Chapter 5 Lucy
Lucy
There is something wrong with my mind.
Lucy clicked the pencil against the desk.
Yes, yes there is. She smirked, but quickly made an effort to look more serious, not wanting to create any flags for the MMPI exam proctor.
Every so often, he’d scribble something on his clipboard, and she vowed to try to get a good peek at his notes later and see what he wrote.
She checked ‘no’ and moved to the next question.
The surrogacy coordinator was not kidding – this exam was like giving mental birth. The name alone, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, was intimidating enough. Her brain hurt, her fingers were cramping, and she kept thinking each question had a double meaning.
She stretched her hands above her head. The industrial clock in the stuffy room clicked slowly, each second dragging.
She gripped the desk and twisted. Ah … a chorus line of cracks flew up her spine.
Come on, come on, focus. The test was important – one of the last things needed before getting the final stamp of approval to move forward with the embryo implantation.
She needed to buckle down and stop staring at the clock.
It wasn’t even a timed test, so why did she care how long she’d been in this boiler room?
Memories of stressing over cranky-butt Professor Waddle’s English exams flooded her. So many rules for the English language. Using commas to set off conditional clauses, predicates, dangling modifiers—
And … her focus had slipped. Again. She’d clocked nearly ninety minutes by now and was ready to bust out of this joint.
She smoothed the last page against the table and gripped her pencil.
The second she marked down her final answer, she was shooting up from her seat and practically sprinting towards the door.
Freedom! The hallway provided a burst of air-conditioning reprieve.
The fans were probably lowered in the exam room to make people sweat, another devious physiological mind trick to ensure honesty while answering the questions.
She leaned against the wall and fanned her face with her notebook.
A door down the hallway opened. Mason stepped out of the waiting room and into the hall with Drew lagging a few steps behind.
Overachievers. They all took the test at the same time, but just like finals week, the guys had finished in half the time she did.
‘All done?’ Mason’s signature, ultra-starched button-down with a tasteful navy diamond pattern moved with his body like cardboard as he approached. She had no idea how the man sat in an office doing whatever it was civil engineers do without feeling suffocated by luxury polyester and spandex.
‘Finally.’ She pushed herself off the wall. ‘I’m so tired. I’m not going to form a single coherent thought after that exam, and the doc’s going to reject me during our session on account of me being a bumbling idiot.’
‘No, she’s not.’ Drew held out a bag of smoked almonds and a bottle of water. ‘Eat up. We’re about to head into the final quarter.’
‘I cannot believe you’re making a football reference. My dad would be so proud.’ She popped a few almonds in her mouth. ‘How did you answer the question about if you ever feel like swearing? I said yes, but what if they think I have anger issues?’
Drew wrapped his arm around her shoulder and guided her to the office. ‘No one is going to think you have anger issues. I answered yes to that, too.’
She nodded and buried the urge to ask the men how they answered each question. They were so close to the finish line, and if she did something to screw this up for them, she’d never forgive herself.
Mason held the door open, and Lucy stepped into the cosy office with dark green walls and light wood accents.
‘Hi, Lucy. I’m Doctor Nelson. Good to meet you.’ A petite woman with black curly hair and a dusting of grey shook Lucy’s hand, then waved to the couch. ‘Go ahead and take a seat.’
‘We’ll be in the waiting room,’ Mason said, easing the door closed. ‘I confirmed upon check-in that they’ll come get us about halfway through.’
Of course he did.
The large taupe couch with its firm-looking back and slim armrest was not nearly as inviting as the cushy one at the fertility clinic. Lucy sat on the furthest edge and rested the water bottle on the cedar coffee table.
Dr Nelson pulled out a three-ring binder and angled a ballpoint pen over a page. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Lucy, you’re single, correct?’
Seriously, from now on she’s gonna wear a T-shirt emblazoned with this phrase and arrows pointing at her face. She nodded, and the doctor checked a box.
For the next hour, Dr Nelson asked every invasive question possible. Periods, history of mental illness, if she struggled with depression or anxiety. ‘Only when The L Word wasn’t picked up for another season.’ Lucy chuckled.
The doctor did not.
Dr Nelson asked about the worst fight she and Drew ever got in (when he said she couldn’t wear flats with her prom dress), if she had ever witnessed concerning behaviour between Mason and Drew (only when Mason claimed ABBA was superior to Fleetwood Mac), and how she felt when she was ten and her mom passed away.
