Chapter 30
The next morning, my walk to work feels different—louder and more chaotic after the slow rhythm of morning coffee at my parents’ table and Phoebe curled into me on Joan’s sofa. It’s hard to believe both places exist at once—each one oblivious to the other.
I stop at a flower stand and pick up a bouquet of yellow daffodils for Lesli’s birthday. Greer already bought our joint gift—a delicate pair of opalite earrings—but I know how much Lesli loves flowers. I pay for the bouquet, then thread my way through the crowd.
Back in my office, I catch up on emails and skim my patient charts for the day, immediately spotting Sophie Cohen’s. As I scan her labs and make a mental note to thank our office scheduler for fitting her in, my brain keeps tabbing over to custody. I try to click that window closed—for now.
I look up and see Lesli beaming in my doorway.
“Thanks for the flowers!” she says. “They’re beautiful.”
“Just a little something to get your day started right.”
“That was so thoughtful—especially with all you have going on.”
“Your birthday’s an excellent distraction.”
Her hand drifts to the gold locket she’s worn since medical school. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m okay,” I say.
“How was your eulogy?”
“I think I did a decent job.”
Lesli nods. “How’s Phoebe?”
“Putting on a brave face. I don’t think it’s fully sunk in yet.” I almost say more, then stop. “I have a lot to catch you up on. A lot.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Uh-oh.”
“We’ll talk tonight,” I say. “But I promise not to be a downer.”
“Pfft.” She rolls her eyes. “You know I don’t care about my birthday.”
“Still,” I say.
Lesli smiles, thanks me again for the flowers, then pauses. “I know you lost your best friend. And nobody can replace her. But I’m here for you.”
The words settle something inside me. “Thank you, Lesli,” I say, blinking back tears.
She offers me a small, steady smile, then turns to go.
I gather myself and get back to work.
—
Later that morning, I walk into the egg retrieval room. Sophie looks up from her phone.
“Good morning,” I say, keeping my tone bright. It’s a hopeful day, even against the backdrop of stage four cancer. “How are you feeling?”
“Weirdly calm,” she says, sliding her phone into her bag. “And even more weirdly excited.” She lets out a short, tight laugh.
“I’m glad to hear that—and it’s not at all weird,” I say. “Now let’s get those eggs!”
I shift into surgeon mode, giving her instructions, handing her a gown and a blanket. “In case you get chilly.”
I think of Joan and Phoebe—how satisfying it felt to tuck them in at night; how sometimes care is as simple as warmth and witness.
I step out of the room and begin my usual prep routine: tying my hair back, putting on a surgical cap and gown, scrubbing in until the world narrows to ritual.
A few minutes later, I am back in the retrieval room, where my PA lines up my instruments, and our anesthesiologist begins the sedation process.
Sophie gives me a foggy smile before her eyes flutter closed.
The room is dim, save for the focused glow of the ultrasound monitor. The anesthesia trace blips in the sterile hush.
It’s time to begin.
I guide the needle with practiced ease, watching the black ovals come into view—tiny follicles, each one a fragile possibility.
I aspirate the first follicle, the fluid filling the tube. My PA hands it off to the embryologist waiting behind the window.
One egg.
We move through them methodically. On number seven, the follicle wall looks thin. I slow my hand, adjust. The catheter stills; the screen clears.
“Seven…eight,” I whisper.
When I’ve gotten them all, I strip off my gloves and step back, my pulse slowing.
A few minutes later, Sophie starts to wake up.
“It’s done,” I tell her, bending to meet her gaze. “We got eight.”
Her lips part, and I see relief settle across her face.
“Eight,” she whispers.
Tears slip down her cheeks, but her smile holds.
I step out of the room and return a few minutes later. Sophie is sitting upright on the edge of the chair. Her hands are neatly folded in her lap, her expression alert.
“You did great,” I say, perching on my exam stool. “Eight eggs. That’s fantastic news.”
She smiles, her eyes filling.
I give her a few seconds for the emotion to settle.
“So…what now?” she asks.
“We wait,” I say. “And pray—if that’s your thing.”
“When will we know more?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow with the maturity report and keep in close touch.”
“Thank you,” she says. “For everything.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, reaching for her hand, breaking my usual protocol. I give it a quick squeeze. “I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
As I leave the room and walk down the hallway, I can’t shake the look on Sophie’s face—grateful, vulnerable, brave.
She trusts me. That’s what this work demands—faith in others. Maybe life does, too.
