When he’s finally settled at his desk, he leans forward, the light reflecting off his shiny dome, unconcealed by the few white hairs combed over it. He clasps his hands together, fingers interlocked. Looks at me. “Well, the good news is your eggs are fine,” he says. “Healthy, and you’ve got a lot of them left. We like to see that.”
I try to exhale, but the tightness in my lungs remains. I eye him warily. “And the bad news?”
He waits a beat, glances down at the notes beneath his hands as if he needs to confirm the news he’s about to deliver. “The genetic testing found an issue with the sperm.” He looks at Harrison.
“Really,” Harrison says, genuinely surprised. I am, too, considering Dr. Hobbes seemed pretty sure at my first visit that Harrison’s “swimmers” weren’t the problem.
“You have what’s called balanced translocation.”
Eyes wide, I sit back, having never heard that term before. I turn to Harrison, like I do every time I need something medical explained, but he looks as flummoxed as I am.
Dr. Hobbes shifts in his chair, causing the leather to squeak unpleasantly. “If you remember from your science lessons in school, we all have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes. When he was conceived, a couple of Harrison’s chromosomes got mixed up, attaching in the wrong places. That happens to about one in five hundred of us, and most people don’t even know. He’s got all the genetic material he requires, so he developed normally. Problem occurs when people with balanced translocation go to reproduce.”
“Wait . . . you’re saying I have a chromosome disorder?” Harrison says, cutting him off.
“Yeah,” Dr. Hobbes says. “Essentially.”
“Huh.”
I look from Dr. Hobbes to Harrison and back again. “So what does all of this mean?”
“In the most basic terms, you guys are experiencing a mismatch. The sperm carries the dad’s half of the DNA for the baby, right? But if that particular sperm that makes it to the egg happens to have the mix-up, the DNA won’t line up correctly with the chromosomes of the egg, causing either extra genetic material or not enough, which often leads to a miscarriage or, if carried to term, can cause pretty severe birth defects.”
I pause, trying to comprehend it all, but I’m stuck on the first thing he said. “Harrison and I are a . . . mismatch?”
“Well, your egg and sperm, anyway,” Dr. Hobbes clarifies.
I swallow past the wet cotton ball now lodged in my throat and blink. “So that’s it—we can’t have a baby?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. A lot of couples that are balanced translocation carriers do go on to conceive and have perfectly healthy babies, in time. But your chance of having a miscarriage is greater than normal—as you’ve experienced—which can obviously be emotionally taxing.”
“Mm,” I say, glancing at Harrison. That’s an understatement. I hear his phone vibrate and he digs it out of his pocket.
“Some couples prefer to go the IVF route, combined with PGD—preimplantation genetic diagnosis—which can spot an abnormality in the embryo before it’s implanted, thereby only implanting healthy embryos.”
“So—we have options,” I say, the vise grip on my chest finally loosening.
“You have options,” Dr. Hobbes agrees.
I reach for Harrison’s hand and squeeze, but he doesn’t squeeze back. He’s looking at his phone. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to run,” he says, dropping my hand and standing up. “I’m on call today.”
“Of course,” Dr. Hobbes says. He turns to me. “Mia, why don’t we go through any questions you may have and then you and Harrison can talk things over later and come up with a plan for what you might want to do.”
“OK.” But when I look to Harrison for agreement, his eyes don’t meet mine. He’s turned toward the door, his thoughts already on whatever emergency is calling him to the hospital. He puts his hand on my shoulder, but before I can even cover it with mine, it’s gone. And then so is my husband.
* * *
Later that evening, Harrison comes home to eat and change before he has to go back to the hospital. He’s on call through the night and sometimes it’s easier for him to stay there, rather than drive back and forth every time he gets summoned.
I spent the afternoon researching all of the terms and options Dr. Hobbes and I briefly went through that afternoon, and now I’m near bursting with thoughts about it all. While Harrison was heating up leftover chili and then eating it, I started running down all the pros and cons of IVF and genetic testing.
“I know it’s expensive,” I say, following him into our bathroom, where he starts brushing his teeth at the sink. “But I did get an interview today—for that job you mentioned at the community college. If I get it, maybe it could help offset the cost.” I don’t actually think I’ll get it—I was pretty floored to have even gotten a response, considering I have no teaching experience—but it doesn’t feel prudent to mention that now.
Harrison spits and hangs his toothbrush back up in its wall holder. Then he puts both hands on the counter and stares into the mirror.
“What are you thinking?” I ask. “You haven’t said much.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” he says, running some water into his hand. He swishes it around in his mouth and spits again.
“I know. It really is a lot of money.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not worried about the cost.”
Suddenly I feel foolish. “God, are you upset about the chromosome disorder? I mean, of course you are. That was a shock to me—I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That was . . . unexpected. And I do feel bad—awful, really—that it’s my fault this keeps happening.”
“It’s not your fault, though. How could we have known? But now that we do know . . .”
