As I hang up, I notice a voicemail from yesterday, so I hit play.
“Good evening, Sadie. This is Kim from Doctor Harris’s office calling about your fertility exam. Please contact us to schedule an appointment and discuss the results.”
I lower the phone from my ear and stare at the screen. During the chaos of yesterday, the exam had slipped my mind. Schedule an appointment? Doesn’t that always mean bad news? I glance at the closed door to our bedroom. Nathan thinks he can put himself through this, but does he really know what we’d be getting ourselves into? Will he be as adamant about it a year down the line, several doctors’ appointments in, countless dollars spent?
I put the pie in the oven, barely paying attention to what I’m doing, and almost burn myself. The truth is, now that I’ve decided, I need to know. I won’t be able to focus on anything else. Whatever the results are, Nathan and I will deal with them together.
I go back to the couch and return the call. As the phone rings, my nerves catch up with my brain. Each passing second brings more doubt. Nathan is already dealing with the death of his father. I don’t know if this would be the best or worst time to break the news of my infertility. After several seconds with no answer, I remember that it’s Saturday. I’ll have no choice but to wait through the weekend after all.
I go to end the call when a voice on the line stops me. “Hello?” a man asks. “I mean—Doctor Harris’s office.”
“Doctor Harris?” I ask, surprised.
“You’ve got him.”
“It’s Sadie Hunt. I’m so sorry. I got your message and completely forgot it was the weekend.”
“If only all my patients were as excited to see me as you,” he teases. “I’d never go out of business.”
I smile. “I’m really sorry. I know I was a little pushy yesterday.”
“It’s all right. You aren’t the first. But I can’t give you your results over the phone. You’ll have to come in—with an appointment,” he stresses. “Right now, we’re closed. You just caught me passing through.” He sighs. “I don’t know what my wife is referring to when she says I work too much.”
“Thank you. I’ll come in. Or, you could just give me a hint.”
“Sadie . . .”
“I don’t want to keep you. It’s just—Nathan and I have had a rough few days, and if it’s bad news, I want to get it over with. But if it’s not . . . it could really help.”
He sighs. “Right. Let me pull up your file and see what we’re dealing with. Give me a moment.” The line goes quiet. While I wait, I pick up Nate’s laptop from the coffee table. The Brooklyn folder on his bookmark bar catches my eye. I click it again, and again, the long list of apartment listings pops up.
“Sadie? You there?” the doctor asks.
“I’m here.”
“Great. As I said, I can’t give you your results over the phone.” He hums into the receiver. “However, if you were to ask me a hypothetical question, I could answer that.”
My heart begins to pound, and I cover it to keep it from bursting through my chest. Do I really want to know? Suspecting I’m infertile is one thing, but knowing I am would start Nathan and I on a whole new course. “Um.” I swallow. “Hypothetically—if I were to have sex this weekend, could I get pregnant?”
He laughs robustly. “That’s not quite the question I was expecting. Listen, I’m looking at my computer screen right now, and I like what I see.”
I roll my lips together and brace myself, convinced there’s concern in his voice. “But?”
“There’s no but. Of course, in a hypothetical situation where the physical exam and blood test results look good, one could then proceed to more invasive tests to gain more confidence.”
I loosen my fingers, which I’d curled into my chest. My blood feels like it’s gushing through me, as if a dam broke somewhere in my veins. Good? Everything is good? “Are you sure?” I ask.
“Would I hypothetically lie?”
A spontaneous smile takes over my face. My relief is physical, my limbs liquefying, my breath coming easier. I’m tempted to wake Nathan right away and tell him things might actually be good. “Do you think this person should get more tests?” I ask.
“Hmm. If she and her husband have been trying less than a year, here’s what I would suggest she do—relax. Remove unnecessary stress from her life. Start keeping a journal of what she does each day and how she feels. How her body feels. Know what I mean?”
I hesitate. “Not really. I’ve never kept a diary.”
“Don’t think of it as a diary. It’s more of a log with notes about your—her—feelings. Record what she eats, how she exercises, when she has sex. Stay healthy. When she’s ready, she should go off birth control and enjoy her husband.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That’s it? That’s how someone gets pregnant?”
“Well, not technically. Should I go into more detail?”
I laugh for what feels like the first time in days.
