Chapter 14 Forgetting How to Swim Emmett
I’VE GIVEN A LOT OF thought to the child that will, one day, call me Dada. The one who’s meant for me and Cara.
I’ve watched my wife while she slept next to me, and prayed to God our child would have the light dusting of freckles that paint her cheekbones, the slope of her nose.
I’ve been fascinated by the way she comes alive when she talks, and hoped our child would inherit her passion, the fire that never seems to go out in her eyes.
I’ve been on the receiving end of her smile, so breathtaking, threatening to knock me to my knees, and I’ve imagined a little version of her I can’t say no to, not when they flash that same smile, pulling me in deep.
I’ve admired her heart, the way it works overtime to go after her dreams, to support the people she loves, and I’ve spent nights lying awake, praying our child has that same determination, the same unending love.
Cara is all the best parts of me. I know she’ll be all the best parts of our child too. And I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that.
But now… now my thoughts are elsewhere. Somewhere deep and dark. Somewhere I hate going.
I knew that fertility treatments would be hard. That they’d test our patience, exhaust us physically and mentally. We’d struggle together, but come out stronger than ever, because our foundation is rock solid. Cara and me, we’re soulmates. And when you have each other… you’re unbeatable.
I thought so, at least.
But as I sit across from my wife in our favorite coffee shop, an hour post–egg retrieval for our first round of IVF, unable to take my eyes off her while she stares blankly out the window at the cold November rain, I’m acutely aware that my only thoughts are about protecting her.
Because this is breaking her. Crushing her. Fucking destroying her.
And I can’t sit back and watch it happen anymore.
The truth of it is, none of it matters if I don’t have Cara. There’s no one else I’d do this with. It’s her or nothing, and it has been since the first night I saw her. And I… I’m not sure I even want a baby if it means potentially losing her.
Christ, the thought alone makes me sick to my stomach.
Reaching across the table, I cover her hand with mine. She strokes my thumb with hers, but her eyes don’t leave the window.
“Five is still a good number, baby,” I murmur.
Her eyes flicker. “The optimal number of eggs retrieved in an egg retrieval is fifteen, Emmett.”
I know. I’ve read the pamphlets, the fucking books. I’ve listened to every word out of the doctor’s mouth, the nurses’ too, and spent entire plane rides falling down the infertility Google hole on my laptop.
But five is better than nothing, right?
“I suppose five is better than nothing,” Cara whispers. “For someone like me.”
She tears her eyes off the window, only to drop them to her latte as she slips her hand from my grasp and pulls her mug closer.
“I just don’t understand, you know? I had twenty-three follicles; how can I only have five eggs?
” She shakes her head, a chuckle that lacks all traces of humor falling from her lips.
“I haven’t understood a single thing about any of this. ”
The bell on the door jingles when it opens, and Cara’s eyes go to the woman who strolls in, pushing a stroller with a baby inside and a toddler hanging off the back.
The little boy hops off, screaming about hot chocolate, a cookie, and a muffin, and when she tells him he can only pick one treat to go with his drink, he throws himself on the floor, kicking and screaming.
The woman sighs, stepping out from behind the stroller, and I get this weird feeling in my chest when I spot her round belly. Due about the same time as Rosie and Olivia, if I had to guess.
Cara’s gaze drops back to her latte, her grip on her mug tightening.
The woman smiles wistfully at us. “Ugh, lunch alone? So jealous. Can’t remember the last time I had some peace and quiet.”
I force a chuckle, but Cara doesn’t bother, her gaze filled with longing as it moves across this woman and her growing family.
The woman smiles at me. “Kids?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you have kids?”
“Oh. No, we…” I slip my fingers under my beanie, scratching at my temple. “No kids.”
“Ugh, so lucky. I tell all my friends who are thinking about having kids to stop.” She laughs, and Cara’s chin trembles.
“Sleepless nights, early mornings, and don’t even get me started on the noise.
It never stops.” Another laugh, and I know she’s just joking, but when she asks, “Wanna trade places?” my chest pulls so tight, I press my knuckles against it to distract from the pain.
