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“What exactly did you say?”
The elevator door opens, but I remain in the parking garage. I’ll lose signal if I get in. I cover one eye, pressing against it, masking the pain and trying to remember the conversation.
“I don’t know exactly what I said.” It’s not like me to forget, but my thought processes are shutting down. I need sleep. “It was over in sixty seconds.”
“Ian.” It’s a reprimand. “You know how autopsies can be interpreted. Why were you even there? He wasn’t your patient.”
“I was helping out.”
“You’re spreading yourself too thin. Doing too much. You can’t do it all, Ian.”
Leida’s been around for decades. She’s right. I don’t want her to be, but she’s right.
ChapterSeven
Sandra
April - Last Year
The packed folder on my desk goads me. Color coded paper clips hold together each potential path forward. Green for sperm donor. Blue for adoption. Yellow for IVF. Yellow is a last resort.
The center I found in Austin won’t see me for IVF, as I haven’t had a baby in the past, but there are others that will gladly take my money. Unfortunately, my health insurance doesn’t cover IVF for single women. The company probably didn’t intend to be judgmental, but the policy smacks of judgement.
Adoption isn’t much more realistic. It’s incredibly expensive unless I attempt another round of adoption via foster care. It’s always an option, but it’ll take years, and there’s no guarantee anyone would choose me among a host of couples to choose from. If I pursue adoption, then the green door effectively slams shut by virtue of my age.
The scary hot pink clip reminds me the green door might already be barricaded shut. The facts and figures about getting pregnant as a forty-year-old woman are safely ensconced behind the pink clip. I don’t need to flip through the printed pages, as the stats remain stuck in my head. Five percent of women my age will have a successful pregnancy after one year of trying. That figure takes into account the fact that forty to fifty percent of women my age miscarry.
It’s a bit naïve and ridiculously hopeful to believe I’d fall into the five percent category. I’ve never won a lottery ticket in my life. Why would I win with this?
Years ago, adoption had seemed like the obvious choice. But after meeting with one local center, I feared I would never be chosen. Women searching for parents for their child often envision a traditional family, or at the very least, a pair. International adoption is slightly more promising, but exorbitantly expensive. The pandemic hit my small business hard, and my savings isn’t what it used to be.
The edge of my nail snaps against the blue clip. Successful adoptions originate from the foster care program. But can I handle returning another child to his parents after falling in love? If I had a child of my own, maybe I could be that strong. But social services driving Henry away gutted me.
My palm flattens against my sternum, and nausea stirs in the pit of my stomach. My head hits the back of my chair. Ian says he needs my aura, but my aura needs a good cleanse. Or maybe a different approach, something like realigning my chakras. Getting back in touch with my soul. A regrouping of sorts.
Three light raps on the slightly ajar office door announce Kara before she enters, and I flip the folder closed.
Kara’s bright blonde hair artfully curls around a thick black head wrap. Her black jeans, black sweater and black cowboy boots are well worn. Black is our chosen uniform color, and everyone tends to rotate the same black outfits throughout the week.
As the owner, I don’t adhere to the dress code in our Main Street location unless I am seeing clients, and then I choose black scrubs.
“Whatcha working on?” Kara asks, closing the door behind her.
With her back to me, I stealthily slide the floral folder beneath a stack of manila folders. When she turns around, eyes bright and arms folded loosely over her middle, I rest in my office chair, smiling, ready for whatever requires a closed-door session.
“Tomorrow is bill day, and I'm preparing. Makes it go faster. What’s up?” There’s a bounce in Kara’s step as she approaches. A smile plays across her lips. Something is definitely up.
She sits down and leans forward. “Noah is moving out of the house.”
Her eyebrows move as she speaks. She leans back in the chair, arms crossed with a big-as-the-ranch smile.
I slowly nod.
Noah discovered his wife, Jocelyn, was cheating on him. She says her baby is the other man’s. I haven’t said anything to Noah, but given all my research on getting pregnant, I question how she knows this. Unless she and Noah were not having sex. But in all my conversations with him, and I’ve had plenty because he’s needed a friend, he was shocked. His degree of shock led me to suspect they hadn’t been going without sex, but that is a personal question I chose not to ask.
“You don’t look surprised. You know everything before I do.” Kara’s foot stomps playfully.
“I actually didn’t know he was moving out of the house. But I’m not surprised.”Come on, Kara. Did you expect he’d continue living with her while she dated someone else?
