Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber
didn’t worry my mother. She was six months pregnant with my brother before she got around to marrying my father. It was the worst mistake of her life, she claims, but that didn’t stop her from having me.”
“A child can’t be blamed for the circumstances of his or her birth,” Carol said.
“Yeah, well, that’s not the way I heard it.” Alix jerked viciously on the ball of yarn. “It’s no big deal. I survived.”
“Surely a lovely young woman like you will marry one day,” Jacqueline said, directing the comment at me.
Jacqueline had a tendency to catch me off guard once in a while. Only moments earlier she’d expressed compassion and understanding for Carol, and her comment about me being lovely—well, that was an unexpected compliment.
“Thank you, but …” I let the rest fade. I’d rather not reveal the details of my life if I can help it.
“But what?” Carol pressed.
“But—well, I don’t think I’d make a very good wife.”
“Why not?” Alix again. “You’d sure as hell be a better wife than my mother ever was.”
This conversation was fast becoming uncomfortable. “Husbands have … expectations.”
Alix looked up with a puzzled frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I could see the other two were equally curious. “I’ve already gone through two bouts of cancer. It’s possible that our family has a predisposition to it.”
“Do you have it now?”
“No, thank God, but my older sister had a recent scare.” Thankfully Margaret’s second mammogram had been clear. I’d gone to the doctor’s office with her and given her the support she needed. Afterward she’d invited me to lunch to celebrate the results.
This was the closest I’d felt to my sister since I was a teenager. Perverse as it sounds, I’m grateful for the alarm that initial mammogram caused. For the first time in years, my sister and I had something in common—fear. And for the first time ever, I was the one who had the greater knowledge … and the authority of personal experience.
“Why can’t you get married?” Alix asked.
I sighed. I really didn’t want to get into this. “There’s no guarantee the cancer won’t come back,” I said simply.
I discovered all three women staring at me with blank expressions.
“In case you haven’t noticed, life doesn’t exactly come with guarantees,” Alix said. “I should know about that.”
“If it did, I’d be a mother by now,” Carol added.
“She’s right,” Jacqueline said, gesturing toward Carol.
My sister had been saying the same thing. Our lunch had gone well until she’d mentioned Brad. I hadn’t seen the UPS guy for several days and as far as I was concerned, the question of my dating him was a moot point. After two rejections, I doubted he’d ask me out again. Really, why should he? I’d made it plain that I wasn’t interested.
“I haven’t been on a date in so long, I’m not sure how to act,” I told my friends. It was the truth.
“You just act normal,” Carol said as if that was understood.
“Just be yourself,” Jacqueline threw in. To my astonishment, she drew out her knitting. I’d had the impression earlier that she intended to make her big announcement and leave. I was glad to see her join the others.
“Hey, do you have the hots for some guy?”
Naturally Alix would ask such a question. “Of course not.” My denial was fast and firm. Once again, the heat in my face reflected my embarrassment.
“You do so,” Carol said, watching me. She laughed softly. “All right, give. Who is he?”
I shook my head, refusing to answer. “It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late.” Jacqueline leaned toward me.
“Tell us the name,” Alix encouraged.
They wouldn’t drop the matter and I could think of nothing to say or do that would take the conversation elsewhere.
“Come on, Lydia,” Alix insisted again. “Tell us.”
I hesitated, then with a deep sigh told them about Brad. “He won’t ask me out again,” I said when I’d finished.
“Probably not,” Alix agreed. “What you have to do now is ask him out.”
Both Jacqueline and Carol nodded. It seemed Brad had won Margaret to his side and now my entire knitting class, too.
20
CHAPTER
CAROL GIRARD
Sunday night before the IVF procedure, Carol waited until she was sure Doug had fallen asleep. When she heard the heavy, even cadence of his breathing, she slipped out of bed and crept silently into the living room.
She loved the view of Puget Sound at night. From her living room window, she could see the dark, shimmering water. Beyond West Seattle was Vashon Island and the lights of the Kitsap Peninsula.
Sinking into her favorite chair, she dropped her head back and ordered her mind and her body to relax. She couldn’t go into this procedure tense; she had to will her body to accept the fertilized eggs, to accept the baby or babies she yearned for.
She didn’t understand what was happening to her. If she wanted a child so much, then why did her body reject pregnancy after pregnancy? Nothing added up, nothing made sense, no matter how often she tried to analyze the situation.
Her own body had become her worst enemy, it seemed; her womb had betrayed her in the most fundamental way, by denying her the ability to reproduce. She was fast approaching a time when her age would make it impossible to conceive. Already her egg production had started to fall off.
While outwardly everyone was sympathetic, Carol knew her friends were bored with the subject. She also knew how badly her mother wanted grandchildren. All her mother’s friends carried around purseloads of pictures of their grandkids, while her own mother sat by, silent and depressed. Neither Carol nor Rick had given her bragging rights. She said it jokingly, but Carol felt her mother’s disappointment as keenly as she felt her own.
To this point, Doug’s parents had been supportive and encouraging, but they too were weary of waiting. Thankfully, his younger sister had made them grandparents twice over, but his father was hoping for a grandson to carry on the family name. The pressure wasn’t explicit but it was there and Carol nearly suffocated under the weight of it.
Tears filled her eyes. Never in all her life had she wept as much as she had in these last few years. Before long, she had a thick wad of tissues in her hand.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. She’d submitted to every therapy available and ingested a pharmacy full of drugs. All those drugs. God only knew what she’d done to her body or what risks she’d taken, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing mattered except having a baby. She was willing to swallow anything, inject her stomach with drugs, volunteer for any experimental program, if there was even the slightest possibility it would help her get pregnant—and stay pregnant.
“What are you doing out here?” Doug came into the room wearing striped pajama bottoms and no top; it was how he always slept. He sat down across from her. “What’s the matter? Can’t you sleep?”
Afraid that he might hear the tears in her voice, she shook her head.
He didn’t say anything and they sat together in silence. After a few minutes, her husband stood up and stretched out his arm to her and