Inconceivable! (31 page)

ith as much subtlety as possible, I adjusted my body in the hard wooden pew at the front of the church. Something along the back zipper of my dress poked mercilessly into my flesh.

“Weddings make you uncomfortable, Mrs. Meinrad?” John whispered and my hand went to my eyebrows for my patented “I’m stressed” gesture.

“Of course not. Something’s poking me back there.”

“Hey, that’s my job.” He pushed my hem up an inch and squeezed my thigh.

The pipe organ lurched into a melodic chord progression, and the entire church stood. John tried to adjust my dress to avert the poking. As he jiggled and pulled the area around the zipper, the hem of my dress slid up.

“Careful,” I whispered. All we needed was a tabloid report about me flashing the congregation at my brother-in-law’s wedding.

By the time Adela passed our pew with her chin slightly lifted, the sharp poking was gone.

John moved from our spot in the front row to the altar where he stood by his brother.

During the ceremony, the vicar led Henri and Adela through the vows and other rituals. St. Andrew’s Cathedral was smaller than St. Joseph’s where John and I exchanged vows, but it was a stunning venue with an interior that boasted an airy palette of white, mint green, and pink.

Henri and Adela looked at ease as the vicar prayed over the communion elements. He had no knowledge of the circumstances that led the couple to his altar. And while the tabloids had snarked on and on about how a pregnancy scare spurred me and John to get married post haste, they made no such allegations about Henri and Adela.

A young boy stood and began singing Ave Maria.

Ave Maria

Gratia plena

Maria, gratia plena

Ave, ave dominus

Dominus tecum

Benedicta tu in mulieribus

Et benedictus fructus ventris

tuae, Jesus.

I translated the words in my head, remembering them from my high school choir days: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

The fruit of Adela’s womb remained a secret thanks in part to the sweeping gown she wore. It swallowed her small, muscular frame, but it did the job of concealing even the tiniest trace of a belly swell.

The thought of the baby inside her sparked an unexpected pang of jealousy. My period had arrived Friday, right on schedule. Aside from being a few days late in July, I’d had regular 28-day cycles. Now that it was August, we’d had eight straight months of unprotected sex. What the heck was going on?

Seeing Adela so radiant and imagining the joy that would literally come from her body, a beautiful blending of her DNA with Henri’s, I felt strongly for the first time that I was ready, perhaps even eager, to get pregnant.

Riding in the car toward Belvoir for the reception, I whispered to John, “I want to have your baby.” I smiled, realizing those were the lyrics from the silly song I sang at Kamikaze Karaoke the night we met.

He smiled back and squeezed my hand. “I know.”

John came to bed at 1:00 a.m. We were exhausted from the wedding, reception, and after-party. I slid out from under the covers when I heard him snoring. I removed my laptop from its case and crept into the den. I searched words like “infertility,” “trouble getting pregnant,” and “trying to conceive.”

I cringed as I read about how endometriosis and polycystic ovarian syndrome hinder a woman’s ability to get pregnant. Then I poured over websites featuring treatments with scary names like ovarian drilling. The acronyms also made my head spin. On the infertility discussion boards, the women used them in their posts: DH doesn’t want another IUI. He thinks we won’t get a BFP until we do IVF.

I found the meaning of each set of letters and translated: Dear Husband doesn’t want another In Utero Insemination. He thinks we won’t get a Big Fat Positive until we do In Vitro Fertilization.

I read about one woman who was on her eighth in vitro fertilization cycle. Eighth! Another woman was preparing for some kind of exploratory surgery to find out why she couldn’t get pregnant. I also saw the story of a couple struggling with the husband’s problem: he didn’t have any sperm in his ejaculate.

What I read overwhelmed me and fanned my fears. A headache threatened, so I shut the laptop and went back to bed.

he taper candles flickered, sending shadows dancing across John’s handsome features. We gave Brigitta, our chef, the night off and I cooked dinner. At my request, John dismissed the rest of the staff for the evening. The requisite number of royal guards stood outside Langbroek Palace. For us, this was being left alone. I needed to discuss an issue with him that caused me tremendous anxiety, and didn’t want to risk anyone, not even staff, overhearing us.

One of the perks that came with “couple time” was John’s harp playing. The instrument sat unused in a corner most of the time. But after Brigitta left, I cooked and he strummed, creating a beautiful soundtrack for my preparation of the pasta.

Now that we were finishing our meal, nervousness gnawed at my stomach.

“So, I was reading some stuff online, and I think I need to buy a thermometer.” I tried to sound casual.

“A thermometer? Are you feeling ill?” He wrinkled his brow in concern.

“No. I feel fine. Actually, I don’t feel fine. What I mean is I’m not sick, but I’m worried.”

“What do you have to worry about, love?”

“I’m concerned I haven’t gotten pregnant yet.” There. I’d said it, despite the growing tightness in my chest. Why did this discussion make me feel so weird?

“Are you trying to tell me you want to have more sex?” His eyes lit up and he raised his eyebrows.

“I’m always up for more sex. But don’t you think it’s odd I’ve been off the pill for nine months and we haven’t had any luck getting pregnant? I thought I might get a thermometer and track my basal body temperature.”

After multiple adventures into the depths of online infertility discussion sites, I knew it was time to begin monitoring my ovulation in this way.

“I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds extreme. I don’t think there’s anything wrong, but if it would make you feel better, go see Dr. Cloutier.”

Rather than comforting me, the suggestion I see the royal family’s physician filled me with panic. Worry-filled thoughts niggled my mind.

“Okay. I’ll ask Astrid to make an appointment. Do you want to come?”

John pulled out his phone and didn’t look up. “If you want. But I can’t imagine he’ll have much to say to me. I’m going to Belvoir tomorrow at nine for a briefing on the protests at the smelter. I’ll be gone until after lunch.”

“Okay.” Disappointment filled my chest. I wanted him to show support by going with me to see Dr. Cloutier. I disliked the Meinrad family’s physician. He was kind, but emotionally removed.

I was glad to hear John was headed to Belvoir in the morning.
That gives me plenty of time to creep on the discussion boards and obsess over how to get pregnant.

The harsh paper crinkled noisily under my bottom as I scooted toward the end of the exam table. A thin white sheet covered me below the waist and draped over the sides of the table to the floor.

“That’s good. You can stop there, Duchess,” Dr. Cloutier said with his thick French accent. He refused to call me Hatty despite my request that he use my first name. Being in such a compromising position, legs propped and parted, made me realize how little titles mattered. When Dr. Cloutier looked at so many women
down there
, could he really tell us apart? I doubted it.