“Now you’ve got the idea,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Your body reacts negatively to stress, Sadie. When we talked about your past abortion, you sounded a bit . . . hopeless. Resigned to the fact that because of a decision you made ages ago, you’ve ruined your future. I’ve heard this before, and I recommend talking to someone about that. Speaking with a therapist will help you sort through some of the issues that may be blocking pregnancy.”
Months ago, I’m not sure I would’ve believed there could be any connection between my fears and my inability to get pregnant. Now, though, I already feel lighter for having shared the truth about the abortion with Nathan. “Thanks,” I say. “She will definitely look into therapy. She might even . . . buy a diary.”
“Good,” he says cheerfully. “And, listen, if none of that works and she doesn’t get pregnant in the next six to twelve months, there are more tests that can be done, starting with her husband.”
I’m about to thank him again when I stop. Did he say husband? “I’m sorry,” I say. “What do you mean?”
“Well, his sperm could be the issue. It’d be unlikely, considering the hypothetical spouse has gotten his wife pregnant in the past, but it doesn’t hurt to check him out.”
I sit back against the couch, my mind spinning. I see myself here in my apartment, open-mouthed on the phone, as if I’ve left my own body. I don’t know why it never occurred to me that Nathan might be the reason we can’t have children. Instantly, I’m furious with the way I’ve berated and punished myself. If Nathan were infertile, I wouldn’t love him any less. I’d never leave him because of it. I’d still be honored to adopt a child with him. The truth becomes crystal clear to me—Nathan and I are in this together until the end. I want to give him a family, but even if I can’t, I won’t let him go. Nathan asked if I’d choose him over a baby again, and I still would.
“Thank you, Doctor Harris. You don’t know what this conversation has meant to my hypothetical self.”
“Happy early Thanksgiving, Sadie,” he says. “Tell Nathan the same.”
I hang up the phone, feeling as giddy as a child with a new toy. I click on the first link Nathan has bookmarked. It’s a three-bedroom apartment in Cobble Hill that’s slightly out of our price range. The description tells me it’s ideal for a young family and in a quiet neighborhood and within walking distance of schools.
Next is a house in Dyker Heights. I click through every link. The folder makes sense now. When I’d seen it before, I’d assumed Nate was looking for his own place. These are all for families. Nathan spends time in Brooklyn because that’s where he wants to be. Near his friends. In a family-friendly neighborhood. Somewhere long-term.
I don’t care that it’s the weekend. I choose a few of my favorite listings and make some overdue phone calls.
I sneak into the bedroom where Nathan’s sprawled on his back. One arm reaches toward my pillow. It would be wonderful to crawl in next to him, but he needs his rest. I dig
in my nightstand drawer for the remainder of my year’s supply of birth control and take it into the kitchen. I push every pill through the foil into the sink, crumple the wrappers, and toss them in the full garbage before tying it off.
With my keys in one hand and a Hefty bag in the other, I go into the hallway. I’ve only taken two steps toward the trash chute when the door to 6A opens. I freeze in place, my instinct to flee firing off, but it’s too late. I brace myself to see Finn for the first time since I dumped him, but it’s Kendra who comes out. She has my Burberry coat thrown over an NYU shirt that looks several sizes too big.
She stops and looks over at me. “Shit. Did you hear all that?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Sadie, right?”
My throat is suddenly dry, but my hand sweats around the trash bag. I nod. “Right.”
“Any chance your adorable husband has a single brother?” Her expression sours. “I find myself suddenly available.”
Since she appears more annoyed than angry, I wonder—does she know about me? She isn’t exactly lunging, claws out, like I would expect. “No, he doesn’t,” I say. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Kendra.”
She shrugs. “My luck, he’d be a cheating bastard anyway.” She waves and takes off for the elevator. “See ya.”
Finn flies out of his apartment and starts down the hall after her. “Kendra, hang on. We still have a lot to—”
“Eat shit,” she throws over her shoulder. “And I’m taking the bitch’s coat. If anyone deserves Burberry for getting fucked, it’s me.”
She boards the elevator, leaving Finn staring after her. With a hand on his hip, he drops his head for a few silent seconds before turning back for his apartment. He stops abruptly when he sees me. “How long have you been standing there?”
I shift on my feet. The garbage bag crinkles louder than seems possible. “I saw all of it.”
“Perfect,” he mutters. He has twenty-six days’ worth of beard and new black circles under his eyes to go with it.
“You told her about us?” I ask.
“Not exactly. It was a surprise visit. There was evidence . . . the coat, for one.”