CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, March 27
Amy
Dr. Evelyn Cassidy’s office was more impressive in person than on its sleek website. In the waiting room, Amy leafed through a magazine beside the floor-to-ceiling waterfall while Andrew stared at the far wall, bouncing his knee. It seemed, for a small fortune, the practice fell just short of a guarantee of a pregnancy, evident in the smug smile from the petite blonde seated across from Amy, her phone perched atop the globe of her belly. Amy smiled back, fingering the stitching on the leather armrest. An impostor, noticeably un pregnant.
“Relax, honey,” Andrew murmured, setting a hand atop hers. His hand was everything Andrew was: strong, yet tender. Warm. Supportive, nearly to a fault. She squeezed back, relieved by his capacity for forgiveness. Every marriage has its challenges, she knew. And theirs had been so smooth until that fight, aside from Andrew’s vague aversion to parenthood. That was all this was, a blip. She’d make sure it didn’t happen again.
Amy’s residual guilt over their fight sat, unsettled, in her belly. She hadn’t expected Andrew to take it so hard. The argument felt disingenuous; they weren’t those kinds of people. Andrew’s expression, the primal fear in his eyes, was seared into her mind. That morning, his breathing had started coming in short, desperate bursts before blotches rose on his neck; then he’d slumped to the floor. Her brain had switched tracks when she recognized he was having a panic attack, from fuming spouse into physician mode. She knew he’d been prone to them, but his medication seemed to quell his symptoms, and she’d never witnessed an episode. She guided him through his breaths, asked him to identify something he could hear. Something he could see. Something he could taste. Until he grew still.
Then he’d rushed off to work. Andrew came home that night shell-shocked, worse even than when he’d left. He was jumpy, restless, had spent the weekend wounded. Sullen. Embarrassed, maybe. Certainly hurt. On Saturday, the day before their barbecue, Andrew worked in the yard most of the day. Amy had watched him from the windows, considered him, the way his backward baseball hat made him look like a teenager, the way his T-shirt was pulled by the breadth of his shoulders as he stacked stray palm fronds at the end of the driveway. They had landscapers to do the work, so when dusk fell and Andrew came inside, his shirt soaked with sweat, Amy couldn’t help but think he’d been avoiding her.
And before their barbecue, Amy had basked in relief at his strong body wrapped around hers.
Dr. Cassidy’s nurse guided them to an exam room, where Amy was instructed to change into a flimsy gown. Andrew seated himself in a chair in the corner, clutching her handbag as if he feared someone was going to snatch it. He scrambled to be helpful: accepted her jeans, her top, folded them on his lap, asked if she was warm enough. The white paper crackled when Amy lowered herself onto the exam table, and they fell silent. Andrew’s eyes darted around the room, at the diagrams of fetal development, a scale model of female reproductive organs, pamphlets touting fertility drugs. Her gown fell open at the back, letting the chill of the air-conditioning creep across her bare skin. She tugged it over her shoulder. Why did doctors always make patients wait so long? She swung her feet, clad in white socks.
A rap on the door preceded Dr. Cassidy’s entrance. “Welcome Amy, Andrew,” the doctor crooned. Andrew sat straight, cleared his throat.
Dr. Cassidy instructed Amy to settle on her back. Her palms were sticky when they brushed the paper beneath her. “How long have you been off birth control?” Dr. Cassidy asked.
It was all there, detailed in her chart, but Amy blew a steadying breath. “One year.”
In those twelve months, six nurses at Amy’s hospital had gotten pregnant. They’d waddled through the halls and chatted together at the nurses’ station. They’d thrown six separate baby showers, and while Amy had scraped a pink buttercream flower off a slice of sheet cake, a nagging concern grew inside her. Each month became a roller coaster of hope, disappointment, and simmering resentment at Andrew’s inexplicable but palpable relief when her period came. Before either of them had tested out the I word that buzzed between them, infertility , Andrew had suggested Amy attend a meeting, some type of support group, but she had imagined a circle of teary-eyed women sipping watery coffee from Styrofoam cups, taking turns sharing heartbreaking stories of miscarriages, cancer diagnoses, rare genetic glitches. When it was her turn, she’d say , I’m Amy. I’ve never lost a baby. I’ve just never had one to begin with. In their expectant eyes they’d see her for the impostor she was. She had resolved to handle it on her own.
