“No.” Kyra blinked back tears and looked at these two women with newfound respect. They seemed genuinely sorry for her loss. “We were all really excited about the baby. It’s been hard.”
“I can’t even imagine,” Christina murmured.
Kyra was suddenly desperate to know if they understood—really understood. “Have either of you had a miscarriage?”
They both shook their heads. “Gary and I are focusing on our careers right now,” Christina said.
Kyra nodded, deflated. Of course they were. Christina was always so poised and put-together. She had a perfect husband and a perfect house, and they had perfect careers and lots of money. She would never understand Kyra’s problems.
“I’ve never been pregnant, but I understand how badly it hurts to want a baby,” Megan said. “My husband and I have struggled with infertility our entire marriage. I’m so sorry, Kyra.”
Infertility. Kyra wanted to pepper Megan with questions. What was her diagnosis? How long had they been struggling? What treatments had they undergone? But Kyra clamped her mouth shut.
It was too hard. She could barely handle the miscarriage right now. She didn’t want to deal with the questions and advice and condolences they'd give if she admitted to infertility. Kyra bowed her head and tears fell. “I’m sorry.” Kyra wiped under her eyes. “The doctor said it would take a couple of weeks for my hormones to stabilize.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Megan moved to Kyra’s side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You have every right to cry.”
“We’re here for you, whatever you need,” Christina said.
“I’m so angry,” Kyra whispered. Snot trickled out of her nose, and she wiped it with the corner of her shirt, embarrassed.
“Anyone would be,” Megan said. “I’ve never had a miscarriage, but I have failed a lot of fertility treatments. I’m always angry, too. But you can do hard things, Kyra Peterson. You’re strong enough to get through this. I promise.”
The book pickup-turned-visit with Christina and Megan was healing, but exhausting. They mostly listened while Kyra talked, and that felt good. She didn’t have many girlfriends, and none she’d wanted to confide in. After they left with the books, Kyra put in a movie for Sophie and took a nap on the couch. When she woke up, it was nearly dinnertime. Kyra decided to make spaghetti.
Sophie had just finished helping Kyra set the table when David arrived home. Sophie ran to him with a squeal, and he picked her up and spun her around. He planted a kiss on the cheek, then set Sophie on the floor and walked over to Kyra.
“How are you doing?” He leaned down to kiss her. “I could’ve made dinner.”
This was the first time since the miscarriage—had it really been a week?—that Kyra had cooked. It was time to return to a semblance of normality. “I’m feeling a little better. Some ladies from church came over today.”
He took the cups from Kyra’s hand and went to the freezer to fill them with ice. “Why?”
“To pick up the books, but we—Christina Vincent and Megan Burke—ended up visiting for a while. The Burkes just moved in and started attending our congregation. Megan mentioned they’ve struggled with infertility.”
“Did you tell them?”
“No. But visiting with them helped.”
“I’m hungry,” Sophie said.
“We’re ready,” Kyra said. David grabbed the spaghetti, Kyra got the sauce, and then they said the prayer and started eating.
“How was your day?” Kyra asked David as she picked at her food, not really hungry. It felt weird to ask such normal questions, as though they hadn’t lost a child.
“It was weird,” David said.
Kyra paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean, weird?”
“My boss got fired today.”
For the first time in days, Kyra felt something other than grief—interest. “Are you serious?”
David nodded. “It’s been all over the office. A woman accused him of” —his eyes flicked to Sophie— “a certain kind of harassment. The company did an investigation and found out the problem was widespread. And then there were all the allegations of unfair treatment and verbal harassment.”
“What’s harassment?” Sophie asked.
“It means he was being really mean,” Kyra said. “So what happened?”
David took a bite of garlic bread. “All day, higher-ups kept coming and going. About an hour before the end of my shift, security showed up and escorted him from the building. We’re all glad he’s gone.”
“Why, Daddy?”
“He isn’t a very nice man, Soph. He made me not like going to work.”
“Mean people are bad.” Sophie shoved a big spoonful of spaghetti into her mouth as if for emphasis.
“What’s going to happen now?” Kyra asked.
“I assume we’ll get a new boss quickly, but until then I’m not sure.”
“Who will they hire?”
“I bet it’s someone internal. I have no idea who, though. There are quite a few people who would fit the bill.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s gone for your sake.” David’s boss had been a thorn in his side since the day he was hired.
David nodded. “Me too.”
On Friday, Christina called to check up on Kyra. It brightened Kyra’s day in a way she hadn’t expected. It was nice to feel like someone cared.
The hole in Kyra’s heart throbbed, but she was sick of wallowing. She took Sophie to the park, and they had a picnic despite the chilly March air. When Sophie went down for her afternoon nap, Kyra pulled out her laptop. She needed to indulge, and digital scrapbooking was just the thing.
An hour later she was interrupted by the sound of the garage opening. “Kyra?” David’s voice. She set her laptop aside, rising.
“What’s wrong?” Kyra asked as he walked into the room. It was nearly two o’clock, well past his usual lunchtime. Please don’t let something else be wrong. She couldn’t take any more bad news.
