by Nina Laurin
The first time I visited the clinic, Dr. Hassan said that it can take up to a year for the pill to really leave your system and for things to go back to working normally. But the year came and went, and my period kept arriving precisely on the third of every month. And that was well before my husband stopped showing the slightest interest in me. Back then, we had sex every day. We were in that honeymoon phase everyone says doesn’t last. I should have believed them.
One of the things I like about this clinic is the absence of tackiness: no storks, no larger-than-life toothless, grinning baby posters plastered all over the place. You wouldn’t know you’re in the waiting room of a clinic at all. The colors are tasteful, the flowers on the end tables are real, changing with the seasons (fresh-cut tulips in the spring, and now the giant orbs of dahlias), and there are no scuffed-up, dog-eared parenting magazines from ten years ago. It’s more like a spa, I tell myself every time I come here. It’s not like my future will be directly affected by what waits in the office beyond the door on the other end of the room. I’m just here for a manicure or a facial, nothing more.
Today, though, it all drives me nuts. The jazz pouring softly from the speakers under the ceiling might as well be elevator music, and the calm blue of the walls sets my nerves on edge. I check my phone to find that my appointment time was actually two minutes ago. Any minute now, I tell myself. Any minute.
I heave a patient sigh tinged with resentment (for whose benefit, I don’t know—the receptionist is on the other side of the arched door, too far to hear it) and turn my attention to the apps on my phone. All the students have now accepted my friend requests. Good. I start a new message and loop them all in.
Hi. My name is Claudia (I feel ridiculous typing it but I don’t want to risk using my real name either). I read what you wrote about Prof. Westcott on the forum and I agree completely. I’ve had my own bad experience with Prof. Westcott in one of his classes, two years ago. I wanted to talk about it and possibly devise a plan of action. This can’t continue! He can’t victimize even more women!
I draw another deep breath to settle my nerves and then hit Send. A whoosh, and there it is, out in the universe, no take backs.
I look at the little white circle with the check mark in it that means my message was delivered but not yet read, for what feels like an hour. But when I check the time again, it’s only been ten minutes. Twelve past my appointment time.
Impatience gets the best of me, and I get up and start pacing, unable to contain the nervous energy in my legs. When three more torturously long minutes drag by, I think I’m justified to go talk to the receptionist.
“Excuse me, Lucy?” She looks away from the sleek, flat Apple computer in front of her. I crane my neck, unsubtly, to see what’s on the screen—what has she been doing this whole time? Playing solitaire? Watching cat videos? “My appointment time was a quarter of an hour ago.” That way it sounds less trivial than fifteen minutes.
Lucy blinks at me and says, with her signature flat affect, “Dr. Hassan will see you shortly. Feel free to go grab a seat.” I bet this line is taped to the edge of her desk for reference, because it never changes, like the fucking jazz track they can’t be bothered to replace.
“I already have. I’m waiting for—”
“Dr. Hassan is very busy. She’ll see you as soon as she’s available.”
“I’m the only one here!” I snap. That barely gets a reaction out of Lucy B., per her name tag. She’s buttoned up in a white blouse, mousy blond hair pulled back in a skinny ponytail, but there’s a residue of yesterday’s eye makeup around her lash lines, bluish and unhealthy looking. And her voice has a fried note to it. Out partying late, no doubt.
When I came here for my first appointment, I tried to make small talk with her while she printed my receipt for the consultation fee. She asked me what I do for a living. The nerve. But I told her I was a writer—what else was I going to say? She asked me what my book was about.
“It’s about a man and a girl who are in love but she dies. And their love story replays itself generation after generation, until one of them figures out how to stop her from dying and break the cycle.” The man is heavily based on Byron but I didn’t tell her that, of course. Not that my book was any of her business to begin with.
Lucy B.’s gaze flicked to me from the computer screen for half a second. “Wasn’t that, like, some movie or something?” And then I had to laugh politely and say something asinine like, You know how it goes; there are only six stories under the sun and everything is a variation.
I immediately knew what kind of person this Lucy B. was. She probably doesn’t even read.
And now she’s looking at me with the same glassy bird-stare. “Ma’am, please have a seat.”
“I just told you. I—”
In my back pocket, my phone gives a short buzz, then another and another. I pull it out and am taken aback to see Byron’s name and picture flashing on the screen. Incoming call. What the hell? Did Derek say something to him?
Oh God.
“I need to see Dr. Hassan,” I say, and my voice wobbles as my throat closes, tears not far behind. The sheer humiliation of crying in front of this girl only makes it worse. I thumb Decline, and my phone goes silent, finally.
When I look back to Lucy B., she’s staring at something over my head. When I follow her gaze, I see Dr. Hassan herself, standing in the doorway of the waiting room.
“Ms. Wilson?” She measures me with a quizzical glance. She and Lucy B. exchange that look, lightning quick, thinking I can’t see. Dr. Hassan nods while Lucy’s eyes ever so slightly roll.
I decide then and there that I hate her.
“Follow me.”