He shakes his head and then squeezes past me in the doorway and starts unbuttoning his shirt. I go sit on the bed, pulling my knees up to my chest. I scrutinize him. Sometimes talking with Harrison is like one big guessing game, analyzing every head tilt and grunt and then asking follow-up questions until I get to the heart of what’s bugging him. This is one of those times. “Harrison, talk to me.”
He dumps his button-up in the hamper and pulls his T-shirt off over his head. “I’m just not sure I can go through it all again.”
“Another miscarriage?” I say. “I agree—that’s why IVF is the best option. They’ll only choose the healthy embryos.”
“It’s not a guarantee,” he says. “IVF doesn’t work every time.”
“Well, no,” I admit. “But it will significantly raise our chances, Dr. Hobbes said. And it’ll work for us, I know it.”
“Mia—”
“This is the only way.”
“It’s not,” he says, his bare back to me. He’s standing at the dresser, but he hasn’t moved to get another shirt out of the drawer.
“What do you mean?” I wait for a response that doesn’t come. “Do you want to adopt?” It’s an option we haven’t ever discussed before.
“No,” he says. He opens the top drawer and picks up an undershirt.
“Then what? I don’t understand.”
His phone buzzes and he glances down at the screen clipped to his belt. It’s one of the most annoying things about being a surgeon’s wife—no matter what you’re doing, or how important it seems, the hospital always takes precedence. It has to.
“Work?” I ask, even though I know.
He nods. Pulls the shirt over his head and turns to look at me. “I’m just not sure if . . .” He stops. Collects his thoughts. “What I’m trying to say is, having a child is such a big responsibility. And maybe I’m not ready for it.”
I laugh a little, relieved that it’s simply cold feet. “Nobody’s ready for it, Harrison. People just do it.”
“But that�
��s what I’m saying—we don’t have to.”
And that’s when I look into his eyes and everything stills. They’re not first-time-father nervous, his eyes; they’re pained. Like he’s been holding a world of hurt in and it’s starting to overflow. And it makes my heart beat a little faster in my chest.
“Of course we don’t have to,” I say slowly. “But we want to, don’t we?”
His gaze drops to the ground.
“Harrison?” I can’t keep the tremble from my voice. “Don’t you?”
His eyes once again find mine, and I know the answer before he even says a word. It’s been there, right under the surface of every conversation we’ve had since the miscarriage, and I haven’t wanted to see. Part of me wants to run, to clap my hands over my head and hum like a child, to rewind time and figure out where this conversation—where Harrison—went so off our charted course, but instead I sit there, waiting for the words that I feel certain are going to destroy me.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know anymore.”
I turn my head slowly, away from him, my gaze shifting to the dresser. The picture of us from Costa Rica. One of my bras slung across it. A blue one. A handful of loose change. I look back at him.
“I don’t understand.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Like a fish gasping for air. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just all been so . . . hard. And I don’t know that it’s supposed to be this hard to have a baby. Maybe it’s not . . . meant to be.”
My eyes fly wide, remembering the night on the cement floor of my studio when he said something similar, and my shock gives way to anger. “What is it with you and all this fate stuff? You’ve never believed in any of that! Things don’t happen for a reason, they just happen.” I’m parroting one of his favorite phrases. Harrison doesn’t ascribe to life having any big grand design. Everything is random—no rhyme or reason to any of it.
Harrison shrugs. “People change, Mia,” he says, his voice low, steady. It’s this annoying thing he does whenever I get worked up. He gets calmer, in inverse proportion to my anger. I’m sure it’s his subconscious way of trying to bring me back down, but all it does is infuriate me further.
“Not this much!” I can’t help thinking back to when we first found out we were pregnant. “You were so excited. You brought home that little hat, for Chrissake! How do you go from that to not even wanting a baby? I just don’t—I can’t—understand it.”
He looks at me, incredulous. “It shouldn’t be quite that difficult,” he says, slowly. “For the longest time, you never even wanted kids.”
My mouth falls open. I would be less stunned if he had slugged me directly in the gut. It feels a little like that’s exactly what he did. And I wonder how it’s possible that in that instant I could hate him with the same intensity I loved him moments before.
He stands up. “Look, I can’t do this right now,” he says. “I have to go.” I’m too numb to say anything, to even look at him. He grabs his wallet, tucking it in his back pocket. His phone. He pauses. “Mia, I’m sorry,” he says.
And then, for the second time that day, he’s gone.
Chapter 12
“Do you have any teaching experience?” I’m sitting across from a man in an ill-fitting tweed jacket with elbow patches, acne scars mottling his clean-shaven cheeks. His voice lacks inflection and I wonder if he’s as bored as he sounds, or if it’s the way he always speaks—an unfortunate character trait. He introduced himself as “Ross, like the guy from Friends,” as if Ross was a wholly unusual name and needed a reference point.
“Um . . . no,” I say, and I try to muster up some enthusiasm. I know I should add an addendum, like, But I did tutor my classmates in calculus for extra money in high school, or I’ve always wanted to transition into the field.
But mustering up enthusiasm is not something I’m currently capable of.