His smile nearly split his face. “Right before lunch, the vice-president of my department pulled me into his office.”
Kyra’s heart skipped a beat. “Okay, I’m guessing that’s a good thing.”
“He asked me to apply for my old boss’s job.” David laughed, pulling her into a hug. “He said they’ve been impressed with my work and think I’d be a great fit for the position. Applying is on a by-request basis. And they asked me.”
Kyra stood there, stunned, then hugged him back. “That’s great! How many people are applying?”
“I’m not sure. I probably won’t get the position, but being considered is awesome.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re going to get it.”
“It’d be a decent pay increase, Kyr. We could do another IUI.”
Kyra flinched at the reminder of their lost baby. The miscarriage was still fresh, and most painful of all was the knowledge they didn’t have the money to try again. “I want to try again too. I’m not ready to give up.”
He hugged her. “Are you okay? I have to get back to the office. We’re scrambling to catch up on work with Mark gone. I should’ve called, but I wanted to tell you in person.”
“I’m fine.” Kyra kissed him. “Go. You don’t want to be late.”
David pulled her in, giving her a longer, much more satisfying kiss. “I love you.”
A potential raise. The possibility of another IUI. Another baby.
Kyra didn’t understand why the Lord had taken their baby away. But it seemed like that while He’d closed a door, maybe—just maybe—He was opening a window.
Tomorrow Megan would once again be infertile. The reality of her forthcoming appointment gnawed at her nerves all day.
Sienna’s afternoon piano lesson proved a welcome distraction. Megan blissfully lost herself in Beethoven’s Concerto Number Five, amazed at the improvements Sienna had made in only a week.
“You did great today,” Megan told Sienna as she packed up he
r piano bag. “Do you play in the school orchestra or anything?”
“I play for the choir mostly, but I also play for the orchestra when they need me. That’s where I met my boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. How long have you been dating?”
Sienna grinned, the excitement of new love making her glow. “We started dating this summer. His name is Dane, and he’s a senior, like me. He plays the cello but only because his mom won’t let him play football otherwise. He’s pretty bad, actually—at the cello, not football. He’s got colleges scouting him from all over the country.” A horn honked, and Sienna stood. “There’s my mom. See you next week, Megan.”
So Sienna had a boyfriend. Megan wasn’t surprised. Sienna was beautiful, with a bubbly personality and thoughtful nature. The boyfriend didn’t seem to interfere with her dedication to the piano in the least.
How would it be to be seventeen again, with nothing more than piano lessons and a boyfriend to worry about? If Megan was seventeen, she wouldn’t have an appointment with a fertility specialist tomorrow. But she’d also have a curfew and no car. Maybe the appointment wasn’t so bad.
Would the doctor make them rerun old tests? What course of action would she recommend? Megan’s stomach churned as she obsessed about the possibilities.
When the squeak of the garage door reached her ears, Megan raced to the mud room, throwing the door open.
“Hello to you too,” Trent said, stepping inside. “And how was your day?”
“We’re infertile,” Megan said.
“So that’s where all our money’s gone.”
“Trent, be serious. Starting tomorrow, we’re infertile again.”
He shrugged. “We’ve been dealing with infertility every day. Tomorrow we’ll just get back to fixing the problem. I thought you’d be happy.”
Megan turned in frustration, heading into the living room. “You really don’t get it.”
He grabbed her hand, pulling her onto the couch. “Explain it to me. I feel like we’re finally heading in the right direction, so why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad. I’m scared. I don’t get how you can be calm about this. Tomorrow we have to go back there.” Megan pointed, as though the Land of IF—the term those “in the know” used for infertility—was a physical place you could visit. Not that anyone ever would. “The last eight months have been nice.”
Trent raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“We haven’t had to obsess about treatments or worry if they’re going to work. I haven’t had to take those crazy hormone drugs.”
“Okay, I’ll admit that has been nice.”
During the last round of Clomid—their sixth straight cycle—Megan had seriously worried Trent would temporarily move in with his mother. Especially after Megan decided she hated the wall between their kitchen and living room and took a sledgehammer to it, determined to rip it out.
“Well, tomorrow, that’s all over,” Megan said. “We go back to being infertile. We go back to the hormone treatments and counting our cycle days and the endless doctor appointments. I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“There’s always adoption,” Trent said, his voice gentle. “We could put all the treatments behind us.”
Megan pressed her lips together. “I’m not ready for that either.”
“I think we should consider it.”
“No. Not yet.”
Trent nodded. It wasn’t the first time they’d discussed the subject, and unless they got pregnant, Megan knew it wouldn’t be the last. But she continued to resist the idea. It wasn’t just a baby she craved. It was the ultimate experience you could have as a woman—pregnancy.
“Get your coat,” Trent said, standing.
“Why?”
“We’re going out. If tomorrow we have to be infertile, then tonight we’re going to enjoy ourselves. What do you want to do?”
Megan stared at Trent, falling in love with him all over again. He always knew exactly how to make her feel better. “I get to pick?”