I return to my office, thinking of how scared Erin was when she brought Phoebe home from the hospital.
She told me once—quietly, like it was a confession—that the first night, she kept getting up to check Phoebe’s breathing.
I pictured her barefoot in her robe, her hair wet from a rushed shower, Phoebe’s bottle tucked under her arm, the floor scattered with burp cloths—exhausted but always trying.
It occurred to me that parenting, like medicine, is mostly about showing up and doing your best, even when there are no guarantees.
—
Just after six p.m., once we’ve wrapped up our charts and changed clothes in the restroom, Lesli, Greer, and I shut down the clinic and head outside into the cool, clear evening.
Before we can call an Uber, Lesli hails a taxi, giving our cabbie an address.
A few minutes later, we pull up to a random bistro on a nondescript block.
As I pay the driver and we all pile out of the car, Greer eyes the entrance with quiet judgment.
“How did you pick this place?” she asks Lesli. “Have you been here before?”
“No. I just found it on OpenTable.”
Greer arches a perfectly groomed brow. “Let me guess—you filtered to three dollar signs or below.”
Lesli shrugs and laughs. “Guilty.”
It’s the two of them in a nutshell—practicality versus style—while I land somewhere in the middle.
As we walk inside, I’m firmly on Greer’s side. The restaurant has bad lighting, zero ambiance, and a faint smell of bleach.
Greer scans the hostess stand and says, “The menus are laminated. Hard no.”
“Since when is lamination a deal-breaker?” Lesli asks.
Greer ignores her, nodding toward a middle-aged man eating alone at the bar. “Look at his tinted glasses. He’s giving sex offender.”
“Jeez, Greer!” I laugh. “Give the guy a break.”
“Yeah, this place is fine,” Lesli says.
“I can tell you right now, sister—the martinis will not be fine,” Greer says.
“Vodka’s vodka,” Lesli says.
“Sorry. No can do,” Greer says, already heading for the door. “Life’s too short for mediocre martinis.”
Lesli and I exchange an amused look, then follow Greer as she scrolls on her phone.
By the time we’re back on the sidewalk, Greer has summoned an Uber.
“Where to?” I say.
“Dear Irving,” Greer says. “Rooftop at the Aliz Hotel.”
“Are we dressed for that?” Lesli asks, glancing down at her light-wash jeans and floral top.
“I am,” Greer says, smiling and eyeing Lesli’s feet. “Let’s just hope clogs are allowed.”
—
A few minutes later, we’re stepping into a glam Art Deco bar with mirrored walls and a view of the Empire State Building. The room thrums with conversation and the soft clink of glass.
A chic hostess leads us to a table. We pass a woman with a loud, raspy laugh. Her head is tipped back, her drink raised midair. She sounds like Erin—that same bright energy spilling onto everyone around her.
I pull myself back to the present as we settle into plush velvet seating. A waiter appears who looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ.
“Sparkling or still?” he asks.
“Sparkling,” Greer says.
“Anything else to drink?”
“I’d love a Belvedere martini—dirty, extra-cold, blue cheese olives,” Greer says.
I copy her order while Lesli opts for a gin martini with a twist.
When our drinks arrive, Greer raises her glass. “To Lesli—may your martinis be arctic and your copays prompt!”
We laugh and clink glasses.
For the next few minutes, our conversation is light and easy. Lesli asks Greer about her date over the weekend.
“Promising—until he slid the check to midfield and said, ‘Do you want to go halfsies?’ ”
“I thought you were a feminist,” I say.
“The bigger problem was his use of ‘halfsies.’ ”
Lesli and I crack up.
“That and his micro-dick,” Greer says with a smirk.
“You slept with him after he made you go halfsies?” I ask, still laughing.
“I slept with him after I told him I did not, in fact, want to go halfsies.” Greer pivots, her expression turning serious. “So, Billie. How did your weekend go?”
“It went okay,” I say.
“It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about it,” Lesli says.
“It’s fine. I can talk about it.”
Everything spills out.
“Wow,” Greer says when I’m finished. “You’re actually thinking about leaving us?”
“That’s your first question?” Lesli says.
“Sorry. You’re right,” Greer says, nodding. “That was selfish.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I need honesty.”
“If you want more honesty—I think this is a dreadful idea,” Greer says.
“A dreadful idea to take care of a child who just lost her mom?” Lesli shoots back.
“A dreadful idea to move to Wisconsin.” She turns to me. “Your life is here. You’ve poured your heart and soul into our clinic.”
