

  She nodded.

  “Any questions I can answer before we get started?”

  “How about this: Can you tell who’s going to succeed?”

  “Scientifically? No.”

  “Unscientifically?”

  “The right attitude helps. I’ve only been here a year, but it has really stood out to me. IVF works best for women who are confident—and stay confident even when there are bumps.”

  Bumps?

  “A canceled cycle. A failed cycle.”

  “I didn’t know they could be canceled.”

  “Converted is the more commonly used term. We won’t let you go to retrieval with fewer than three viable eggs; we’ll do an insemination instead.” He looked at her properly. “You strike me as one of the confident ones,” he said encouragingly.

  “That’s just because I wouldn’t let you call me by my first name,
Dan.”

  Jasmine handed him the ultrasound wand. “Can I get you to scoot back a bit?”

  She scooted. Just then the door opened, and Henry stepped in. He gave Costanza a private nod. He said nothing to the fellow, who underwent a sudden physical transformation. His shoulders slackened, his face inclined toward the computer screen, and his hand—was it possible?—almost imperceptibly shook as it guided the ultrasound wand. Henry examined the screen over Sommers’s shoulder and didn’t even wait until the junior physician had finished before declaring, “Lining highly appropriate.” Then, as abruptly as Henry appeared, he was gone.

  * * *

  At six o’clock that evening a nurse phoned to say that Costanza was to inject herself with 150 units each of Menopur and Follistim at any time before midnight that night and the one following, and that she was to come in again on Sunday morning for blood work.

  Even though Costanza knew that Henry would double-check everything she did, she asked the nurse to repeat the dose and wrote it down on a scratch pad by the kitchen phone.

  Then she poured herself a small glass of wine. She had been advised against immoderate drinking during the cycle, but she didn’t see how she would make it through these first days without a small easing sip now and then.

  She had almost emptied the glass when she heard the front door open. In the entry hall she found Andrew dropping a small bag by the door. “This is unexpected.”

  “I’ve missed so many Mondays I thought I’d have a makeup day, and besides, my mom is away this weekend.” He paused. “You don’t seem too happy about it.”

  “I’m just a little surprised to see you, that’s all. And I haven’t thought about dinner.”

  He pushed his hair back off his face, as though to take a clearer look at her. “I’m not here for dinner. I’m just leaving some stuff for later…”

  But Andrew’s attention was drawn elsewhere—behind her, to the living room. “You really went the distance with the house thing.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “The color’s … cheery.” He stepped into the room and looked around. “The pictures are in different places, the books … wow.”

  “Well, we painted the shelves too. Everything came down and got cleaned and organized. Your father thinks I should keep going.”

  Andrew fussed with his hair again. “You mean like with the bedrooms?”

  “I’d never touch yours without your permission, Andrew. I remember how you feel about change.”

  * * *

  When Henry returned from work around seven thirty, he joined Costanza in the bathroom, where he gently showed her how to draw up the medicine, swap out the needles, and sterilize her abdomen. He advised her not to wind up—she wasn’t throwing a dart—but to keep the needle perpendicular to her skin, and to insert it quickly. “The less thinking, the better.”

  It was much easier than she imagined it would be. She felt a sharp pinch as the needle went in and, after that, a tolerable burning that subsided after a minute or two. Afterward she breathed audibly. Like so many things in her life, it was the buildup—the anticipation—that set her churning.

  “Are you all right?” Henry asked.

  “I’m just waiting to feel something. Like Dr. Jekyll, or the monster in Frankenstein.”

  “It’s nothing so drastic. The effects are cumulative. You’ll see. Or maybe you won’t. Everyone’s different.”

  * * *

  After he filled a bowl with cereal and fruit the next morning, Andrew opened the cutlery drawer to look for a spoon. The cutlery drawer was directly under the kitchen phone. By the phone was a scratch pad. He glanced at it: Menopur, Follistim—150 units.

  Clearly legible, evenly spaced, vaguely European-style letters: not his father’s writing. Menopur and Follistim, Andrew knew, were fertility drugs that were given to stimulate women at the beginning of an IVF cycle.

  Costanza stepped into the kitchen just then, wiping sleep from her eyes. Andrew looked again at the pad. She followed his gaze. Instantly her cheeks flushed.

  “So it is you,” he said with a slight crack in his voice. “It is for you.”

  A flicker of hesitation, then: “Yes.”

  “You’re taking—those drugs. My father is—treating you. You’re trying to—” He stopped there.

  Costanza placed her hand on the kitchen counter. “Yes, he is. Yes, we are. Trying to have a baby together.”

  Andrew took a moment to absorb this news. “That’s big.”

  Costanza had not imagined—but how hadn’t she?—having to explain herself to Andrew. “Your father and I have been trying by regular means for a while to—” She hesitated. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, really.”

