by Dina Silver
Tyler pulled away and met my eyes. “You’d be out of a job if there were no pricks out there.”
“Very true.”
We closed the garage door and ordered a pizza. Afterward, I went out to the trunk of my car and brought the candlesticks that Cam had sent me into the house.
“What are those?” Tyler asked as I sat them down on the kitchen island.
“Cam sent these to me. They’re fertility candlesticks.”
Tyler lifted one up and rolled his eyes.
I gently took it back from him. “And if you think I’m above lighting them, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“If they make you feel better, then knock yourself out. What time do we have to be at the clinic in the morning?”
“Seven,” I said. “They should let me know how many eggs they got while I’m in recovery. It’s supposed to be really painful.”
Tyler sat on one of the stools. “You and your eggs will do great.”
“Then you have to do your part,” I said, looking apologetic.
“Don’t worry about me, kid. As long as they have Big Tit Bitches 4, I’ll be just fine.”
I buried my nose in my hands and laughed and prayed and shook my head skeptically. No one understood what we were going through. Every day I fielded calls and court documents for people who showed no regard for their children. Sometimes I thought that every parent should be subjected to what we were going through if they wanted to have a child. Maybe then they wouldn’t take their kids for granted. I knew I wouldn’t.
The next morning we arrived at the clinic at a quarter to seven and were immediately ushered into a room for the procedure. Tyler held my quivering hand until Dr. Wilder asked him to stand aside. Having my eggs extracted was as painful as I’d expected, but I did my best to grin and bear it and remind myself why I was doing it. Afterward, Tyler went to leave his deposit and uphold his end of the bargain. When we were both done, we sat together in recovery for about an hour or so until the nurse came in.
“We were able to get twelve eggs, which we’ll begin fertilizing today. We’ll call you with the results tomorrow,” she told us.
“How many typically survive?” I asked her.
“It depends. Everyone is different, but we’ll have a better idea in the morning. You’ll come back in three to five days to have the transfer. At that point you’ll discuss with the doctor how many to have put back in.”
Tyler and I both nodded. “Thank you,” I said.
“My pleasure. Just go home and take it easy, and we’ll see you in a few days,” the nurse said and left the room.
“You ready?” Tyler stood and asked.
“Yeah.” I said, and we left.
The phone was ringing when we walked in the house. I checked the caller I.D. before answering. “It’s your mom,” I said.
“Just leave it. I’ll call her later. She probably wants to know how the surgery went.”
Despite her misgivings about IVF, she had done her best to be supportive once she realized we were going to go through with it. Far be it for her to act rude. It wouldn’t be proper. My own mother had also lent her support in the form of a loaf of banana bread, sent through the mail. Parcel post.
“I’ll call her back,” I said, feeling generous and familial. It was never lost on me that she would be my child’s only reasonably sane grandparent.
“Hi, Dixie,” I said when she answered the phone. “We were just walking in and missed your call.”
“Chloedear, how are you? How did the procedure go? I ran into Joyce McNary at the market this morning, and she told me her niece ended up with triplets after having five eggs put back into her. I simply had to tell you to be wise about it.”
“Thank you. I’ll defer to the doctor later this week when we have the transfer done. They were able to pull twelve eggs today, but we’ll be lucky to have one or two viable ones left in the end.”
“And how is Tylah doing? I’m sure this must be such a drain for both of you.”
“Would you like to talk to him?” I asked. Tyler overheard me and began to wave his arms. “Um, you know what, he just jumped in the shower, but he’s doing fine. Very supportive. He’s been wonderful,” I said, winking at him. “Thanks for calling. I’ll talk with you later.”
“Good-bye, dear,” she said and hung up.
I went to lie down on the couch, and Tyler brought me an iced tea. We put a movie in, and he eased his body in next to mine. I rested my head on his abdomen while he gently massaged my lower back. I was asleep ten minutes later.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
No rest for the weary—or the divorce lawyers. Monday morning I had to be in court to argue why my client, Melinda Anderson, should be allowed to live in peace with her children during her divorce from her husband, Blake Anderson. Blake had cheated on Melinda with a woman named Christina, whom he’d met at a sales conference in Phoenix. Christina was married to a guy named Richard, who’d called Melinda and told her that he’d found her husband, Blake, having sex with his wife—doggy style—on a trampoline in their backyard. Melinda had been sitting in the car line at her sons’ school, waiting to pick them up when she got the call. Sad? Yes. A shame? Yes. Unfortunate? Sure. Out of the ordinary? Not a chance.
Cheating spouses were often the catalyst for my clients’ divorces, but typically not the real reason for the demise of their marriages. Apathy, addiction to prescription drugs, and self-loathing—among other things—often led people to rebel against their family and ultimately do something unforgivable. That’s when they’d come to me. For peace, justice, and merciless revenge. In my entire career, only one couple, out of hundreds, had agreed that they never should’ve married in the first place, and that was okay. She didn’t want anything from him, and he didn’t want anything from her. They split their assets, agreed to joint custody of their one child, and never looked back.
