Dream Keeper (Indigo)

by Gail McFarland

  Following, Marlea kept her questions to herself. I’m just here for moral support, she told herself. There will be plenty of time for questions later. It struck her a bit odd that such a classically built mansion, complete with rolling green lawn and handsome shrubbery, would sit so close to the urgent bustle of Buckhead. Wonder if this used to be a private home?

  She was still looking around when Rissa marched up the wide, white marble stairs. Keeping pace with her, Marlea stopped at her side when she paused to press an intercom button beside the door. Waiting, trying not to give in to the urge to try to peek through the leaded-glass-paned windows in hopes of seeing beyond the door, Marlea noticed the small brass plaque bearing the engraved names of four women practitioners, including Chris Gordon, PhD.

  Hearing the click of the lock when the door opened electronically, she followed Rissa. Impressive antique furniture and what she guessed to be Aubusson carpets filled the lobby. Staged to look like an elegant home, polished wood gleamed, piecrust-edged tables bore what looked like real Tiffany lamps, and etched crystal vases were filled with fragrant flowers. Marlea had the feeling that they had stepped through time.

  A lot of money went into this place. Maybe they figure clients will recover better if the surroundings don’t look clinical. Marlea felt Rissa’s nervous resolve and wondered if the surroundings would work for her.

  “Mrs. Traylor?” The voice was gentle and sensitive, and filled with enough authority to make Rissa and Marlea jump. The speaker, with her salt-and-pepper hair, polite smile, and sensible shoes, walked toward them with her hand extended. “I’m Chris Gordon.”

  Shy for the first time in her life, Rissa took a step back. “I’m Rissa and this is Marlea.” She pushed her forward.

  Just throw me under the bus! Marlea pasted on a smile and extended her hand. Taking stock of her, Marlea knew instantly that the woman was no athlete, probably never had been. At medium height, she was middle-aged and carrying a few extra comfortable pounds. Though everything about her seemed soft, the therapist’s earthy confidence reminded Marlea of singer Nancy Wilson. Her bright eyes were dark enough to be considered black and didn’t seem to miss a thing as she looked at the women in front of her.

  Chris looked deeply into Marlea’s eyes and smiled warmly. She took Marlea’s hand and held it in both of hers. The effect was comforting.

  “I came along for moral support,” Marlea murmured.

  “Always a good thing.”

  “She’s the one I told you about, and she’s going in with me. With us.” Rissa stood ramrod straight and clutched her purse in front of her like a shield.

  “Family support is important, and I am very glad that you have such a willing supporter.” Chris gave Marlea’s hand a pat as she released it. Her eyes watched Rissa. “But this a bit unusual, and I believe that…”

  “We discussed it when I made this appointment. I told you on the telephone that I was bringing her with me.” Rissa’s rigid body went even stiffer. “She’s with me and I’m with her. I go in there with her, or not at all.”

  “Rissa, maybe talking about this would be easier if I waited…”

  Marlea’s soft voice seemed to melt the ice in Rissa’s spine, but her gaze never left the doctor’s. “No. You promised to help me do this, and I’m going to hold you to it. This is hard, really hard, Dr. Gordon. I trust Marlea and I need her with me, if I’m going to do this.”

  Chris nodded. “Confidentiality is always an issue, but if you’re sure?”

  Rissa looked at Marlea, and was comforted when she nodded and said, “I’ll sign whatever I need to.”

  “I will, too. I want her with me. Please.” Reaching for Marlea’s hand, Rissa waited.

  “Then I believe we need to get started.” Totally at ease with Rissa’s new reticence, the caramel-skinned woman gave new meaning to encouragement as she led them to her office, an eye-pleasing space defined by sensitively muted colors, furnishings and artwork.

  Chris watched them settle in the pair of thickly upholstered delft blue chairs across from her, and when Rissa sat stiffly silent, she began to speak. “Grief,” she said, “is a natural and normal response to loss. It is the internal part of loss, how we feel and thus how we react to loss. All loss is the absence of someone that was loved or something that fulfilled a significant role in one’s life.”