Amy tilted her head to catch a glimpse of the monitor above her shoulder, which glowed in tones of red, yellow, and orange. By the looks of the screen, her uterus was on fire. No wonder nothing can grow in there, she thought darkly.
Dr. Cassidy’s practiced smile spread across her face. “Try to relax.”
That word again. It started to grate on her. She should have frozen her eggs when she’d gotten into medical school, she conceded. Her mother had nearly begged her, and though the advice carried the weight of experience, Amy had brushed it aside, as children do. Her parents had emigrated from China when they were young and were now two of the most well-respected doctors in Pasadena, California. Her father was a cardiologist, her mother a dermatologist, and through the eyes of their only child, their union seemed simple and balanced. In their sun-drenched home, Amy had watched her parents rise each day, go through the motions of the morning, don their white coats, peck each other on the lips, and take each day in stride.
As the studious daughter of two doctors, Amy was aware at an early age she was a living stereotype, and she’d openly—almost defiantly—embraced this identity. How does it all come so easily to you, Amy? She’d heard the line from her friends and classmates so many times it began to itch under her skin like a rash. But she sat down each day in the library and unpacked her case of highlighters. She made rainbow stacks of sticky notes next to her textbooks. It wasn’t easy, any of it; it took preparation and organization. A plan, carefully executed. Small, deliberate steps led her where she needed to go.
She’d imagined her parents’ delight when she announced her intention to pursue trauma surgery, but instead, her mother’s face had fallen. “You won’t have time for a family, Amy.” Elena had squeezed Amy’s hand across the table. “It’s too much stress. You need to choose which is more important to you.”
This new challenge had struck a particular nerve in Amy. She’d leaned over her lab table and sutured her grape with precision while her classmates watched with burning envy. Amy had had no desire to prescribe pimple cream all day like her mother did; she’d craved the type of heart-pounding surgery that danced the line between life and death. The fact that she could sway fate, pull a person from the brink of nonexistence, had drawn her in like an addiction. She could help people and raise her family while she did it. Two pillars, balanced and equal.
Dr. Cassidy weaved her gloved fingers together. “I agree with your OB: there are no physical issues preventing you from becoming pregnant.” Her tone, meant to sound soothing, was laced with a veil of condescension. “We still have a lot of options at this point—”
Amy propped herself up. “I’d like to start preparations for IVF.”
Andrew’s chair creaked as he crossed his legs.
Dr. Cassidy’s tight expression made it clear she didn’t like being interrupted.
“I’m forty. Time isn’t in my favor,” Amy added.
“I understand you’re eager.” Dr. Cassidy peeled her gloves off and tossed them in the stainless-steel trash can by the door. “But it’s only been a year. You’re ovulating normally. There’s nothing in either of your test results to indicate you’re not able to conceive naturally. I recommend we begin with less invasive steps before we resort to IVF, which is the most aggressive—not to mention the most expensive—option.” A small laugh, a chuckle, really, a sound that boiled Amy’s patience like lava. The same chuckle of condescension she’d encountered countless times during her education, then her career, unstanched by her own white coat.
When they rolled out of the parking garage into lunch hour gridlock, Amy’s anger burst over the dam of her control, and she gripped the steering wheel. “Can you believe the way she completely blew me off, like I’m stupid, like I have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“I know, sweetheart,” Andrew soothed. Was he placating her? “But the good news is, there’s nothing wrong with either one of us.”
That was exactly the problem, the infuriating thing about the entire visit: how routine it was. There were no answers. No major breakthrough. There was nothing wrong, nothing to diagnose.
“These things take time—”
“Time is the one thing I don’t have, and you know that,” Amy snapped. Wind rushed past the windows. “My mom’s cancer is stage four.”
Andrew’s face paled. “I realize that. But her doctors are confident the treatment will buy her months. Years, even. Maybe you should consider pulling back at work. None of this is good for your stress levels.”
