Queen Move

These are not the things that dominated my internal news cycle when I woke up this morning. Besides seeing Lennix and discussing a candidate’s pro-life stance on a call before this meeting, I haven’t given kids much thought today. Life, though, in its infinite wisdom, has shoved all of this front and center.

“Mind you,” Dr. Granden says, “I’m general practice. I’m just telling you what all the signs indicate. Your test results are consistent with a woman in perimenopause, but I would like you to consult with a specialist, too.”

“A sp-sp-specialist?” I ask, suppressing a groan of frustration that my damn stutter hits me as unexpectedly as my grief does sometimes. “This is going fast. What does this all mean?”

“If a woman is in perimenopause and wants to have kids naturally,” Dr. Granden says, her voice softening into compassion, “she better move fast. You could have a year, maybe a little more if we’re aggressive about re-starting your period. It’s hard to say. There are things you can do. Hormone replacement therapy, which does have some risks, but you can talk those through with the specialist. Several of my patients have also had success with homeopathic remedies. Once we get your period back up and running, we can chart when you’re most fertile and you can—”

“But I don’t want a baby,” I blurt. “I mean, I do someday, but not now. I’m not dating anyone. I’m not involved or interested. I have a gubernatorial campaign to run.” If the candidate chooses me. “I…you’re saying I have to have a baby now?”

“I’m saying if you don’t get pregnant relatively soon, then odds are you never will.”

I’m a rug Dr. Granden’s beating, every word coming out of her mouth a whack, sending air and dust flying from me.

“I don’t know what to say,” I manage, though my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. “I’m not sure what to do. I—”

“If you want to keep even the possibility of children, of a child, then we should at least talk about trying to get your cycle back online. That’s first.”

“Uh, yeah. My cycle. Of course,” I say automatically, trusting that the words coming from my mouth are the right ones. “Do you have water? I need some water.”

Dr. Granden nods behind me. “There’s a water cooler there. I can get it if—”

“No.” I stand and turn toward the cooler. “I can.”

I walk on shaky legs to the little stand at the back of her office. The colorful pattern of the carpet swims through a glaze of sudden tears, and the floor tilts beneath me. The whole world just slid to one side, and I’m holding on to an invisible beam, trying not to fall. My hands tremble around the little plastic cup as I fill it with cold water. Mere minutes ago, I was begging not to be pregnant, and now I may never be? My mother was just reassuring me she would still love her grandchild out of wedlock, and now I may never have one to give her…at all?

I gulp the water down along with these hard truths, immediately filling the cup again and draining it before making my way back to my seat.

“So you said restarting my period is the first thing. Can we do that for sure?”

The answer is scribbled across her face like one of her prescriptions, impossible to read. She confirms what I fear, though, with a shake of her head. “There are no guarantees. I’ll leave it to the specialist to discuss likely outcomes, but I would think your chances are good. I’d prefer not to speculate, though.”

My phone dings in my purse. I’m tempted to ignore it, but I don’t have that kind of life. A ding could be a small fire, and if I delay responding, in no time it could be a conflagration, trending on Twitter and ticker taping on every major news outlet.

“Excuse me one second, Dr. Granden.” I fish the phone from my bag to read the text message.

Carla: Hey. Just reminding you to leave the doctor’s office soon or you’ll miss your two o’clock with Senator Billingsley.

Me: Cancel Billingsley.

Dr. Granden places a plastic model on the desk between us. I vaguely note a vagina, uterus and fallopian tubes.

Me: Cancel everything.

Chapter Eleven

Ezra

“Son, slow down. Your food’s not running from you. Stop chasing it.”

Noah looks up, the expression on his small face abashed, but still eager, as if I spiked his oatmeal with Mexican jumping beans. He deliberately takes his time lifting the spoon from his bowl, opens his mouth exaggeratedly, and stretches his eyes really wide, sliding the spoon between his teeth in extra slow-mo.

Smart ass.

“And don’t scrape that spoon over your teeth,” I add, grinning and mussing the dark wavy hair that spills into his eyes. He begged us to let him grow it out after visiting his cousin Tao in LA, whose hair hangs past his shoulders in a pin-straight curtain. Noah’s won’t be quite that straight or silky, thanks to my genes. He’ll grow up like I did, with hair finer than my father’s and not quite as fine as my mom’s.

“It’s the first day of summer break,” he reminds me unnecessarily and for maybe the tenth time since he woke up.

“I know.” I take a few gulps of the strawberry smoothie I prepared for breakfast, sliding a small cup of it to him. “Drink up so we can take your mom to the airport.”