But not Melinda and Blake Anderson. As if crushing her with an extramarital affair wasn’t enough, he was hell-bent on destroying what was left of her dignity, her reputation, and her checkbook, with no regard for the emotional harm he would be inflicting on their children. Blake had refused to leave their home, despite the fact that he had extensive family in the area and Melinda had none. Blake also owned three other rental properties in Chicago, but insisted on staying in their house and making everyone miserable. He started fights and berated the children simply to goad Melinda. Only to chastise and scream at her when she came to the kids’ defense. The two boys were unable to sleep, began wetting their pants, and refused to be alone with their father. The courts had initially ordered a “bird-nesting” scenario, in which one parent would leave, and the other would enter for his or her allotted time with the kids. But this had only resulted in more confusion and uncertainty for the children who’d expressed anxiety about where their mother was going and when she would return.
Since mediation had failed, there I was in court, almost twenty-four hours after my own personal egg hunt, listening to Blake’s attorney address Dr. Michael Whalen, the court-appointed evaluator, on the stand. I popped three Advils before he began.
“Dr. Whalen, could you please review your findings on the two parenting styles?”
“Certainly. Shall I read from the report?”
“Please.”
“The children are primarily attached to their mother and enjoy a close, warm, and trusting relationship with her. Mrs. Anderson has been the boys’ principal caretaker since birth, and they rely on her to meet their needs for physical and emotional sustenance. The boys feel happy and secure in her presence and experience anxiety to varying degrees when contemplating separation from her. Collateral contacts report that she is an exemplary parent in many ways.”
“And Mr. Anderson?”
Dr. Whalen cleared his throat and took a sip from his glass of water before continuing. “Mr. Anderson is not as patient, and loses his temper easily. Although the manner in which he disciplines may not rise to a level that would cause undu
e alarm, from the boys’ perspective it is so very different from what they experience with their mother that they perceive him to be frightening and off-putting. Additional findings reveal that Mr. Anderson is highly self-focused and preoccupied with meeting his own needs—often at the expense of the needs of others. Making it challenging for him to spend extended periods of time with children, who are by nature unrelenting in their demands and need for attention.”
“And what children aren’t?” Blake’s attorney commented snidely. “There’s nothing in your report that says anything about any of the parties being at risk; is that correct, Dr. Whalen?”
“That’s correct.”
Blake’s attorney removed his suit jacket and went back to pacing in front of the bench. “Would it be fair to say, if you considered there to be an imminent risk to either Mr. or Mrs. Anderson or the children, that that would have been contained in your report?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Would it also be fair to say, if you learned of circumstances during your evaluation that caused you to believe that one of the parties or the children were in physical jeopardy, that that would have been contained in your report?”
“Yes.”
“Is it reasonable for us to conclude, because those things are not referenced in your report, that you did not come up with any findings showing that either party or the children were endangered during the course of your investigation?”
“That’s correct.”
“No further questions, your honor.” Blake Anderson’s attorney waved at the judge and took a seat while I stood and approached the witness stand.
“Good morning, Dr. Whalen. On this matter of a shared residence, I believe you stated in your report that you did not believe a shared residence was in the best interest of the children during the pendency of this case, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Is it your opinion that there are certain benefits for the children that come from sharing a residence, bird nesting as it’s called, as they were doing? And if so, what are these benefits?”
“Well, from their perspective, they get to stay in one location, not packing a bag, going back and forth. Life is consistent. The only thing that changes is Mom’s there some of the time and Dad’s there at other times.”
I walked back over to where my paralegal, Robert, and Melinda Anderson were seated and grabbed a piece of paper from the table. “Are there certain benefits, specifically for the children, of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson having separate residences?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“And what might those be?” I asked.
“I can only think that because the parents are uncomfortable with the circumstances and are at times anxious about the arrangement, that that’s something the children pick up on from time to time.”
“Would you agree that it would benefit the children to begin to deal with the reality, which is Mom and Dad are getting divorced, and they’re going to have two toothbrushes and two houses and two bedrooms—two of everything, eventually—and that the parents are causing additional, unnecessary stress and anxiety by postponing the inevitable? That the children would ultimately benefit from two separate households?” I asked, standing right in front of him.
“Yes, I would agree,” Dr. Whalen answered.
“No further questions, your honor.”
Judge Kathleen Donahue acknowledged me. “Do you have any additional witnesses?” she asked.
“Yes, Judge. I’d like to call my client, Melinda Anderson, to the stand.”
Melinda walked over with a wad of tissue in her hand and took a seat next to the judge. I asked her the routine foundational questions regarding her name and marital status, and then went for pay dirt.
“On the evening of May fifth of this year, did anything unusual occur in the home?”
Melinda’s eyes welled as she sat straight and began to speak. “Well, the night began like every other night with Blake yelling and screaming because the kids were being loud and wouldn’t get in the bath. I asked him if he could give me a hand with them, and he flipped out. He grabbed my arm and twisted it so hard that his fingernails broke the skin and left bruises. It wasn’t the first time he’d grabbed me, but it was the first time I was really scared.” She sniffed.