“I know,” I say. “And I know I’d be leaving you guys in a bind. But there’s a lot I could do from Wisconsin.”
“Such as?” Greer says.
“Plenty. ACOG guidelines allow telehealth. I could manage consults and cycles remotely. Counseling, treatment plans, med adjustments. The whole front end.”
“I guess,” Greer says, looking skeptical. “But egg retrievals?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I could fly in for procedures, maybe once a month. Mick could take care of Phoebe while I’m gone.”
Lesli nods. “That could work.”
“Fine. But what about Dean?” Greer says.
“There’s plenty of trauma in Milwaukee,” I say.
“Yes, he could find work. But he’s a New Yorker, through and through. His idea of the boonies is Brooklyn.”
“I know,” I say. “And that part scares me.”
“It should,” Greer says.
Lesli shoots her a look.
“She said she wanted honesty!” Greer says. “And my honest opinion is that Mick should have custody. Sole custody. He already lives there, and he’s willing and able to do it. Problem solved.”
“Yes, he could do it,” I say. “And he’d be wonderful. But Phoebe lost her mother—my closest childhood friend—not her father.”
“Billie, c’mon. You’d still be in the picture. You could go there for five-day blocks,” Greer says. “I just think you need to think long and hard before you uproot two lives—especially since you’re not even married yet.”
I turn to Lesli. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s an impossibly hard choice,” she says. “I also think you need to trust your compass. You’ll find the right answer. Whatever you choose, we’ll build around it.”
“Yes,” Greer says. “Of course we will.”
“Thank you,” I say, thinking of how much I’d miss them—the quiet moments in the staff kitchen, our Saturday walks, our martini toasts.
My gaze drifts out the window to the Empire State Building, glowing in the dark.
—
I get home just after ten. As I step into my apartment, the blue glare of a laptop spills across the living room. I look over and see Dean on the sofa in sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“You’re still up?” I say, knowing it’s past his bedtime.
“I wanted to see you.”
I slip off my shoes and cross the room, sitting next to him and tucking in close.
“How was dinner?” he asks.
“It was nice. We managed to get Lesli tipsy—so mission accomplished.”
He smiles. “And Greer?”
“She’s good. Just rotating through Raya matches like it’s her fellowship.”
“That girl will never settle down,” he says with a laugh.
We sit in silence for a moment.
“So how was your day?” I ask.
“Let’s see…two GSWs before lunch. But the headliner was a rebar skewering.”
“Ugh. What happened?”
“A construction guy dropped two stories—steel rod went through his clavicle. We had to hacksaw it in three spots just to clear the CT gantry.”
“Shit.” I wince. “Did he make it?”
“Yeah. He’s in the ICU with a chest tube and a mile of vascular repairs. But so far, so good.”
“Nice work,” I say.
He looks at me, serious. “Did you discuss the custody stuff with your friends?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Lesli was supportive. Greer was wary.”
“Wary how?”
“She doesn’t think we should move there. She thinks Mick should do it since he’s already there.”
“That’s crossed my mind, too,” he says. “On paper, it makes sense.”
“Oh?” I ask. “Did you change your mind?”
“Not at all. I’m in for whatever you decide.” He gestures toward his laptop. “I was just doing some research—”
“Research on what?”
“Hospitals. Froedtert looks solid.”
“Yeah. It’s a Level I trauma center with strong academic ties.”
“It doesn’t have the history or gravitas of Bellevue, but if you judge by Vizient or CMS, Froedtert probably comes out ahead. Smaller catchment, but the outcomes speak.”
“Wow,” I say, staring into his eyes. “You really are serious.”
“When have you ever known me to be anything else?”
“True.” I smile.
“It wouldn’t be a walk in the park. Credentialing could take a few months and I’d lose seniority. Nights could ramp up.” He pauses. “But we’re getting married, Billie. Where you go, I go.”
“Thank you, Dean,” I say.
Underneath the gratitude, a small fear thrums: What if he resents me later?
“Let’s just keep thinking it over for a couple weeks,” I say. “Until the spelling bee.”
“Okay, baby,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “About that.”
I meet his gaze.
“I called Bobby,” he says. “I told him I can’t make the wedding.”
“Dean,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s the right thing,” he says, his voice low but resolute. “I shouldn’t have let you go to Erin’s funeral alone. I’ll always regret that. It’s time I met this little girl.”
I stare into his eyes, overwhelmed. “You’re going to love her.”
“I know I will.”
“And she’s going to love you,” I say.