For the past week and a half, Harrison and I have tiptoed around each other. “Maybe I just need some time,” he said, when I pressed him again about babies, and I didn’t know if he meant it or if it was just to placate me. Regardless, that wasn’t the sentence playing on an endless loop in my head.
You never even wanted kids.
He had apologized immediately, and then again by text later that evening, and though I did forgive him for saying it, I couldn’t forget it—only because I was terrified he was right. I didn’t always want to have a baby. And there are women, other women, who’ve known their entire lives they wanted to be mothers. I feel less than, undeserving. Maybe I can’t have a baby because I haven’t yearned for one long enough. Maybe this is my penance.
Ross’s eyes are fixed on his computer screen, which is turned at an angle so I can’t fully see it, and he keeps clicking the mouse. I wonder if he’s searching for me while I’m sitting there. Scanning my website. Looking to unearth any scandalous secrets on Facebook.
He punches the keys on the keyboard with the side of his fist and grunts through clenched teeth. It’s the most enthusiastic reaction I’ve seen from him in the past ten minutes and it’s not even directed at me. I furrow my brow and edge forward ever so slightly so I can peek at the monitor. Bright, colorful shapes fill the screen and explode when he clicks the mouse. He’s playing Candy Crush.
“Um . . . Ross?”
His eyes dart back to me and widen, as if he’s surprised to see me still sitting there. “Right.” He glances back down at my paper resume in front of him. “OK. It’s yours if you want it.”
“What?” I say. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “To be honest, only three people applied, and you’re the only one with an MFA. Sessions are eight weeks long. First one starts August sixteenth. Summer session was Beginner Acrylic. So this one will be Novice. They alternate.”
“OK. Yeah. Great,” I say. “Thank you. I’ll be here then.”
He shoves a piece of paper at me and I take it. “Go to this website, fill out the forms so you’ll get paid.” And then he turns back to the monitor and I stand up and slip out of his office before he can change his mind.
* * *
In the parking lot, my cell buzzes as I slip into the front seat of my car. I rev the engine and turn the air full blast before answering.
“How are you?” Vivian says, her voice dripping with concern. We texted a few days ago, but I’ve successfully avoided her phone calls since telling her about the fertility results and Harrison’s change of heart, for this very reason. It’s not that I don’t want or appreciate her sympathy. I truly do. It just reminds me of how sad I am, when I’ve been trying so hard not to dwell on it.
“Good, in fact. I got a job. At the community college.”
“You’re going to teach? Art?”
“No. Parachute Jumping 101. Yes, art.”
“Oh.”
“What, Viv,” I say, monotone.
“Nothing.”
I wait.
“It’s just that when we had that opening here, you balked when I suggested you apply for it.”
“I didn’t want to move back home after college. Plus, I don’t have an education degree. They wouldn’t have even interviewed me.” Both excuses were true, but that wasn’t all of it. Raya and I always joked that you could be successful at art or you could teach it. I wanted to be successful. Viv knows there was more to it, but she doesn’t push it.
“Well, I’m really happy for you. Congratulations.” My prickly edges soften then, because I know she means it. Viv might be exasperating and sometimes judgmental and she literally never forgets anything—even the stuff I’d like her to forget—but she really does want me to be happy.
“So what else is new?” she asks. I hear a clacking sound on her end and realize she must be at work, which is why our conversation hasn’t been interrupted by her yelling at Finley and Griffin. She’s probably typing notes into
a student’s file or a recommendation letter or an email to a parent.
I consider telling her about Oliver, but it’s been almost two weeks since that morning on Caroline’s porch. He left with my phone number and a promise to call with news, but I haven’t heard from him. I wonder if maybe he got busy with work, his life, and chalked it up to one of those weird things. Meanwhile, I’ve dreamt about him and that carnival twice in the past week. And I can’t help but wonder, when I wake up in the mornings, if he’s dreamt about me, too.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Harrison?”
“Same.”
“Hang in there. You guys have been through a lot. I’m sure he just needs time.”
It’s nearly word for word what Harrison said, and it doesn’t sound any better coming from my sister. When we hang up, I ditch the phone in the console’s cup holder and lean back against the headrest, focusing on the cool air from the vents hitting my face.
I can’t bear the thought of not having a baby with Harrison, after wanting one for so long. After everything we’ve been through. After being so close, only to have it all come crashing down time and again. What would be the point of all that pain if there isn’t something beautiful at the end of it? Pain for pain’s sake doesn’t make sense to me.
I pick the phone back up and text him about the job. He replies within seconds.
That’s great, babe. Let’s go out to celebrate.
It’s so normal, so Harrison, that it clenches my heart. Vivian’s right—Vivian’s always right. Harrison will come around.
He has to.
* * *
On the way to dinner, I’ve promised myself I’m not going to talk about next steps; Harrison asked for time and I vow to give it to him. But after I ask how his day is and he says fine, I can’t think of anything else to say, so I sit there with my hands folded neatly in my lap, looking out the window at the fields passing by. And though I try to move past it, I think about how I want a baby so much, that if wanting was a drop of water, I’d be a goddamn ocean.
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