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I didn’t call Reginald like I promised when we left the fertility clinic. I didn’t respond to his voicemails either. He’d already given me the evening off. I wouldn’t have to face him for over twenty-four hours.
What I would have to face was my husband.
“What a bunch of idiots.” It seemed that insulting the doctors who ran our tests was a better alternative than accepting the fact that he couldn’t father children.
“Load of snake-oil conmen.” Apparently, when the medical professionals told my husband he was sterile, it was easier to assume that they were greedy con artists intent on stealing our money from us (or Reginald) than to accept that they might be telling the truth.
“Brood of vipers, the whole lot of them.” Because when Chris didn’t know where else to channel his anger, he took up insults from Scripture. Who could blame him if all he was doing was quoting John the Baptist or Jesus Christ himself?
I kept silent at first, which might not have been the best idea. Chris wanted a partner to commiserate with, a sympathetic ear to disparage the doctor who told us he could never father a child. I simply wanted quiet.
“I bet you’re happy about this, aren’t you?”
I should have known. Should have suspected that once he ran out of New Testament insults for the fertility clinic, he’d have no other target for his rage except me.
“Now you can keep on working at that stupid, moldy bookstore. Isn’t that what you wanted from the very beginning?”
I held my peace. I’d learned enough about Chris by then to know that he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He didn’t mean the things he was saying. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, he’d feel calmer. We’d talk about it rationally then.
“You probably prayed for something like this. Probably asked God to keep you from becoming a mom because you know you’d do a lousy ...” He stopped himself. At the time, I thought it was a sign of his improvement when he stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door shut instead of finishing his sentence.
And I waited. Hester Lynne had just released a follow-up to her dazzling debut. I felt bad for her, truth be told, since her second novel had been met with mediocre reception to say the least. I suppose that’s what happens when you burst onto the literary stage with such a glorious beginning.
You peak before your career ever takes off.
A one-book wonder.
But Reginald had recommended her latest novel, The Scent of Silence, and I’d learned to distrust snooty reviewers years earlier.
I was halfway into chapter four and was actually quite taken with the story when Chris stomped out of the bedroom once more. “What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
His eyes rolled so dramatically I’m surprised they didn’t get stuck in the back of his head. “Reading. That’s perfect. Just perfect.”
I lowered the book but continued to hold the page in place. “What would you like to do instead?” If there was a testiness in my tone, it had more to do with my exhaustion than any desire to further enrage my husband.
He threw up his hands with a huff. “What do I want to do? I don’t know. Maybe have an actual discussion about what those quack-jobs told us.”
I set the book beside me on the couch, my finger still marking my page. “Ok. Let’s talk. Are you going to sit down?”
His eyes roamed all over the room with a frantic restlessness. “I can’t believe you’re so calm about this. This is our future together. Our family.”
I should have held my tongue. But I was still trusting in the new Chris, the reasonable Chris I had grown comfortable with after that rocky first year of marriage. I didn’t realize all the progress he’d made had been erased by one simple doctor’s visit, so I told him we could still be a family even if we never had a child.
“Easy for you to say. You’ve been against the idea of a pregnancy from the beginning. You just went along with it because it was something I wanted.” Given the fact that he was basically speaking the truth, I didn’t have a whole lot to add.
He started pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. A lion in his cage.
“We’ve got to get a second opinion or something. There’s got to be some sort of treatment options, ways to ...” He waved his hand in the air like he was trying to snatch some pesky word he couldn’t recall.
“That’s why we made that follow-up appointment,” I said.
“They should have talked about that today. Now we’ve got to wait another week, I’ve got to take more time off work ...”
What I didn’t tell him was the reason they made couples wait between appointments was so that people like my husband, people devastated by the news that they were unable to naturally conceive children, would have a chance to process and cool down before jumping into fix-it mode.
“Those idiots don’t have any idea what they’re talking about.”
Part of me was glad he was back to focusing his anger on the medical professionals. I’d already given up any hope of reading more from Hester Lynne that night and allowed myself to lose my place in the book. I made room for my husband on the couch and patted the cushion. “Come here.”
He shot me a disdainful look but finally lowered himself beside me with a huff. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.
“I love you.” No matter what would happen, no matter what the news of Chris’s sterility would do to him — would do to us — it was essential that he knew. Essential that I tell him.
“I love you,” I repeated as I felt his body relax. I kissed him again. His cheek was wet. “This isn’t your fault. This doesn’t mean we’ll never have children. We’ll figure something out, ok?”
I wasn’t ready to talk about adoption or artificial insemination or anything like that, and I knew Chris wasn’t either. Right now, I just wanted him to know that this was a trial, but it was one we could face together.
Chris rested his head against my chest, and I held him while he cried.