Let’s make a baby,
Matthias said.
Sure,
she said.
Let’s.
It was raining in Paris in June. They were looking out the window, sipping their coffee. Anna laughed at the surprise on his face.
Really?
Really.
It was an easy yes. Of course she would make a baby with him.
After Camil she had decided she would not have children of her own. She had seen what his death had done to Maman. So no. No children, bedtime stories, lullabies, treasure hunts. No nightmare banishing, birthday cakes, no Sunday morning cartoons. It was too messy, it hurt too much.
Until she had met Matthias.
Let’s make a baby.
Yes.
How many babies would you like?
Two. Two boys. Or two girls. Or one of each. I don’t care.
Whatever the sex, we will teach them to ski. Oh! And play tennis! And the piano!
Ballet classes for the girls, like their mother,
Matthias added.
Of course, and tiny trainers that match yours.
They will speak many languages and be very intelligent.
And be good at math!
She was counting on their father’s genes for that.
Let’s make a baby then,
she told Matthias.
We’ll start in Saint Louis,
he smiled.
Neither Anna nor Matthias had heard of amenorrhea then. They soon did: the absence of menstruation for at least three months.
Or more.
They both pretended not to see the reason right in front of their noses, on her plate; a body that can barely sustain itself is not qualified to hold another.
Severe calorie restriction and low weight cause hormone levels to drop. No more cortisol, leptin, LH, FSH. Without those, no estrogen. Without estrogen, no egg, and with that no need for a uterine lining. What for?
No period for more than three months. Or twelve. Or twenty-four.
They kept trying anyway, but the more weight she lost, the less Matthias mentioned a baby. In fact, the less keen he seemed on wanting one, or her in general.
She was angry. She could have blamed her disappearing curves, breasts, lips, thighs. The insufficient food, the absence of fats and protein in popcorn and apples. She could have blamed all the running or, more simply, anorexia. But that would have meant acknowledging anorexia. Instead, she blamed Matthias.
Deep down, honestly, she blamed herself. For not being enough. Beautiful, sensual, or just good enough to be a mother. But she fought the sickening thought with denial and the anecdotal evidence that some women with anorexia could and did conceive,
and clung to that fantasy so desperately that she took a pregnancy test every month.