  Rissa pressed her lips together and stole a quick look at Marla. Her head was bowed as she inspected her nails. Rissa cleared her throat and sat straighter in her chair. I only agreed to do this once, and since I’m paying for it, I might as well try to get something out of it. “The baby I lost never had a chance to establish a place in my life.”

  “And yet you grieve for the loss—this is by no means unusual. A grief reaction may be experienced in response to a physical loss, in your case the loss of your child.”

  Rissa crossed her legs and pulled her purse into her lap. “How do you propose I get over this grief reaction?”

  Marlea sighed and never lifted her eyes from her hands. Rissa’s leg twitched nervously when she realized that she was the recipient of Chris’s gentle smile.

  “You’d like the quick fix, wouldn’t you? I wish I could offer you one, but grief is best considered a journey or a process. It is not simply a series of events that fit into a structured timeline.”

  “Then I can tell you that I don’t know why I’m here.” When Marlea looked up, Rissa was already facing her. “I don’t,” she said, determination lancing her features. “There is nothing you can do to help me. I want to be pregnant, and that’s outside your area of expertise. I want to not have lost my baby, and you can’t fix that either.”

  Relaxed in her chair, Chris looked at the woman sitting across from her. “Then why did you come here, Rissa?”

  “Because…” I want to stop hurting Dench. The story of crawling out from under a desk nearly spilled from her lips, but Rissa folded her hands, squeezing them nearly bloodless as she clamped down on the story. There is no way I’m going to tell her about Jimmy and Sierra’s baby. “I want to get pregnant again. I want a baby, and I guess I thought that talking to you would help me to go forward.”

  “The decision to become pregnant again after a pregnancy loss is a difficult one,” Chris said.

  Rissa slumped in her upholstered seat and glared like a reluctant teen. “Not for me.”

  Undeterred and apparently optimistic, the therapist plunged on. “Subsequent pregnancies can bring about a whole new set of emotions, and the decision should never be taken lightly. In your case, it’s understandable that a pregnancy would be compounded with even more emotions and medical details than normal.”

  No shit, Sherlock. Rissa pressed her lips into a tight line.

  “Let me ask you this: Is it the pregnancy or the child-rearing that’s most important to you?”

  “It’s…” I never thought about that before…Rissa looked at Marlea, remembered her pregnancies, all of those stupid pictures her mother had taken of her belly, AJ’s face at the birth of his children. I want that…for me and for Dench. She thought of Nia’s pride in her potty training, of Jabari’s face when he took his first steps into Marlea’s arms. I want that…Dench wants that…Her mind flashed images of what it would be like to hold her own child.

  “It’s both,” she finally said.

  Chris nodded softly. Her voice was understanding and supportive. “What is your husband saying about your decision?”

  Dench. “He’s supportive.”

  “Have you asked him what he thinks?”

  “I…of course I have. Like I just told you, he wants a baby as much as I do.” Her quick glance stole Marlea’s thoughts and bound her to silence.

  “In my experience, some couples choose to try again immediately, while others are left wondering if they ever want to try again. Others will choose adoption because of concerns due to fertility problems or the age of the parents.” Chris paused to consult her notes. Looking up, measuring her client, the therapist spen
t her next words like dollars. “At thirty-two, I can imagine you’re eager to try again.”

  “As soon as possible,” Rissa said softly.

  “Have you considered taking some time?”

  “For what?” Rissa’s head jerked up, her eyes dark and sharp. “My eggs are not going to wait forever.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you cease trying,” the therapist said quickly. “Perhaps you might benefit by taking at least a few months to heal a bit emotionally—think about it.”

  “I have, thank you. At the rate I’m going, my emotions will be healed and my womb will still be empty.” Rissa reached for her purse as she stood. “Thank you for your time.”

  Marlea caught her in the hall.

  “Don’t say it.” Rissa walked faster. “Marlea, if I’m ever going to have a baby, I have to take control over my fertility, and I’m doing that right now.”

