Inconceivable! (39 page)

“Hatty, does the name Leisel de Vries sound familiar to you?”

I thought for a moment. I’d met so many people since John and I had been together. I had a hard time keeping track of names, though I was pretty good at recognizing faces.

“I don’t know. Should it?”

“The Royal Guard arrested her last night. They think she’s involved in the bombing. When they questioned her, she told them you had interviewed her when you worked at
The Morning Dispatch
. Is that true?”

Of course. Leisel de Vries was one of the women in Kortrijk. I’d interviewed her during my internship. Her story flooded my mind.

“Yes, that’s right. She told me she and her husband had trouble getting pregnant, and they believed their infertility was somehow related to pollution from the smelter. But why do they think she was involved with the bombing?”

“She and her husband recently had their third unsuccessful in vitro fertilization cycle. They appealed the national healthcare system’s three cycle limit. Two days before the bombing, Leisel received news the appeals board voted to deny their claim,” Cilla said dismissively.

I nearly gagged on her words. Had my failure to follow through on my investigative story led to this? If I’d kept digging and my story had run, maybe Leisel and the others would’ve received some additional financial and medical help from Toulene’s government. The dots might not connect directly, but I felt hugely responsible for Leisel’s desperation. It felt similar to the desperation I felt every time I saw a single pink line on a pregnancy test.

“Hatty, are you alright? You look ill,” John said, coming around the table to me.

“I’m okay.”

“Cilla, do you need anything else from us?”

“No. Just wanted to find out if Leisel’s claims about Hatty interviewing her were true. Hatty, tell me one more time no one else has copies of the work you did on this story.” Cilla sounded uncharacteristically nervous.

“No one has my work.”

We got off the phone and I had to lie down. I’d failed a sister soldier in the fight against infertility.

The black car sat in traffic. We were headed to Dr. Dreesen’s office for a second round of IUI.

“When we get to the office, and you have to go do your thing, take my phone with you.” I handed it to John.

“Why?”

“Watch the last movie I made.”

He pushed the home button and started scrolling.

“Hey! Not now.”

Bernard sat up front with the driver. I didn’t want either one of them to know what I’d done. I reached for the phone, but John was faster. He leaned away from me and hit play.

“I can’t believe my wife is such a bad girl,” he whispered.

“Save it for later,” I hissed. “I just thought you might like some…
inspiration
.” I knew he hated having to go into a room and “perform” on cue.

“This will do nicely. Thank you.” He leaned over, kissed me, and grabbed my breast through my shirt. My eyes darted to the front. Bernard and the driver were looking straight ahead.

I sat on the table in the exam room, waiting for Dr. van Noort to do the in utero insemination. Since our IUI last month, Dr. Dreesen had delivered her baby and was now on maternity leave. So, we put our fate in the hands of young Dr. van Noort, a Dutch man with floppy blond hair. For me, this part of the process was fast and clinical. Otherwise, it was just too weird to think about another man putting my husband’s sperm inside of me.

I didn’t ask John to join me for the painless procedure this time.

Dr. van Noort worked quickly and in a matter of moments, the IUI was done. John came in afterward while I lay horizontal on the table.

“Look at you, Wonder Woman. You can get pregnant without your husband in the room,” John said, stroking my cheek.

He placed his hand on top of the sheet above my abdomen. “C’mon, Baby King. You’ve set the stage for a grand entrance. It’s time.”

“Yes! This is your mother speaking to you. Get your booty in gear, Baby King. You’re late!” I laughed at my own silliness to keep from crying my eyes out.

“Knock, knock.” I peered through a crack in the door.

“Hey! Come in.”

I walked into Tilda’s office in the assembly building, closing the door behind me.

“I’m really sorry to barge in on you like this.” That’s as far as I got before my desperation erupted in hot tears. My lungs demanded air in hiccupped gulps.

Rushing around her desk, Tilda encircled me with her arms.

“I’m sorry. Do you know how much I hate to cry?”

“Shh. Just breathe,” Tilda instructed, squeezing me close to her.

I nodded and she released me. Taking a couple of slow, deep breaths, I pushed my despair into the basement of my heart as I did almost every day. An online post from a high school friend announcing she was pregnant with her second baby―morning sickness again? What a drag!―had released my sorrow from its usual hiding place.

“Aren’t you guys leaving for De Haan today?” She handed me a tissue.

“Tomorrow.”

She let go and gave me a tissue. Wiping my eyes, I confessed: “I have horrible thoughts, you know. This whole infertility thing―it’s not about John. It’s not even about the baby. It’s about me being a failure.”

“You’re not a failure. You can’t beat yourself up over this. It’s not your fault.”

“And I have to keep up a positive front. Even to John. What if this IUI doesn’t work?” A small shriek and then more tears and hiccupping. The possibility of failure weakened any remaining shred of optimism, leaving hopelessness in its place.

Tilda set her hands on my shoulders, shaking me gently. “Then you’ll think of something else. This isn’t the end of the line. You’ve got plenty of time and lots of options. Have you guys talked about adoption?”

“No. I’m open to it, but I have no idea what fresh weirdness that conversation might spawn. If I brought up adoption, John would think I’m admitting defeat. And I’m not.”

“Of course not. Look, go to the beach and relax. When can you test to see if the IUI worked?”

“The day after tomorrow. Will he hate me if I can’t give him children? I have one job, Tilda. One job!” I bit my knuckles to prevent more shrieks and tears.

Tilda hugged me again. “Don’t stress, okay? That’s definitely not good. No one gets pregnant with this kind of pressure hanging over them. It’s going to be fine.”

Yeah, right.
Fine was a faraway country, inaccessible to me.

e walked along the sandy shore in De Haan, bundled up in field jackets and knitted caps. We didn’t resent the cold because it kept the tourists at bay until June and allowed us to walk unnoticed, even on the public beaches.

“Tomorrow’s the day, right?” John kicked a shell with the toe of his sneaker.

“Yep. I’ve got two pregnancy tests in case we don’t believe the first one.”

“Only two? I’m not sure I believe you. I know about the massive stash in your armoire at home. How are you feeling?”

“Good. A little nauseated, I guess.”

“Is that a sign you’re pregnant?”

“I don’t know. I sometimes feel this way when I have my period.” A few days before my period was due, my body tortured me. Every month, it produced what I inevitably misconstrued as early pregnancy symptoms. Sore boobs? Check. Weird cravings? You bet. Lower back pain? Without fail. Even though I knew―KNEW―this happened every month, I still got excited when my breasts became tender and the cavalcade of other pregnancy signs made an appearance. It was a cruel deception I endured cycle after cycle.

I bent over and examined a band of shells embedded in the sand. Most of them were broken with their shiny pink interior facing up.

“I can’t wait to bring our kids here,” I said, lifting a delicate scallop shell, and putting it in the pocket of my jacket.

“Me too.”

“Growing up, we’d go to Destin, Florida every year. We stayed with my aunt, uncle, and four cousins. They had this rambling old house with banged up hardwood floors. We’d stuff the cars and haul to the beach every day. When we were older, my cousin Katie and I were probably sophomores in high school, we promised we’d bring our own kids back to that beach to play together.”

“You will. I promise. You know what I like to think about? I like to imagine how gorgeous our children will be. Thank goodness you’re bringing straight teeth into this family.”