bouncy. A little meat injection—” Alan begins to grin. And Laurie realizes she hasn’t seen him smile like that in weeks.
“Meat injection?” Laurie laughs out loud. “Okay,” she says.
“So right now. We’ll show ’em we don’t need any stinking fertility doctors.” Alan wiggles his eyebrows up and down.
“What? Right now? I have to make dinner.”
“We’ll order pizza. Come on, you’ll be the appetizer.” He grabs her hand and leads her to the bedroom.
***
At the office on Monday morning, Laurie is supposed to be searching online for bowling alleys in the Valley. “Something vintage. Or with a ghost,” Grace suggests. Instead, Laurie is thinking about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. What did she look like? Thick braids wrapped on either side of her head like Princess Leia? Laurie goes to Wikipedia and is surprised to see a photo of a tan, handsome woman with short hair. Born in Switzerland, one of triplets. Naturally her mother was fertile. Everyone is fertile and carries a child to term unless they’re Laurie.
She moved to the United States in 1958 to work and continue her studies in New York. She had four miscarriages.
Four? No wonder Elisabeth Kübler-Ross knew about stages of grief. After two she must’ve thought, Uh-oh . And how do you try again after three? Did people continue to tell her, “Don’t worry, it’ll work out next time”? Did Elisabeth Kübler-Ross snap back at them, “Yeah, what the hell? Maybe the fifth fucking time is the charm.”
But she had two children. After all that, a boy and a girl.
Laurie touches the photo on her computer screen. That’s the message Laurie is supposed to take from this. After all, not everybody died on the Hindenburg or the Andrea Doria . Some people are survivors. Like Elisabeth Kübler-Ross.
Like Laurie.
Alan
The fertility clinic is in Beverly Hills. The waiting room has lots of dark wood bookshelves and Alan whispers to Laurie he bets the books are fake and wants to pull them out, but Laurie tells him to sit down. She is nervous; he watches her twist the wedding ring around and around on her finger.
Dr. Julian’s office is more dark wood, possibly more fake books. Dr. Julian leans against his desk. He has a Ralph Lauren tan and he’s wearing Italian loafers with no socks; late forties, with short, silver hair and a jazz patch. He speaks softly and confidently about multiple miscarriages, possibly caused by uterine anomalies, fibroids. All are treatable.
“But you want to know how to have a baby. That’s why you’re here.” Dr. Julian puts his hands together, making a little “here is the church” building with his fingers. “A diagnosis can be difficult. Sometimes we never find out the cause. But we’ll do every test available.” He nods at Laurie. “You and your partner.”
We’re not playing tennis , Alan wants to say. I’m her husband, not her partner .
“The sooner you start the testing, the better. And that’s why you’ve come to me,” Dr. Julian says. “Because I’m the one who can give you a baby.”
His tan is fake, Alan decides, imagining Dr. Julian on a tanning bed. Flipping over when the timer goes off.
***
“You seemed grumpy in Dr. Julian’s office,” Laurie says when they get in the car. “Didn’t you like him?”
“No. ‘I can give you a baby.’ Who says stuff like that?”
“Maybe he can give us a baby. That’s why we went there, right?”
Alan sighs. “I suppose if Dr. God can deliver—no pun intended—we have to put up with him.”
Laurie moves close and nuzzles into his neck. “I hope we have all boys. Who look just like you.” She pauses. “Only sexier. More buff .”
“You don’t get more buff than me.” Alan flexes his bicep and Laurie giggles.
At dinner, Laurie runs her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “There’s also adoption,” she says carefully.
“I think adoption would be great. We’ve talked about it before.” Before seems like centuries ago, back
“Meat injection?” Laurie laughs out loud. “Okay,” she says.
“So right now. We’ll show ’em we don’t need any stinking fertility doctors.” Alan wiggles his eyebrows up and down.
“What? Right now? I have to make dinner.”
“We’ll order pizza. Come on, you’ll be the appetizer.” He grabs her hand and leads her to the bedroom.
***
At the office on Monday morning, Laurie is supposed to be searching online for bowling alleys in the Valley. “Something vintage. Or with a ghost,” Grace suggests. Instead, Laurie is thinking about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. What did she look like? Thick braids wrapped on either side of her head like Princess Leia? Laurie goes to Wikipedia and is surprised to see a photo of a tan, handsome woman with short hair. Born in Switzerland, one of triplets. Naturally her mother was fertile. Everyone is fertile and carries a child to term unless they’re Laurie.
She moved to the United States in 1958 to work and continue her studies in New York. She had four miscarriages.
Four? No wonder Elisabeth Kübler-Ross knew about stages of grief. After two she must’ve thought, Uh-oh . And how do you try again after three? Did people continue to tell her, “Don’t worry, it’ll work out next time”? Did Elisabeth Kübler-Ross snap back at them, “Yeah, what the hell? Maybe the fifth fucking time is the charm.”
But she had two children. After all that, a boy and a girl.
Laurie touches the photo on her computer screen. That’s the message Laurie is supposed to take from this. After all, not everybody died on the Hindenburg or the Andrea Doria . Some people are survivors. Like Elisabeth Kübler-Ross.
Like Laurie.
Alan
The fertility clinic is in Beverly Hills. The waiting room has lots of dark wood bookshelves and Alan whispers to Laurie he bets the books are fake and wants to pull them out, but Laurie tells him to sit down. She is nervous; he watches her twist the wedding ring around and around on her finger.
Dr. Julian’s office is more dark wood, possibly more fake books. Dr. Julian leans against his desk. He has a Ralph Lauren tan and he’s wearing Italian loafers with no socks; late forties, with short, silver hair and a jazz patch. He speaks softly and confidently about multiple miscarriages, possibly caused by uterine anomalies, fibroids. All are treatable.
“But you want to know how to have a baby. That’s why you’re here.” Dr. Julian puts his hands together, making a little “here is the church” building with his fingers. “A diagnosis can be difficult. Sometimes we never find out the cause. But we’ll do every test available.” He nods at Laurie. “You and your partner.”
We’re not playing tennis , Alan wants to say. I’m her husband, not her partner .
“The sooner you start the testing, the better. And that’s why you’ve come to me,” Dr. Julian says. “Because I’m the one who can give you a baby.”
His tan is fake, Alan decides, imagining Dr. Julian on a tanning bed. Flipping over when the timer goes off.
***
“You seemed grumpy in Dr. Julian’s office,” Laurie says when they get in the car. “Didn’t you like him?”
“No. ‘I can give you a baby.’ Who says stuff like that?”
“Maybe he can give us a baby. That’s why we went there, right?”
Alan sighs. “I suppose if Dr. God can deliver—no pun intended—we have to put up with him.”
Laurie moves close and nuzzles into his neck. “I hope we have all boys. Who look just like you.” She pauses. “Only sexier. More buff .”
“You don’t get more buff than me.” Alan flexes his bicep and Laurie giggles.
At dinner, Laurie runs her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “There’s also adoption,” she says carefully.
“I think adoption would be great. We’ve talked about it before.” Before seems like centuries ago, back
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