I obey, following Dr. Hassan into the office, and close the door behind me. I pull on the hem of my shirt, tuck the stray strands of hair behind my ears, and wipe under my eyes with the pads of my fingers. Now that she’s here, looking calm, I start to wonder if I’d overreacted. I clear my throat and say a polite hello.
“Lucy made it clear this was quite urgent,” Dr. Hassan says gently. I imagine she must be used to handling highly emotional women in here, and she must have her techniques. She’s one of those women you know are in their forties or older but who have smooth, ageless faces and natural-looking hair that may or may not be dyed. Her warm brown eyes gaze right at me, and I feel myself blush.
“Yes.” I exhale. “My decision is made, and I want to start as quickly as possible.”
“Start…?” Dr. Hassan prompts.
“What we discussed last time.” I don’t want to say the words, out of some weird superstition.
“Okay.” She motions for me to sit. I take a step toward the armchair but stop halfway.
“I have the money,” I say, even though that’s not technically true yet. But there are other paintings, and I will find a way. “So we can start with the hormones and everything.”
“The money is not the only issue, Ms. Wilson,” she says, in that careful, slightly slowed tone she has. “We discussed this. The success rate—”
“The success rate will have to be good enough,” I blurt, to stop her saying it—because if she does, it will definitely become real.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t consider alternative means? Such as a surrogate, or maybe even—”
“No.” The word comes out a little louder than I intended. So much louder that we both sort of jump. I get myself under control once again but she’s already giving me that look, the look I absolutely can’t allow. The look that will lead to her doing things like calling security, or throwing me out, or even looking up Ms. Connie Wilson and her lawyer husband, Bertrand.
I gulp. “I’m sorry to get so emotional about this. But I have to at least try first—do you understand? I have to try and have my own baby before I consider…alternatives.” I let my gaze drop, staring at the toes of my shoes. Alternatives are not an option—this has to be my baby, mine and Byron’s, with our genes, carried by me. Otherwise…it does
n’t feel real. Our family doesn’t feel real. And if it doesn’t feel real to me…how will it ever feel real to him?
A tear creeps out of the corner of my eye at the thought, a real, genuine tear. I let it trail down my cheek until it drips from my chin.
When I look up, she nods, understanding, and I know she ate it up. “Very well. I can give you the prescription for the hormones. You can get a nurse here at the clinic to give you the injections or—”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I know how. I can do it myself.” I give a close-lipped smile. “My mother was, is, diabetic. I’m not afraid of needles.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a moment too long, and my skin starts to burn, but just as soon she’s nodding, agreeing, scribbling something on the prescription pad. Within ten minutes, I’m out of there, practically sauntering past Lucy B., unable to resist giving her a final triumphant, condescending glance over my shoulder.
In the parking lot, I walk toward my car, taking note of the other two cars there—one a silver Mercedes SUV that belongs to Dr. Hassan herself and a mid-2000s Honda at the end of the lot. When I get close to it, there’s a Hello Kitty air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. That has to be Lucy B.’s.
I make a mental note before I get in my own car and start the engine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I drive until I come across a drugstore at least fifteen blocks away from the clinic, and only then do I stop. While I wait for my prescription to be prepared, I check my phone again.
There’s a new email, and it’s from Isabelle Herrera. In carefully chosen neutral words, she agrees to talk to me. There’s also a message on Facebook from one of the girls I messaged as Claudia, whose words are a lot less careful and less neutral—she’s pretty much foaming at the mouth in emojis, jumping at the chance to get Byron fired or worse. I can’t help but wonder if Byron failed her for spending too much time in class on social media.
Speaking of Byron, he didn’t leave a message. But I do have one voicemail—which is odd because I never heard my phone ring or vibrate, not during the appointment with Dr. Hassan or while I was driving. I put the phone to my ear. Static, and then the familiar voice, like fingernails on metal. My sister.
Maybe the events of the day have been too much, and I simply can’t handle her after everything, so I hang up without listening to the end. I’ll deal with her later. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that.
I haven’t spoken to her since before Byron and I got married. Along with most of my college acquaintances. I cut them out of my life like unnecessary dead weight—just more people who didn’t understand what I saw in a man so much older.
When I think about them, my stomach knots, and my throat tightens again, like I’m about to cry. I haven’t missed any of them, or at least I was able to convince myself that I didn’t. And a treacherous thought sneaks to the front of my mind: Maybe they weren’t so wrong after all.
I won’t let myself think that. That’s not true, and not fair to me or to Byron.
“Ms. Wilson?”
The voice sounds inquisitive, and as I turn around, I realize the man behind the counter has been calling me repeatedly. I’d zoned out. I hastily apologize and go to pay for my prescription, which is astronomically expensive. Good thing I made the trip to the ATM right before. The cash changes hands; the small white paper bag with the pharmacy logo does too. I glance inside and see the syringes in there, wrapped in plastic and looking so harmless. It wasn’t a lie, what I said to Dr. Hassan, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Despite ample experience, I’m quite nervous around needles. Especially after everything that happened when I was growing up.
