Chapter 28
I tear down Harlan’s Post-it note, grab the pencil, and draw a dollar sign on it. “You’re going to be my eye candy for fundraisers. A hundred dollars for a hug with Hercules.” Turning to him, I hold out the amended paper and plaster on a smile that I hope covers my unease.
He takes a deep breath, the mood in the room shifting to something more serious. “Your wall of ideas is amazing. But I’ve been doing some planning too. I have choices to make about my career.”
I remain quiet, not sure what’s coming next.
“When I consider my future, you’re standing right in the middle of everything.” He offers a small smile, but it’s not one I’ve seen before. This one is a little unsure, or maybe cautious. “I’m wondering if we should talk through some of these options. Think about what life together would be like.”
A terrible combination of exhilaration and fear courses through my nerves. My heart beats wildly in my chest. I knew this moment was inevitable. I just wish I had more time with him before we needed to have this discussion.
He reaches for my hand, concern etched on his face. “If it’s too soon, we don’t have to discuss this now.”
“No, it’s time.” I clear my emotion-clogged throat. “But first, I need to show you something.”
His eyes never leave mine and he nods.
As I pass by, I squeeze his hand for him to follow me into the kitchen. I snag my purse and rummage through it, crinkling Harlan’s Post-it note in the process. When I find what I’m looking for, I draw in a long breath.
Harlan stands on the opposite side of the island, his hands splayed on the marble counter.
“I want a thousand tomorrows with you,” I say, my voice wobbly. I can’t look at him.
In reverence, I run my fingers over the top of the small, fabric-covered accordion folder that’s lived in my purse for years. The pink floral pattern has long since faded, but not the pain represented inside.
My words get stuck in my throat, and it takes unbelievable fortitude to push them out. “But I don’t think I can give you the future you want. The one you deserve.”
His posture stiffens.
With shaking hands, I set down the blue Post-it note. After I release the black tie on the folder, I pull out two items. I turn them to face Harlan’s side of the counter.
“Clayton and Chloe.” His gravelly voice is gentle as his fingers graze the sides.
“I can’t have more babies, Harlan.” A tear falls to the marble as I place my hand over his. “I can’t give you children.”
He draws his eyes from the pictures to my face.
Our stares lock. I want to turn my head and cower at the strain, but I force myself to remain unmoved.
“Are you—” He shifts his weight. “Can we talk about what that means? I mean, are you okay? Are you sick? Or is this because—” He pauses. “I mean, I understand if you’re scared, Meredith. Anyone who’s been through what you’ve been through would be scared.”
His intense energy starts to unravel, and I wait to respond.
Pacing two steps away from me, he shakes his head, then turns and slices a hand through the air. “First. Are you physically okay?”
“I’m healthy, Harlan.” I offer him a watery smile.
“Good.” He releases a relieved breath and nods. “Good.”
I take a shaky inhale and whisper the next strike. “But my doctor advised me not to carry any more babies.”
His head snaps up, and a heart-wrenching understanding dawns on his face.
His pained expression is more than I can endure, and I shift my focus to the folder, praying I don’t have to deliver the final blow. I pick up the abandoned blue Post-it and fold it over, creasing the middle. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harlan rub his hands over his reddened face.
In four strides, he rounds the island and locks me in a frantic embrace.
When I clutch his T-shirt, it’s more out of fear than comfort for him. “I’m sorry I can’t have children with you,” I whisper.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs into my hair. “We can adopt, Meredith. We’ll figure this out, and we’ll adopt.”
At his words, I become wooden.
Pulling back, he cups my face, his eyes filled with concern. “Meredith?”
I exhale and close my eyes. “It’s not as simple as my body not being able to carry a baby.”
He puts gentle pressure on his hold. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
When I comply, his beautiful, confused face comes into focus.
“Because of Clayton and Chloe?” He scans my features as if the answers can be found in my face.
I anchor a hand to the island. “Because of all of them.”
His body jerks back. “All of them? What does that mean, ‘all of them’?”
I turn to the marble, pick up the folder, and pull out the remaining photos. My hands tremble while I lay out each grainy, black-and-white picture one by one. Two rows of three. Each one is separate. A little bit different from the one next to it. Siblings.
Harlan braces a hand on the counter.
“The top row is sonograms.” I point. “The bottom row is embryos in petri dishes.”
He touches the edge of one of them, and his eyes draw up to mine. “What happened, sweetheart?”
This is it. Will he understand?
“The only thing I ever wanted to be was a mom. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. My purpose.” I swallow a lump of sorrow.