Amy had been in her position for only three weeks, but the job swept her in like a riptide, and nothing in her experience had sufficiently prepared her for how difficult, how physically and emotionally draining trauma would be. Her previous hospital saw a quarter of the patients Boca General did. Now she hardly had time to breathe. Every shift ran long, sometimes double her scheduled time. The hospital paid no mind to the rhythm of the world outside its walls. When she tried to sleep, racing images of bloody gloves and endless white hallways circled her mind. Amy often reminded herself why she’d taken the job: that she felt needed, that she was making a difference. But her colleagues were right: she never forgot a patient she lost. Each one’s name stuck to her like bloodstains on her scrubs. But her job was a part of her, a pillar, as much as motherhood was a pillar, not yet come to fruition. “I’m not stepping down. I worked for years to get this job at this hospital because of the trauma center.”
“You worked sixty-hour weeks in your last position,” Andrew said. “Now you’re required to take on night shifts, too. You’re never home. It might be too much. Something has to give.” His words buzzed inside the car like an angry beehive.
Amy’s mother had found the lump in her breast six months after Amy and Andrew were married. Three doctors in the family and there was nothing any of them could do. Andrew didn’t grasp what it meant to create a being that was hers , that was his , from nothing, as if it were magic. Her grandparents and parents had worked hard to make a country that wasn’t their own feel like home, had fought against all odds. Amy had tried to explain how much it meant to her to give her mother a chance to see their dedication embodied in the eyes of a child, carrying little pieces of each of their stories forward. The pressure had doubled with the arrival of Amy’s fortieth birthday.
Amy could give her mother this . She needed this.
“Tell me what this is all about, Andrew. Tell me why you’re so scared to do this with me.”
“I’m not scared.” But his voice said the opposite. His shoulders sagged. “You know my reservations. And, sweetheart, pregnancy is dangerous. The side effects of IVF—”
“I know all about the side effects of IVF. And pregnancy. I know the risks.”
Andrew faced the window, defeated. Amy didn’t have to see his expression to know a shadow had passed behind his eyes, the way it did when he retreated inside himself. Sometimes she thought it was his medication that left his words hanging in the air when she needed him to speak his mind. Her world was clinical, her why s answered with tests, with evidence. This unanswered why itched in her. Why didn’t her husband tell her what scared him so badly?
Andrew was everything Amy could’ve wanted in a partner: he was responsible and kind. Playful smile. Good genes, she’d thought the first time she’d peeled off his shirt, then felt guilty for being superficial. Though she’d never depended on anyone, at six-two Andrew stood a full foot taller than she did, and when she came home from a grueling day, she craved his strong arms around her. Andrew’s years of bachelorhood had taught him well, and he dutifully managed domestic tasks without complaint. He cooked meals and loaded and unloaded the dishwasher. He stripped the sheets every Sunday and ran them through the wash. He greeted her each day with a hot meal and a glass of wine.
Amy never saw any fault in her family’s lack of physical affection, but Andrew reached out to her at idle moments, stroking her arm while they read in bed or caressing her hair as they watched TV. She craved this, too, as if he were extracting the stress from her body. Andrew’s presence was the antidote to the chaos of her job.
But as her frustration with their situation bloomed, Andrew’s calm demeanor had started to grate on her. He took each day in stride. He ran each morning. He wiped water spots from glasses before putting them away and polished the marble countertops. Was she being unreasonable for not entertaining his desire to pursue adoption? All she wanted was what came so easily to others: the choice.
“Can we just take a break from all this?” Andrew asked. “A breather? A month or two until we settle in the new house, and into your job?”
She wanted to snap at him. But a seeping thought crept into Amy’s mind: What if her mother and Andrew were right—she wasn’t tough enough for the job, and the stress was affecting her body in ways she couldn’t control, while driving her husband away? It was the first time she’d ever doubted herself. Could she sustain the career she’d chosen, nurture her marriage and be a good mother, or even be a mother at all? “I’ll think about it.”
Relief painted his face. Amy pulled over to the curb in front of Andrew’s office, and he leaned over to peck her on the cheek and said, “Have a good shift. I’ll see you in the morning.” He closed the door, and Amy watched his back. This wasn’t how it was going to be between them, she decided, watching him move farther away from her until he disappeared from her sight. She was going to fix this.