  “Uh, because you should?”

  She wished she had coffee in her already, sharpening her brain, giving her whole being more muscle, more control, but she had awakened before Henry that morning. “I do want to be open with you, Andrew. Yet at the same time…”

  “That’s not why you wanted to redo my room, is it? For a baby?”

  “I never considered redoing your room. I told you that, remember?”

  “Well, if you need a room, take Justin’s.”

  There were instances when Andrew’s mind still worked like a younger kid’s.

  “It seems odd, to focus on—lodging. When this is still just an idea. A hope.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “Have you thought, if it works, that you would be an older brother? I think you would be a terrific older brother.”

  “The idea hasn’t been floated long enough for me to think. I don’t understand why you didn’t just come out and tell me. Why I just had to find out … by accident.”

  “I—we—would have told you, in time. And anyway, I’m telling you now.” It became easier the further along she went. “As of last night we officially began an IVF cycle. There. Now you know everything there is to know.”

  Andrew scratched his head. “But isn’t it a little … soon to start IVF?”

  Costanza tightened the belt of her bathrobe. “I have reason to believe that when my husband and I failed to conceive a baby, I was the one with the problem.”

  “You’re referring to his child, aren’t you, the one he had with his housekeeper?”

  Costanza’s eyes turned glassy. “Yes, Andrew, that is what I am referring to.”

  She couldn’t help herself. No degree of bathrobe tightening, no pausing, could thwart the feeling that began to rise up in her. “I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked. “I shouldn’t—”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Andrew stepped toward her and set his hand on her shoulder. Her shoulder was warm, and he could feel it. And she could feel him feeling it. They stood there a moment in charged silence.

  They were still standing there when Henry walked into the kitchen. His eyes shot immediately to Andrew’s hand, which Andrew gently lowered.

  “I’ve been telling Andrew about the cycle.”

  Henry’s eyes darkened. “Before you and I spoke?”

  Costanza explained about the notepad.

  “I might have wanted to say something to my son.”

  “You still can,” Andrew said evenly.

  Henry smoothed his beard. “I’d just like to make sure you understand that your place in my life isn’t—”

  “Going to change just because you’re planning on having another family?”

  “Well, I don’t think of it as another so much as a larger one. I think of it as building on.”

  “Building on what, Dad?”

  When Henry didn’t answer, Andrew said, “Justin is gone—pretty much for good, I think we can safely say. I’ve been reduced to one night a week. That’s not much to build on, is it?”

  Costanza looked at Henry. “Reduced?”

  Color came into Henry’s face. “I thought we should have some space. Just for a while.”

  “Isn’t that something we should have spoken about first?” Costanza asked hi
m.

  “Honestly?” He took one look at Costanza’s face, then judiciously changed his tone. “Maybe.”

  “That means maybe not.”

  “Costanza, please. Not now. Not in front—”

  “Don’t say anything the children shouldn’t hear,” said Andrew. “I guess he can’t say it to you in Yiddish, the way he used to, to my mother. Or Leopold. Red nisht, di kinder darfn nisht hern. Well, you don’t have to worry about this kind. I’m going to be late for school.”

  With this, Andrew was off, leaving a big smoky silence behind him.

  “I’m surprised he knows that kind is the singular of kinder,” Henry said after a pause.

  Costanza crossed her arms. “Do you realize how hard you are on him? You’re always building Justin up and bringing Andrew down.”

  “Well, you help balance all that out, don’t you, my love?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just what it says. You and Andrew have an understanding. A rapport.”

  “Is that so wrong?”

  “Maybe I’m envious. Maybe I’d like to have an easier time with him, myself.”

  * * *

  Her ovaries began to hurt. She had never even been aware of them before; now she felt as if she were walking around with a pair of golf balls lodged in her loins. After she showered in the morning she stood in front of a full-length mirror and examined her body, to see if it was visibly altered or misshapen; but she saw nothing, only her long, slender, familiar self.

  Well, maybe her face had changed. It looked harder, with the skin drawn more tightly over her bones. From the drugs or from the waiting. It had begun to feel as if all she were doing was waiting—for appointments, injections, phone calls. Everything else in her day was tightly wrapped around these focal events; nothing else mattered nearly as much. Not even her work.

  On Thursday morning, nearly a week into the cycle, Costanza had her third ultrasound, this time with Dr. Woo and again watched over by Henry. They counted at least thirteen follicles, eight on the right, five on the left. The follicles measured between ten and twelve millimeters, appropriate sizes for that point in the cycle. Thirteen follicles, Henry cautioned, didn’t automatically translate into thirteen eggs, as some could be immature or even missing, but it was a good sign.