“Your purpose.” Harlan directs his words to the pictures of my lost ones.
“Steve and I married and waited a year before trying to get pregnant. After a while, we consulted with a reproductive endocrinologist. He told us our only shot at having a baby was through in vitro fertilization. We saved every penny we had for two years and then returned to the clinic for IVF.” Clearing my throat, I tap the first sonogram on the top row.
“I lost this one at eight weeks.” My finger moves to the second picture.
“Six months later, this one left us at nine weeks.”
Harlan settles a shaky hand on the small of my back and closes the gap between us while we stare at the counter.
My lip quivers. “The twins stayed with us for a trimester,” I can barely say on a scratchy whisper.
He places his fingers on the third sonogram.
I nod. “Then came these two.” While shaking my head, I slide Clayton’s and Chloe’s pictures in between the rows of sonograms and petri dishes. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“Miracles.” Harlan squeezes my waist.
“They were all miracles.” I study the family in front of me. My heart pounds faster with each passing second.
“Tell me about the bottom row.” His quiet question cuts through the tension.
“I couldn’t get them all here.” My eyes fill with tears as I try to control my quivering voice.
He nuzzles my ear. “What does that mean, sweetheart?”
“I had terrible pregnancies. Chloe’s almost did me in.
Six weeks of bed rest at the end to give her more time to grow.
After she was born, the doctor told me carrying another baby would put my life at risk.
” I pick up Harlan’s folded blue Post-it note.
“But we still had embryos.” When I tear off the corner, it floats to the counter.
“After all the money we drained into the IVF process, we couldn’t afford a gestational carrier.
” I rip off another scrap and drop it with the first one.
I repeat the monotonous movements to ward off my angst as I wait for Harlan’s response.
He covers my hands, which halts my nervous movement. “Where are they now, Meredith? The bottom three?”
“Six.” I shred a longer piece when I correct him.
“Each petri dish contains two embryos. There were six more.” My hands tremble.
“We had to let them go.” My shed tears land on the remaining paper.
Shedding. Shredding. Releasing. “Steve and I went to the cryopreservation facility. And we stood by as a staff member removed the containers from their frozen state and laid them in a bin in front of us.” I hiccup and whisper the last words about one of the most difficult days of my life.
“Eight seconds. It only takes eight seconds for them to lose viability.”
Harlan wraps one arm around me and presses his strong hand over the three rows of pictures.
I hold my body stiff. “I couldn’t get them here. I couldn’t fulfill my purpose and get all of them here.” Something in the depth of my gut aches, and I clutch my stomach as I say the next excruciating words. “And I couldn’t even keep the two who made it to us alive.”
Harlan’s grip on me spasms. “Meredith.”
Shaking my head, I step back and pull out of his hold, tears streaming down my face. “If I choose to raise more babies now but let go of my precious six? My brain can’t wrap itself around that option, and my heart wouldn’t be able to endure it.”
He lifts his hand off the pictures and faces me, his glassy eyes troubled. “I understand why you’d be scared. But—”
“I made this decision before I lost Steve and the kids. He wanted to adopt, and I just couldn’t fathom it.
It was all wrapped up in the same category for me.
” My fingers knead the mutilated Post-it.
“Before life was filled with total loss, I came to the realization that I couldn’t do it again. I have limits.”
He runs a hand over his face, ridding his cheeks of tears.
Unable to handle the wounded face in front of me, I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Harlan. But I have limits.”
I release a choppy sigh and focus on the remnants of blue paper as they fall to the marble.
“I would be a wonderful stepmother to your Alex and love her until the day I die.” I brush my pictures and the fragments of the Post-it into a pile.
“I can be the greatest aunt to your nephews.” Cupping my hand, I scoop the heap into my weathered folder.
“But either through a gestational carrier or adoption, I cannot bring any more babies into my family. I cannot have more children with you. Which means I can’t give you your legacy. ”
Harlan paces away, runs his hands through his hair, and turns back to me. “Through it all, how many did you lose?”
Squaring my shoulders, I take a breath. Each IVF attempt used two embryos.
Though we lost them in different ways, the original number of embryos is seared on my heart.
A picture of all of us as a whole family.
“Fourteen. I may not have carried some of them for very long. And not all of the final six would have made it to term—maybe none of them would have. But each of them was mine.” My voice hitches. “Fourteen.”
His anguished expression threatens to destroy me. “After everything you’ve been through, Meredith. All of your loss. How do you keep going?”
“Because even after this, even after all of the loss . . .” I circle the black tie around the portfolio, stare down, and caress the frayed edges. “What’s left over is still my love for them.”