Trent pulled his shoes on. “Yup.”
“I want to go to Roberto’s.”
“Done.”
“And I want to go see A Love that Lasts. And eat popcorn. With extra butter.”
“No problem.”
“And I want to finish the whole night off with the biggest bowl of moose tracks ice cream I can find. I want to eat so many unhealthy calories that it takes me a week to run them off.”
Trent shrugged into his coat. “Your wish is my command.”
Megan hugged him. “I love you. You’re the best.”
“I know. Now let’s go.”
Megan laughed and followed Trent to his truck, allowing him to open her door and help her inside.
“We need to set some ground rules,” Trent said as they drove toward the restaurant.
“What is this, a first date? I think we’re past that.”
Trent gave her a stern glare. “Not those kind of rules. The making-this-date-a-good-date rules.”
Megan folded her arms and pretended to pout. “If you insist. What are these rules?”
“There’s only one—no talking about babies or infertility.”
“You don’t think I can do it.”
“Nope.”
Did he think she spent every waking minute obsessing about infertility? Megan could go a few hours without discussing it, easy. “Well, Mr. Pessimistic, I’m going to prove you wrong. I won’t say another word about infertility or babies for the rest of the evening.”
Since it was a Thursday, Roberto's was dead. They were seated quickly, and Megan started perusing the menu.
“Why are you even looking at that?” Trent asked. “You order the same thing every time.”
“I’m feeling adventurous tonight. Maybe I’ll order something new.”
“Maybe pigs will fly.”
“Maybe we’ll have a—” Baby. The word was on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped.
Trent pointed a finger at her. “You lose.”
“I was going to say maybe we’ll have a bird attack our car on the way to the movie. Maybe we’ll be dive-bombed.”
“You were going to say—”
Megan waggled her finger. “Ah ah ah, if you say it, you lose.”
The waitress appeared, pad and paper in hand. “Are you ready to order?” she asked.
“Yes,” Megan said. “I’ll have the cheese ravioli with the Alfredo sauce, and a frozen raspberry lemonade.”
Trent raised an eyebrow, but placed his order too. After the waitress left, he said, “I thought you were going to order something different.”
“I was, but then I thought, ‘why mess with a good thing?’ So I stuck with the ravioli.”
Trent shook his head and laughed.
They had a fabulous time at dinner. They laughed and joked and flirted. But it was harder than Megan had expected to not talk about babies or infertility. Halfway through the meal, they were stretching for topics of conversation.
“This is ridiculous,” Megan said as they waited for the waitress to bring them their check. “We’ve been here for an hour, and already we’re struggling to find things other than you-know-what to talk about.”
Trent reached across the table and stole a sip of Megan’s lemonade. “That’s why this night is so important. We can’t lose ourselves this time. You can’t lose yourself. I need you. And I need to not re-drywall the kitchen.”
“I make no promises. You give me Clomid, and I lose all rational thought.”
“You can do it. Now what was the rule? Come on, we have a movie to catch.”
The movie was everything a romantic comedy should be, the popcorn was drenched in butter, and the ice cream afterward was divine, even if Megan would pay for it by running extra miles every day next week. She couldn’t have asked for a better evening.
“Thanks, Trent,” she said as they walked into the house. “I really needed this.”
He leaned down and kissed her.
“Thanks for going on a date with me, pretty lady. I had a good time.”
“Even though the movie was mushy?”
“I’ll deny this if you ever tell anyone, but the movie wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
Megan put a hand to her chest and did her best Scarlett O’Hara impression. “Trenton Burke, I do declare. You liked that movie!”
“Now don’t put words in my mouth. Frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a—”
Megan cut his words off with a kiss.
When she pulled away, Trent smiled. “Feel better about things now?”
“No. I’m terrified tomorrow will catch up with me.”
“We can still cancel if you need more time.”
“But you really want to move forward.”
“I really want a baby. But not at your expense. Not if it means I’m going to lose you.”
Megan looked away. “I have to be ready. Eight months was a long enough break. It won’t be like last time.”
Trent nodded, but she caught the worry in his eyes. He grabbed the TV remote off the coffee table and held it up like a champagne glass. “To tomorrow.”
Megan laughed. She grabbed a DVD case, clinking it against his remote. “To tomorrow. And to finally being parents.”
Dr. Mendoza’s office looked eerily similar to Dr. Faulkner’s office in Logan. The muted earth tones of the furniture. The oversized desk. The nondescript paintings on the wall. It brought back a flood of memories Megan would rather forget. She fidgeted with her purse strap, her toe tapping impatiently against the carpeted floor. Trent lounged against the love seat while flipping through a magazine, looking totally at home.
“Aren’t you nervous?” Megan asked.
He glanced up from the magazine. “Why? We already know what the problem is and what to expect.”
That was exactly what made this so hard. Even after last night, he still didn’t get it. Not really. It wasn’t only the physical toll the treatments took. It was the emotional one. “I hope the word ‘Clomid’ doesn’t leave her mouth. I hate that drug.”
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