Okay, that one was hard.
Dr Nelson lowered the clipboard to her lap. ‘Let’s talk about the meaningful relationships you’ve had in your life with women.’
‘Like, women I’ve dated?’ Darn her cheeks, warming as usual.
She wanted to clap her hands, thank the doctor for her time, and moonwalk out of the room without another word.
Lucy’s life skill was chatting – with friends, customers, co-workers.
But talking, really talking, felt about as comfortable as a pap smear.
‘Yes. Partnerships. Any domestic issues, threats, cheating, trust issues?’
‘No, not at all.’ Lucy twisted the cap off her water bottle. ‘I don’t really click, romantically, with anyone.’ She stuck her tongue against her cheek. ‘Wait! I’m not lonely or anything. Do not write that in your little surrogacy Freudian manifesto book there.’
Dr Nelson’s face showed no reaction. ‘Have you ever connected, romantically, with anyone?’
A long moment passed where Lucy thought about stretching the truth.
What would this doctor think when Lucy admitted that no, she hasn’t connected with anyone ever?
Surely, one would think by the time they hit their thirties, this would’ve happened.
And yet … here we are and nada. Zip. Zilch.
‘Honestly, no.’ She thanked the stars that Drew and Mason weren’t here listening to the emotional complexities around her non-existent love life.
‘But if I said that to anyone, they’d look at me like I’m some lonely maiden destined for a life of solitude and a litter of cats, which is totally not true.
First, I hate cats. Second, I have a really full life.
I’ve got Drew, Mason, my dad, my dog. I’m good, really. ’
‘Would you consider yourself asexual?’
Lucy’s head snapped back, and she pointed a thumb at her chest. ‘Me? This girl right here? Heck no. I love sex. Give me all the sex.’ Oh God, she did not just say that.
She’s pretty sure she may shrivel up at the edge of this fancy couch and die from embarrassment.
But her brain was mush – she had only a few cells left after taking that SAT-on-steroids.
Dr Nelson flipped to a new page. ‘Do you fear getting close to women because your mom passed?’
Damn. Lucy didn’t feel like diving into ancient history. Her mom had died twenty-two years ago. Her dad put her in therapy for a year. End of story. ‘No. Of course not. I was a child when my mom died. It barely … affects me.’
Why would she even say that? Her stomach soured at the lie.
Since she was ten, rarely had a day gone by that Lucy hadn’t thought about her mom.
And if a day did pass when she didn’t think of her mom, she practically choked on the guilt.
Sometimes the pain of her mom’s absence cut so deep, she would grab her mom’s old scarf, douse it with Obsession for Women – her mom’s favourite perfume – and sniff it until her nose burned.
Of course her mom’s death affected her – but that didn’t mean Lucy wanted to talk about it.
Nope. No matter how skilled the therapist, they would not extract any more words than were strictly necessary for this assessment.
These memories, these feelings were hers to keep, held close to her heart, protected in an internal time capsule.
No one would ever understand what it had been like for Lucy to lose her hero. Not even Drew.
She crossed her arms. ‘I thought this was to assess my mental stability for carrying a baby for my friends, not about my love life.’
‘This meeting is to assess the entire individual to make sure you have the proper coping mechanisms during this journey, and the right support in place for potential postpartum depression. We want to protect you and the fathers and prevent separation anxiety or regret when handing over the newborn.’
Regret? Not gonna happen. ‘I’ve never wanted children.’
‘Why is that?’
Lucy flashed three fingers. ‘Poop, puke, and more poop.’ Fine, the reasons were deeper than that.
And yes, she was in a therapist’s office, divulging at least some of her deep, dark secrets.
But talking about the fact she lacked the emotional capacity to care, and the amount of nurture it would take to have a child, might be counterintuitive to trying to prove she could squeeze a baby out for her friends.
The doctor studied Lucy. ‘When you’re feeling anxious or overwhelmed, what is your go-to coping mechanism?’
Lucy stared at the window blinds, ran her tongue against the ridges of her teeth. ‘Ah, I guess rewatching my favourite shows, reading, knitting, spending time with my dad. I’m an eighty-year-old wrapped in a thirty-two-year-old body. Just slap a cardigan on me and you wouldn’t know the difference.’