We Are Us

Chapter 38 New York City

Eleven months later

I step out of the shower and wipe the foggy mirror with my towel. Lifting my hands to my breasts, I eye their reflection critically. Are my nipples darker, even just slightly? Do they look bigger?

I think so… yes?

Shuttering my stare, I weigh them within my palms like fruit at a farmers market. Do they feel heavy? Sore? “Please,” I whisper into the steamy, but otherwise empty, room. “Please let this be real.”

I feel pregnant. Definitely.

It’s been nearly a year since I flushed my birth control pills down the toilet. But every month, before the devastating pink tinge of the toilet paper takes away my hope, my excitement, I always feel pregnant.

When my period came that first month, and then the second and third, I’d been disappointed, but chalked it off to the lingering contraceptive chemicals still residing in my body, like unwanted houseguests. I bought a Vitamix and began blending smoothies bursting with kale and antioxidant-rich berries every morning. I switched from coffee to green tea. Caffeine free, of course. I joined a yoga studio.

I put an end to binging and purging, too. It hasn’t been easy. There are times when I gnaw on ice chips just to satisfy the urge. But health has become my priority, not solely chasing after a number on a scale.

I didn’t become pregnant the fourth or fifth months either. But again, I didn’t think too much of it because of what happened with Tucker’s parents. After apparently suffering a massive stroke while driving down the highway, Hewitt crashed into a construction zone. Tucker’s mother was in the passenger seat. Cecelia died instantly, and his father died in the hospital two days later.

As their sole child and heir, Tucker instantly became the public face of Stockton Capital. He had to project confidence and calm, conveying to employees and clients that it was business as usual at the firm. I stepped in to plan the funeral service and memorial, familiarizing myself with the Stockton Family Foundation and their many charitable obligations.

But more months have slipped by, and I’m still not pregnant.

There are a few tests beneath the sink. I go so far as to open up the cabinet doors and check. Yes. There they are, a neat little stack of boxes. All three are digital, the rectangular indicator box taking away the guesswork of straight lines or plus signs. Either Pregnant, or Not Pregnant.

Should I? Maybe this time…

But instead of a positive test result, I envision only a boldfaced Not Pregnant. Again.

I turn away, deciding that, at least this morning, the frustration of not knowing is infinitely better than the crushing disappointment of seeing my failure spelled out in black and white. I can wait. Besides, I’m trying out a meditation class this morning that I overheard a woman in the elevator raving about—a woman with a swollen stomach.

I don’t have a job to rush to anymore. I took a leave of absence when Tucker’s parents died and had only been back a few weeks when Tucker got angry with me, pointing out that work stress could prevent me from getting pregnant. At first, I ignored him, thinking he was picking a fight with me as some kind of displaced grief over his parents. When that didn’t succeed, I tried explaining. My job was important to me. I loved knowing I was making a difference in the lives of kids who had grown up just as I had—not knowing who to trust, feeling unloved and abandoned. Like they didn’t matter.

“What about our kids?” he’d shot back angrily. “When are you going to make them a priority?”

“Let’s at least put a pin in it until I get pregnant.”

“A pin? A fucking pin? How long do you want to wait— No. How long are you going to make me wait for a family?” The unspoken was obvious. Losing both his parents in one fell swoop had rocked Tucker’s world. He was untethered, and desperate for me to replace the family he’d lost.

I knew I was fighting a losing battle, but I wasn’t ready to capitulate so quickly. I gave it another try. “Tucker, you know the kind of work I’m doing with TeenCharter. Don’t you remember the kids we helped? Please, don’t ask me to—”

“What I remember about TeenCharter is you. You were the reason I got involved, you were the reason I stuck with it. Those kids aren’t my concern. I want kids of my own.”

Tucker’s caring, playful attitude with the at-risk teens was the reason I gave Tucker a second chance, and I chose to believe it was grief making him sound so heartless. “I do, too.”

“Then prove it. Put your pin in TeenCharter and focus on me. On us, and the family we both want.”

I didn’t want to back down. But… was it really such a big ask to take a step back, temporarily? As much as I loved my work, I hated the strain it was putting on my marriage. It was obvious that Tucker needed me now, more than ever. After all he’d done for me, why wouldn’t I do this for him? Shouldn’t he and our future children be my sole focus?

But now, month after month of not becoming pregnant is a different kind of strain.

Every time I look into Tucker’s eyes, knowing I’ve failed him, that my body has failed us both, is torture. Each pregnant belly I see is an accusation pointed my way. Cherubic infants and tiny toddlers are indictments of my worth.

There are days when it’s hard to leave the apartment at all.

My phone rings with an unfamiliar number as I’m choking down a kale and avocado smoothie. I almost let it go straight to voice mail, pulled by the sudden impulse to take a test after all. Maybe I’ve miscalculated, maybe this is the month.

But I force my thumb over the screen. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line is crisp, efficient. “Mrs. Stockton?”

“Yes?” I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear as I rinse out the blender.

“This is Manhattan Fertility Solutions. You have an appointment with us next month?”

Next month will mark a full year of trying, and failing, to conceive. I made the appointment weeks ago, hoping I would already be pregnant by then. “Yes.”

“The doctor will be attending a conference overseas regarding a recent breakthrough. I’m rescheduling all of her appointments that week. We have an opening this afternoon, are you available?”

This afternoon. Today.

No, it’s too soon. It hasn’t been a full year. I haven’t even told Tucker that I’ve sought professional help. Haven’t decided whether to tell him about it unless absolutely necessary, actually. But—how can I say no? “Sure. Yes, of course.”

“All right, we’ll see you at two o’clock.”

I hang up and rush to my meditation class, although I probably shouldn’t have bothered. My mind is a chaotic mess. Should I interrupt Tucker at work to tell him about my appointment? He hates when I call him during office hours, says he can’t flip back and forth between hard-edged rainmaker to loving spouse at the drop of a hat.

But… shouldn’t he know the effort I’m putting into creating our little family?

Ultimately, I decide against it. This is probably just an exploratory meeting. There’s no reason to get Tucker involved. Yet, anyway.

I arrive at Manhattan Fertility Solutions early to fill out paperwork, plowing through the stack of forms secured to a clipboard as if I am being timed.

Once I hand everything back to the receptionist who, disappointingly, makes no comment on my remarkable form-filling prowess, I take a minute to look around. The designer could have been hired by Tucker’s mother. Mid-century modern meets sanitarium. Neutral walls. White leather. Chrome and glass tables with sharp edges. Not child friendly in the slightest. And, oddly enough, there are no pictures of babies anywhere. Instead, the art is abstract and oversized, like enormous Rorschach inkblots on a white canvas. Nothing to indicate that this is a place that caters that in medical miracles. It could have been the waiting room of a psychiatrist, or the lobby of a venture capital firm. I feel cheated, craving visual proof of their successes.