  “Rissa, there are alternatives…”

  “Sure, there are alternatives, but how many of them are really reasonable for me? Dench and I have already spent years and a truckload of money on fertility treatments that were useless and never guaranteed in the first place.”

  “Wait, Rissa.”

  Marlea’s fingers closed on her wrist and Rissa stopped to look at her. “You really don’t understand that my reality is totally different from yours, do you? You’re right, we could adopt, but then it’s not like any of the available children would be genetically linked to me or Dench. Foster care? No way can I see bringing a child into our lives, loving it, then giving it back like some kind of rent-a-baby. Don’t you think I’ve done my homework? Checked all this stuff out?”

  Pushing through the heavy door, she rushed down the stairs to her car. Jamming her key in the lock, her hand shook, and she hoped Marlea hadn’t noticed.

  “Have you thought about a surrogate?

  “Yeah, right,” Rissa snorted, dropping into the driver’s seat. “Have you noticed? I’m a black woman living in America at the beginning of the twenty-first century. There is no huge demand for surrogates among African-Americans at this time. African-American women prefer to make their babies the old-fashioned way, Marlea, and you should know that. Even if I wanted one, acceptable surrogates aren’t growing on trees.”

  Marlea crossed her arms and made a face. “AJ is right. You really do have a head like a rock.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Rissa muttered. “What’s your point?”

  “That was an offer, dummy.” On the other side of the car, Marlea dropped her arms open, into full display. “Would I be acceptable? I could be your surrogate.” Rissa’s mouth dropped and she started to protest, but Marlea cut her off. “We already know that I’m healthy, we share the same blood type—B positive—and I’ve had two perfectly healthy babies.”

  “So you think that qualifies you to be a…a rest stop for…mine?”

  “I could be. Rissa, I really could be.”

  “No. Dench and I are going to try again.” Rissa turned the key and the car’s engine purred. She pressed her foot to the gas and eased out of the parking slot.

  “And if things don’t work out? Would you consider adoption?”

  “I already told you…” Rissa’s eyes snapped and her lips tightened.

  “Rissa, there are millions of unwanted children of color out there. Children of all ages—I’m sure you and Dench could adopt an infant if you wanted to. You could have all the sleepless nights and diaper changes that would occur if you gave birth to the baby yourself.”

  “But they wouldn’t be blood, Marlea. That whole ‘bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh’ thing? It’s deep, and it’s what I want for Dench and me. He doesn’t have anyone else, no other blood relatives, and I want to give him that connection.”

  “You’re all the connection that man needs.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand, but I hoped you would. My hardheaded stubbornness cost him everything. When you touch Nia and Jabari, every cell in your body connects to them. When they turn to you or AJ, there is no other human who can and will give them what you do—and that’s what I want for us, Marlea. I know that means being blessed with a second chance, but if I had one, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make this real for us.”

  “Then think about my offer, that’s all I’m saying. Flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. You could have it, Rissa.” The hand that Marlea laid on Rissa’s arm trembled faintly. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister, and as frustrating as you can be sometimes, AJ and I love you. Dench loves you and we both know that this is hurting him. Give it some thought, Rissa—for you and Dench. Just think about it.”

  Rissa steered into traffic. “Why does everyone think that I’m so frustrating?”

  “Because you are, and personally, I fault AJ. If he’d been a good little boy, he would have been an only child.” Marlea laughed when Rissa slapped at her shoulder. “Just promise to think about it.”

  “Right.” Rissa slipped a hand from the steering wheel and crossed her fingers. “I promise.”

  Chapter 10

  Rissa was hoping for an early start, normalcy, and a little privacy—even if she was starting her week on Thursday. But taking the time was the right thing to do, ’cause I was a little stressed. I needed to take a minute, she told herself when she pushed through the door of MYT, Unlimited, with a full cup from Starbucks in one hand and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution under her arm.

  But the door was unlocked and the lights were on—proof that fate had conspired against her, and that she was not alone.