I drive home, shaky and exhausted, my stomach rumbling. Somewhere along the line, I’ve managed to find my appetite again—perhaps the whole day of not eating helped or maybe it’s my much-improved state of mind. The prescription hidden at the bottom of my purse gives me new faith in life. So I stop at the grocery store and stock up. Then, at home, I whip up a dinner like I used to make in the good, early days. Three courses and with homemade dessert. I decant the bottle of red wine I bought and set out the nice glasses.
Just past six thirty, the table is set, the first course of bocconcini salad is congealing in its dressing at the bottom of the salad bowls, and the only thing missing is Byron. Now I think back to that call I let go to voicemail, alternating between remorse and alarm. I pull up his number on my contact list and stare at it wistfully, letting my thumb hover over it without tapping the phone screen. I debate texting him but the idea of him not replying burns.
I find myself, like in the early stages of our relationship, overthinking and overanalyzing everything, afraid to miss a phone call, a text—or even so much as a word, a look, a twitch of the lips, or a glimmer in the eyes that might reveal what he’s thinking. Hanging on to these little details desperately, as though if I only could decipher the ultimate meaning behind them, I could have the key to his heart and soul and, most importantly, mind. I remember that feeling so well, infuriating and pathetic at the same time—feeling like a stupid child trying to figure out the thought patterns of someone so much older, more experienced, more sophisticated.
Colleen could read him like an open book, I think, replaying Derek’s words over and over in my mind. Colleen not only knew him; she could pull his strings.
That thought, an unwelcome intruder, taunts me, refusing to leave me alone until it finally sends me fleeing to the kitchen. There, I mindlessly check on the lamb dish simmering in the slow cooker—a wedding present from Emily, smart and practical and expensive like all things Emily, of course. And just as lacking in soul. The stew is too liquid; the sauce that was supposed to thicken—according to Moroccan Kitchen Everyday at least—is still runny and oily with a weird gamey smell. Cursing under my breath, I rummage through the cupboards for the cornstarch, and the whole time, the little nagging voice of self-doubt keeps buzzing in my ear like a fly I can’t swat. I can’t find the starch. Dammit. Who runs out of starch?
As I turn to check the pantry one more time, the clock catches my eye, and I realize with a start that it’s nearing seven o’clock, and still no Byron. I turn off the slow cooker, watery sauce be damned. Not that it matters, buzzes the little voice.
He’s probably fucking some twenty-two-year-old coed right now.
I throw the stirring spoon into the sink with a deafening clatter and throw open the fridge. The bottle of wine I use to cook rattles in the rack inside the door. I snatch it out and pour myself three-quarters of a glass, from which I take two or three deep gulps.
It’s enough to settle my nerves. At least it’s a start. I go to the living room couch and settle in, the pillows accepting my body in their soft embrace. I take another sip and go to put the glass down, only to realize there’s nowhere to put it. I’d destroyed the coffee table, Byron’s one-of-a-kind glass coffee table that he bought on God knows what exotic trip with Colleen—of course with Colleen, always with Colleen—and there’s my laptop sitting at the foot of the couch. Did I leave it there this afternoon? The battery must be dead by now. Wasn’t I doing something, something important?
I open the lid, and it greets me with the password window. I type it in and have to do it twice because my fingertips are trembling. I have a whole slew of messages on Facebook, and a rejection in my work email. The glow of the screen makes me headachy, which in turn makes me nauseous, and I close it. I can deal with it another time.
One more sip of wine—it dribbles down my chin and leaves a few damp spots on my shirt. Wow, it’s really hitting me hard. I’m drinking on an empty stomach. I shouldn’t do that. Wait, my hormones. I think I’m not supposed to mix them with alcohol. Oh God. I should have read that material the pharmacist gave me. But it was three pages long, and I didn’t bother. I figured Dr. Hassan already told me all about the worst of the side effects, and I thought I remembered. The paper is still in my purse. I should go hide it, put it with the hormones and the syringes in my hiding place.
But the walk to the hall where I left my purse on the hook is too daunting. I’m just going to close my eyes. Just for a moment.
There’s noise, thundering that I understand to be steps. Something clangs in the distance, followed by the sound of cursing, and the combination of it all steadily pulls me out of my sleep.
Wait. Sleep? The entire evening fell through the cracks of my memory. When did we have dinner, when and how did I get to bed? Then I become aware of the aches and pains, starting with the killer crick in my spine. With a groan, I try to sit up. In front of me is the large bay window of the living room, dark now, shrouded in the tulle curtain.
I’m not in bed at all. I’m on the couch in front of the destroyed coffee table, my wineglass sitting on the floor next to my laptop, and everything comes back with a flood of panic.
How on earth did I fall asleep? And for God’s sake, what is that smell? Burnt toast? For a moment, I’m absolutely certain I have a brain tumor, and that’s the real reason for everything, and I surprise myself by giggling. Relief. What I’m feeling is relief. This is an explanation. Closure.
Then I realize I don’t have a brain tumor, and the burnt smell is very much real, as is the smoke—oh no. Gray smoke fills the living room. I scramble to get up but my head spins, and I have to hold on to the back of the couch.
“Jesus Christ, Claire!” Byron bursts into the room so suddenly that I spring back, startled. “What the fuck?”