incredulously. She had thought the crash was a sign, too—a sign that they were meant to be together, their stolen extra day thwarting Jackie from boarding the ill-fated flight. Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. The line from the old song flashed in her head. Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign? Then again, everyone on the flight wound up fine. What sign could she extract from that?
Sounding exasperated, Jackie sighed. “It doesn’t have to be. But we’re not college kids. We live in the real world. And you know as well as I do, that world doesn’t want us.” Her voice wobbled. “I can give you what I did. A few days here, a few days there. Maybe even here in Charlotte. If you came when Jim’s away.
“But no husband or daughter, Brett. I can’t take the risk. I won’t.”
“Good morning. Today is February 8, 2009, and this is T-Day. Transfer Day. You’re listening to NPR.”
Deborah blinked groggily. NPR? Why was Steve Inskeep announcing her transfer? She must be dreaming. But she was awake. Wasn’t she? She rolled over to look at the digital date, glowing green on the bedside clock. Indeed, it was T-day, February 8.
“Good morning.”
She started. Christopher stood in their bedroom door, bearing two cups of coffee.
“That was so weird. I don’t know if I was just dreaming or awake. Is that—”
“Decaf. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks.” Forgoing caffeine and alcohol and mayonnaise and sushi, as she had since the last appointment with Dr. Singh, often felt as arbitrary as a rain dance, rituals that only deluded her into thinking she had control. Still, she followed them faithfully. What if they were right?
Christopher sat on the bed next to her, his weight solid and comforting compared to the wispy, ephemeral hope she allowed herself: that this third time would, indeed, be the charm. “Don’t you have an early class?”
“I got Foster to cover it.” He smiled at her, then kissed her forehead.
“What’s that for?”
“Just because.” He shrugged. “Because this does feel like the right thing to do. Either way, we can move forward now. And I think we’re stronger for all we’ve gone through, too.”
“Really?” She should have been ecstatic. But instead, she felt only more guilt. She hadn’t told him about Helen.
It was a white lie—a lie of omission, she told herself. Since they had unwittingly accepted the risk—to both her and a baby—the first two cycles, nothing had really changed.
Deep in her soul, though, she knew she was rationalizing, knew Huntington’s would be the tipping point for Christopher, pushing the risk level to unacceptable, and banishing embryos E, F, and G to the rubber gloves of the researchers in their white lab coats. And as their mother, that was the one thing she could not allow.
“Really.” He stood. “Drink up and get dressed. You need a full bladder, remember?”
She gulped dutifully. It allowed for a clearer picture on the monitor. It sounded minor, but feeling like she might lose control was the worst part of the whole transfer process.
Gratitude and guilt blended and blurred the rest of the morning, as Christopher acted more devoted husband and prospective father than at either of the two previous transfers. He dropped her off at the clinic door, then went to park. As she filled out the boilerplate intake paperwork, Deborah’s conscience poked her again: Changes in health history since your last visit . She checked none.
Dr. Singh met them with the news that E, F, and G all survived the thaw in good condition.
“You’re quite sure you want to go with all three?” she asked again. Two, the standard protocol, were transferred in both previous cycles, in order to manage the risk of multiples.
Deborah nodded.
“All right. I’ll see you in there.”
On the ultrasound monitor, she watched as Dr. Singh moved the three tiny white blobs, one by one by one, into the bluish, warped triangular field that was her uterus. She
Sounding exasperated, Jackie sighed. “It doesn’t have to be. But we’re not college kids. We live in the real world. And you know as well as I do, that world doesn’t want us.” Her voice wobbled. “I can give you what I did. A few days here, a few days there. Maybe even here in Charlotte. If you came when Jim’s away.
“But no husband or daughter, Brett. I can’t take the risk. I won’t.”
“Good morning. Today is February 8, 2009, and this is T-Day. Transfer Day. You’re listening to NPR.”
Deborah blinked groggily. NPR? Why was Steve Inskeep announcing her transfer? She must be dreaming. But she was awake. Wasn’t she? She rolled over to look at the digital date, glowing green on the bedside clock. Indeed, it was T-day, February 8.
“Good morning.”
She started. Christopher stood in their bedroom door, bearing two cups of coffee.
“That was so weird. I don’t know if I was just dreaming or awake. Is that—”
“Decaf. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks.” Forgoing caffeine and alcohol and mayonnaise and sushi, as she had since the last appointment with Dr. Singh, often felt as arbitrary as a rain dance, rituals that only deluded her into thinking she had control. Still, she followed them faithfully. What if they were right?
Christopher sat on the bed next to her, his weight solid and comforting compared to the wispy, ephemeral hope she allowed herself: that this third time would, indeed, be the charm. “Don’t you have an early class?”
“I got Foster to cover it.” He smiled at her, then kissed her forehead.
“What’s that for?”
“Just because.” He shrugged. “Because this does feel like the right thing to do. Either way, we can move forward now. And I think we’re stronger for all we’ve gone through, too.”
“Really?” She should have been ecstatic. But instead, she felt only more guilt. She hadn’t told him about Helen.
It was a white lie—a lie of omission, she told herself. Since they had unwittingly accepted the risk—to both her and a baby—the first two cycles, nothing had really changed.
Deep in her soul, though, she knew she was rationalizing, knew Huntington’s would be the tipping point for Christopher, pushing the risk level to unacceptable, and banishing embryos E, F, and G to the rubber gloves of the researchers in their white lab coats. And as their mother, that was the one thing she could not allow.
“Really.” He stood. “Drink up and get dressed. You need a full bladder, remember?”
She gulped dutifully. It allowed for a clearer picture on the monitor. It sounded minor, but feeling like she might lose control was the worst part of the whole transfer process.
Gratitude and guilt blended and blurred the rest of the morning, as Christopher acted more devoted husband and prospective father than at either of the two previous transfers. He dropped her off at the clinic door, then went to park. As she filled out the boilerplate intake paperwork, Deborah’s conscience poked her again: Changes in health history since your last visit . She checked none.
Dr. Singh met them with the news that E, F, and G all survived the thaw in good condition.
“You’re quite sure you want to go with all three?” she asked again. Two, the standard protocol, were transferred in both previous cycles, in order to manage the risk of multiples.
Deborah nodded.
“All right. I’ll see you in there.”
On the ultrasound monitor, she watched as Dr. Singh moved the three tiny white blobs, one by one by one, into the bluish, warped triangular field that was her uterus. She
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