Part 2 (2/2)
”All right.” He lifted the clipboard closer to read what was written there. ”It seems that your ovulation rate is somewhat depleted, which is not unusual for a woman of your age. You're thirty-four?”
”Thirty-five.”
The doctor flipped back to the questionnaire portion of the test.
”A smoker?”
”Never.”
”Right. Well, that's good. Smoking decreases ovulation rate dramatically.”
”But you thought I might be a smoker. Isn't that bad?”
”Not necessarily. Your results show that your ovulation rate is lower than it probably was a decade ago. But what I'm saying is, this is normal. How long have you been trying?”
”I haven't yet. I was just wondering for when I do try. I mean, I've been thinking a lot lately about how I should start trying. Or at least trying to try.”
”So you've been thinking about trying to try to conceive?”
”That's right.”
”Do you mind if I level with you?”
”Absolutely not.”
”As I mentioned, I'm a fertility specialist at Women's College, which means I spend most of my waking hours trying to get women pregnant.” He paused, looking slightly perplexed. ”In a manner of speaking.”
Meredith smiled, then she thought of Mish, of the ribbon of blood unfurling down her inner thigh.
”Most women who come to me are not as forward-thinking as you,” Dr. Veil went on. ”They end up in my office at the age of forty or later, after they've been trying with their partners off and on for five years. We do everything we can, but by that time, more often than not, it's too late.”
”So what are you saying?”
”I'm saying that if you really want a baby, you should start trying as soon as you can. Within the year is my advice.”
”This year!” she accidentally shouted. ”How am I supposed to fit in having a baby this year? You talk about it as if it's just a matter of putting in the effort, like 'Don't forget to clean out those eaves troughs before winter comes.' It's crazy. I don't even have a boyfriend. I haven't been on a date in months. I work all the time. I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone someone else. I have no family here. My friends are either turning into their parents or are completely f.u.c.ked up.”
He waited for her to finish before starting to speak. ”Meredith, you seem pretty pulled together-”
She interrupted him with a sharp laugh. ”You know, that's what everyone always says about me. I seem so together. So on top of everything. So under control. But you know what I feel like inside? A bomb site. A disaster area.” She opened her eyes wide and pointed to her chest. ”I am Beirut.”
”That's how everybody feels,” he said.
”That's not true.”
”I a.s.sure you,” he said, ”it is.”
”Then why is everything so well timed in other people's lives?” she said, glancing at the photo of the little girl on his desk. ”It's like I've been off schedule from day one. I think I was born out of sync.”
His eyes smiled. ”If you're talking about children, I can tell you, there is never a convenient time-for anyone. Children are not convenient. They require...a leap of faith.”
Meredith shook her head. ”I'm sorry, Doctor, but it's hard for me to take advice from someone like you.”
”What do you mean?” He looked surprised.
Meredith looked at his shoes-perfectly safe. ”You just don't seem like someone who's taken many leaps of faith.”
”I don't?”
”Not to me.”
He folded his clipboard and stood up. Meredith remained seated. Her face felt tingly, as if she had been smacked.
”I'm sorry if my bluntness offends you,” the doctor said quickly. ”It's just that I see this sort of thing every day. It's really discouraging to watch healthy young women become infertility statistics just because they waited too long and didn't have the facts.”
Meredith nodded and reached for her bag to leave.
”Don't forget,” said Dr. Joe.
”Forget what?”
”Your Pap test.”
”Oh, right. That.”
”I'll just step out for a moment so you can put on your gown. Please take everything off including your underwear, lie on the examination table faceup and place your heels in the stirrups.” He paused in the doorway and turned back. ”I hope my advice didn't upset you.”
”Not at all,” Meredith said abruptly. ”Really. Thanks for being honest.”
When the metal door clicked shut behind him, she looked around the room. It was one of those moments when everything suddenly appears s.h.i.+fted from where it was a second before, a skipped beat in the time-s.p.a.ce continuum. She looked at the hospital gown folded on top of the examination table's waxed paper sheet. It was pink. Meredith liked pink, but this shade reminded her of a dog's inner ear. She stared at the gown and thought of what a strange couple of days it had been. Walking off set, consoling Mish, being told by a man she'd just met she'd better get pregnant soon and fast... And now this same man was preparing to sc.r.a.pe cells from inside her body so someone else could examine them under a microscope. Meredith looked at the oven mitts at the end of the table and imagined the cold metal stirrups beneath them.
For the second time in seventy-two hours, Meredith bolted.
The day before Meredith left for London, she and Mish met for brunch at a French bistro in Kensington Market. Mish chose the place for its fried cheese, homemade hollandaise and indignant ban on all American products since the war in Iraq. Not having to eat folic-rich greens every five seconds was, she a.s.sured Meredith, one of the major bonuses of not being pregnant. That and smoking. And drinking. Meredith arrived exactly on time. Mish was already there, at a corner table, sitting behind a two-thirds-empty bottle of rose, nose in a copy of Us.
”Okay,” Mish demanded when she saw Meredith. ”How is it possible that every single celebrity in the history of the world is currently engaged? I mean, don't these people ever just date? And their engagements are so weird. They don't announce it or anything like normal people-instead they just go around wearing gigantic rings and publicly denying everything. What's the f.u.c.king point?”
She pointed to a photo of a pop star and an actress crossing the street. Over the top of the image the magazine art directors had added a large yellow arrow pointing to the third finger of the actress's left hand, which was wrapped around a takeout latte the size of a construction worker's lunch Thermos. Lower on the page, the same image of her hand had been blown up to twice its size and framed in the outline of a church bell. WEDDING BELLS FOR CARRIE AND BEN? read the headline, followed by a caption: ”After a walk along the beach in Malibu, Carrie and Ben grab a coffee at their local Starbucks. Back in action after a brief winter hiatus (during which time Ben was spotted canoodling with his former publicity agent), the golden couple are looking more serious than ever. If you don't believe Us, check out the diamond-encrusted emerald on Carrie's left hand! According to friends, this could be it. 'I've never seen them happier,' says one close acquaintance. 'They can't keep their hands off each other. The chemistry is explosive!'”
Meredith looked for other words to read on the page but there were none. Mish poured her a gla.s.s of wine, but Meredith murmured something about wine in the daytime and poured most of hers into her friend's gla.s.s.
”You okay?” she said.
<script>