  Yvette’s head lifted and her eyes met Rissa’s, almost daring her to speak.

  Damn, Rissa realized, this sister is loaded for bear! “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  That’s it? Rissa took a deep breath and walked closer. “How was your weekend?”

  “Fine.” Yvette’s lips thinned when she lifted a stack of folders from Karee’s desk and pushed them toward Rissa, but she never mentioned Rissa’s extended weekend. “Those are yours. Karee has already finished them.” She lifted a second group of folders and held them close to her chest.

  Rissa fingered the folder tabs. “Oh, good. She got to the Jimmy Clarence information.” She looked up and tried a smile, then nearly shivered from the frost Yvette sent her way. “They, uh, had their baby. It’s a boy—James Jr.”

  “How nice.” Yvette opened the file on top of her stack. She found an error and scowled down at it.

  Walking closer, Rissa set her purse on the edge of Karee’s desk. “Look, Yvette…” Her throat closed when Yvette’s eyes nailed hers. “Yvette, I’m sorry. There’s no good way to say it. I was a bitch the other day and I had no right, absolutely no right, to speak to you the way I did. I don’t know how to make it better and I don’t even know if I can forgive myself, but I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  “Yes, you were a bitch.” Yvette bit her lip. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but everybody in this office knows what you’ve gone through recently, and, whether you believe it or not, we’re all pulling for you.”

  Humiliated, Rissa’s breast rose and fell, but her gaze did not waver.

  “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that you were a bitch, with a capital ‘B,’ and that I was pissed with you.” Yvette laid her palms flat against the folders. “Want to tell me what happened with the cake?”

  Rissa gasped and shook her head. “No.”

  The corners of Yvette’s mouth turned down, but she nodded. “Okay—for now.”

  “But can you forgive me for just being nasty?”

  “Yeah, I can. I’ve had a few days to think it over, so I suppose I will.” Yvette’s hand was warm and comforting on Rissa’s arm. “I’ve never been through the kind of stuff you and Dench are going through, but I meant it when I said that you could talk to me. I’m not just your partner, I’m your friend.”

  “That’s what Dench said you would say.”

  “Smart man, you should hold onto
him.” Yvette winked as she picked up her folders and walked to her office.

  In her own office, Rissa shuffled through the folders and smiled when she thought of Yvette’s words. I have every intention of holding on to him, and I’m so glad he holds onto me.

  Thinking of him made her look around her office. She looked at the wall and the floor, trying to see evidence of the cake she’d thrown—that nothing was visible was evidence of his hand. She sniffed the air and smelled only the vague clean scent of vanilla instead of chocolate and rancid butter from the red velvet cake. Dench, she thought again, knowing that he’d made sure she could work in her office.

  I must have scared the bejoogers out of him, and he still found a way to make sure that my office was clean. Pleased and grateful, she was tempted to call him, but he was out on the field today—preseason training, she knew. But there’s no reason I can’t text him.

  Her fingers were quick on the keys as she worked to say what she wanted him to know. I love you like a flower loves the rain, she began, then spent five minutes revising. Finally satisfied with her message, she sat at her desk and sipped her coffee, wishing she could have said more, somehow reassured him of more.

  At least I was able to tell him about my time with Chris Gordon.

  It didn’t take a lot of imagination to recall the look on his face when she’d walked in from the appointment. Coming in through the kitchen door, she’d caught him standing at the dark granite counter, building a massive and manly structure of turkey, a couple kinds of cheeses, and assorted vegetables. He called it a sandwich. She strolled close enough to stand next to him and steal his potato chips.

  Slicing the sandwich, he levered half of it onto a second plate and pushed it toward her. “See, that’s proof that I love you,” he grinned.

  Snagging more chips, she pushed the sandwich back. “No, baby, you eat it. I don’t want to take food out of your mouth.” No argument from him as he poured two tall glasses of milk. She took one and sipped, before running her tongue over her upper lip. “Can I tell you what I did today?”