And Cara? I swear I see the last of her spirit leave her body as she presses her teeth into that trembling lower lip, looks out the window, and swipes at the lone tear that escapes before she can stop it.
“I know you’re just making conversation,” I start softly, “but next time you’re thinking about telling someone they’re lucky they don’t have kids, I encourage you to remember that you have no idea what someone else is going through.
” I take Cara’s hand, pulling her from the booth, tucking her into her coat as I smile at the woman, her cheeks blazing with regret.
“You have a beautiful family. You’re very lucky. ”
Cara clings to my hand as we head for the door, but a soft voice stops us before we can leave.
“Excuse me.”
We glance at the booth beside the door, where a tired woman sits with red-rimmed eyes, hair piled on top of her head, and a sleeping baby at her chest. She smiles at us, her face gentle and filled with… empathy. So much of it.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she says quietly.
“For four years, I had to listen to that, wishing I had the courage to say something back. There was always someone telling my partner and me that we were lucky. That we should be grateful for our clean house, for our uninterrupted sleep. All the vacations we could take because we didn’t have commitments.
” She sniffles, but her gaze doesn’t waver.
“I’m tired. My house is a mess. I don’t know if we’ll ever get to go on a proper honeymoon, and postpartum depression is still kicking my ass six months in.
” She shrugs. “I don’t care. I’d always trade it for her.
” She gazes down at her daughter, stroking her cheek, before her eyes come back to us.
“I’m sorry. People are insensitive, and most of them don’t think before they speak.
And truthfully? If they haven’t been through it, they just cannot grasp the way it wrecks you. Not fully.”
She reaches out, grasping Cara’s hand in hers as another tear rolls down my wife’s cheek, chased quickly by the one rolling down this stranger’s cheek. “I hope your journey takes you wherever you want to go, and I hope you find peace along the way.”
SHE’S TRYING SO HARD; I can see it. Every ounce of strength Cara turns out over the following days, through each update from the clinic, each call from her grandma to see how she is, the time she forces herself to spend outside the house, putting on a happy, hopeful face for the girls, the kids.
The call the next day to tell us four of the five eggs were mature, and that all four of those were successfully fertilized. The way she struggled to straddle that line between giddy faith and not getting her hopes up.
Later that night, I said I didn’t want to leave her as I stalled at the bottom of the plane stairs, wishing I could stay with her instead of flying off to Boston.
She squeezed me so tight, a smile on her plush, kissable lips, an I love you as she promised she’d be fine.
And yet I felt the clammy slide of her palm over the nape of my neck.
Saw the thinly veiled fear flickering in her gaze as she watched me go.
Day three, she called to tell me that one of our embryos had arrested.
Shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. But I watched the way she rolled her lips, the thick way she swallowed, over and over.
Watched the way her thoughts drifted, the way she sputtered one embarrassed apology after another each time she caught herself asking me to repeat what I’d said.
Now, on day four, after an overtime loss, the only thing I feel like doing is going home, crawling into bed, and hauling her into my chest, feeling that she’s still here. That she’s still her, I’m still me, and she’s still mine. I’ll always be hers.
Mrs. Brodie: Tough loss, baby. You played great. Give Adam a kiss for me, know he’s taking that loss hard.
PS. Your hockey ass in those pants tonight??? Chef’s kiss. Len’s always getting them money shots for the girlies.
I huff a laugh, flashing the message to Lennon as we head into the hotel bar.
She smiles. “I captioned the picture Property of Cara Brodie and the girlies still went feral in the comment section. The balls on them, I swear.”
I turn back to my phone.
Me: You gonna be up for a while, baby? Wanna see you.
Mrs. Brodie: I’ll wait up for you. Wanna see you too.
Me: I’ll leave now.
She replies immediately, insisting I stay and have fun, not race back to her. I ignore the message, gathering my things, tugging on my tie. “Hey, I’m gonna head up. Not hungry.”
Adam’s eyes come to mine. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just wanna see Care. Embryo transfer is in the morning.” I sigh, raking my fingers through my hair. “Hate that I’m not gonna be with her.”
Lennon grips my forearm gently, concern flooding her eyes. “How are you holding up? Being away from her while this is going on must be so hard.”