“Please continue,” I said.
“Then he stormed out of the room, screaming obscenities at me, and I followed him to the kitchen where he grabbed a knife from the butcher block and shoved it in the drywall next to the stove. His face was beet red, and I actually believed he might hurt me or the kids that night.”
Although I continued questioning her for another hour, I was confident that we’d established our case. After an additional thirty minutes of cross-examination, the judge called for a short recess.
I walked back to the table and sat down with Robert and Melinda. She was red-eyed and weepy, and had lost fifteen pounds from her already slim frame since we’d started the divorce proceedings. I squeezed her hand, and we sat in silence while the judge put her reading glasses on, gathered a small stack of documents, and disappeared into her chambers. The only sounds came from someone coughing a few rows behind us. Half an hour later, Blake’s attorney and I rose as the judge walked back in to give her ruling.
“The court finds that Melinda Anderson testified credibly regarding the negative effects of her and her husband jointly occupying the marital residence during the pendency of this litigation. I agree with Dr. Whalen’s conclusion that the bird-nesting arrangement has caused unnecessary stress and tension for everyone, and that Mrs. Anderson’s well-being and safety may be in jeopardy.” The judge removed her glasses and looked at Blake before continuing. “Further, given the testimony of both parents and the court-appointed evaluator, I’m ordering Mr. Anderson to complete a twelve-week parenting workshop. Effective immediately,” she said and let her comment hang there for a moment.
Afterward, Melinda gave Robert and me a hug. “I can’t thank you enough, both of you. My kids will finally be able to have some peace,” she said.
“I’m happy that it worked out. You’re free to have the locks changed at your earliest convenience,” I told her, and she nodded. “Robert and I have to get back to the office, but we’ll check in with you soon about the next steps.”
Robert and I shared a cab back to the office. “It was nice to see her get some relief,” he said to me.
“It is.”
“With Madison pregnant, it really puts things into perspective. I’ve sat through countless numbers of these things, but with my own kid on the way, it’s all the more unbelievable to see people using their children as pawns like that. God forbid Madison and I ever get divorced, but you have my permission to kick my ass if I ever do anything remotely unforgivable.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do more than kick your ass,” I assured him. “How is she doing?”
“Great, really good,” he said. “And how about you? Am I allowed to ask about the IVF stuff?”
I smiled. “You are allowed. I’m getting knocked up in three days, actually.”
“That’s awesome, Chloe. I know it’s going to work.”
“You do?” I laughed. “Thank God, someone does; can you tell my eggs that?”
“I’d be happy to,” he said as we paid the cab driver and entered our office building.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Three days later, Tyler and I were back at the clinic. Me on my back with a catheter, and Tyler perched next to a monitor as Dr. Wilder injected two fertilized eggs back inside of me.
“Consider yourself pregnant,” he said.
I shot him a look of surprise. “Really?”
“Well, what I mean is that you should act like you’re pregnant. No alcohol, get moderate exercise, take your vitamins—things like that.”
As if I knew what it was like to be pregnant. Wasn’t that why I was there, legs splayed for him? I rolled my eyes and laid my head back down on the white paper.
�
�We’ll have you come back in one to two weeks to do a blood test. Until then, I would stay away from the in-home pregnancy tests as they tend to be very misleading with both positive and negative results.”
“Okay,” I said, but I’d already planned on peeing on them all weekend.
Tyler and I left the office, holding hands with high hopes. Then we went home and lit the candles.
When I was young and my prayers were consistently ignored, I quickly grew tired of religion. But since Tyler’s parents were staunch Catholics, I had taken it upon myself to create a new relationship with God—one that I could turn to in situations that required divine intervention.
About a week after my transfer, I was driving home from the train station when I passed a church on a street that I had driven down a hundred times before. I stopped in front of Saint Francis. It was eight o’clock at night, but the front doors were wide open. Something inside me told me to go inside and pray.
I approached the entrance tentatively, not wanting to disturb any services that might be going on, but once I entered the foyer, there was pure silence. I walked through another set of double doors into the nave. I stood alone at the end of the aisle and marveled at the church’s splendor. The large altar looked as though it had been prepared for the next service with wine and communion set on top. Large stained-glass windows circled the room in hundreds of colors, depicting some of Christ’s joyful and most trying moments. I took a few steps and sat on the edge of one of the wooden pews for about five minutes before finally pulling down the padded bar near my feet and kneeling. Just as I was about to formulate something…anything to say, I felt a tap on my right shoulder.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” said a man in a black-and-white clerical collar.
I leaped to my feet, knocking my knee on the little built-in box that held the Bibles. “Oh, no bother, I was…the door was open, and I just came in for a second.” I stood and hovered over him. I instinctively slumped my shoulders and bent my knees once I became aware of his smaller stature.