Later that afternoon, Allan lay down for a nap. He had hoped to stay awake through the evening then go to bed early, around nine. His body wouldn’t cooperate; it thought it was two in the morning. Before he conked out, he had asked Michele to please get him up in an hour, two at the most. He wanted to get over this jet lag in the next day or two before he had to go back to work.
They didn’t talk anymore about his Africa trip or this new orphanage plan, but it was all Michele could think about. He had never come home from any of the other trips in this condition. She didn’t know what to call it, but it made her uneasy. He’d been this tired before but never this excited about going back. Usually when he got home, he focused on her, how much he missed her, how much he hated being apart this long. Even how grateful he was to live in America.
There was a gentle knock at the door. Must be Jean, she thought. Tom and Jean were still living with her folks, so she only lived a few blocks away. She and Jean had become close over the past year. Michele had invited her over for a cup of coffee.
Well, for coffee and to talk.
Michele opened the door. “Hi, Jean. The kids aren’t with you?”
Jean stepped through the doorway and gave Michele a hug. “No, Mom is watching them. When you said Allan had gone down for a nap, I knew that wouldn’t last long if I brought the kids. I can’t stay long. Maybe just long enough for one cup. Your parents asked us to eat dinner with them tonight.”
They walked through the hallway and into the kitchen. “You guys eat together quite a bit, don’t you?”
“We do, but your mom hinted that tonight was going to be very special. Some kind of surprise.”
Michele fixed their coffee. “Well, thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Don’t need to thank me. I love coming here, especially without the kids. Can we sit outside on the patio? There’s a beautiful breeze blowing through.”
“Sure, I was thinking the same thing.”
As they carried their coffee past the stairway, Jean said, “Probably better to meet out there too, so we don’t wake Allan up. Especially if you wind up saying something funny. You know how ridiculously loud my laugh can be.”
“I don’t think even your laugh would make any difference right now. A wrecking ball could hit this place and he’d still stay asleep. I also don’t think there’s much chance of me making you laugh in this conversation.” She opened the patio door.
“Uh-oh,” Jean said.
“It’s not that bad. It’s just not that funny, either.” She walked around the table and sat in the shade.
“Did something happen on Allan’s trip? Because other than how lonely you normally get when he’s gone, you seemed fine on Sunday.” Jean sat down next to her.
“I don’t know,” Michele said. “It’s probably just me being moody. This whole thing about not getting pregnant.”
“So I guess that was a false alarm last week when you were a few days late?”
“As always.”
Jean reached her hand across the glass table and patted Michele’s forearm. “I’m sorry. One of these times it won’t be.”
“I guess,” Michele said. “You’d think I’d stop getting my hopes up so easily after a year.”
“Good luck finding that switch.”
“What switch?”
“The hope switch. I’ve never known anyone who could turn that off and on. I think you’re being too hard on yourself. This is a big deal. And you’re not alone, Michele. I was reading in a women’s magazine the other day. One in eight couples deal with infertility. One in eight. That’s a lot of people. Millions.”
Michele sipped her coffee. “Doesn’t feel like millions. Doesn’t feel like anybody knows what it feels like. No one ever talks about it, even at church. There’s so many kids, and so many moms. So many strollers. Seems like that’s all we ever talk about: the children’s ministry, what to do with all the kids for this event or that event. The pastor’s wife keeps dragging me in deeper, because I’m a schoolteacher. Guess I’m supposed to be great with kids. Even yesterday, she called saying she wanted to meet with me soon to help her evaluate some new children’s program.”
“Wow,” Jean said.
“What?”
“You really are in a pit.”
“No, I’m not. It’s just—”
“Yeah, you really are.”
Michele knew she was right.
“All this time, I thought you liked children,” Jean said.
“I do . . . mostly. It’s just . . .” She didn’t know what to say, what she was really feeling. She had hoped to be having this conversation with Allan. He was normally pretty good at hearing her out, helping her sort through conflicting emotions. But he’d come home preoccupied with his new orphanage plan.
“You’re just hurting inside,” Jean said. “And that’s okay. It’s a painful thing. You’ve wanted to be a mom as long as I’ve known you. And for some reason, for right now God is saying no. We don’t know why. It’s only—”
“Don’t say ‘it’s only been a year.’”
“I wasn’t going to,” Jean said. “I was going to say . . . it’s only a matter of time. Just because God is saying no now, doesn’t mean he’s gonna keep saying no forever.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
They sat in silence a few moments, sipping coffee, enjoying the breeze.
“I really do like kids,” Michele said.
“I know.”
“Especially your kids.”
“I know that too. And I also know you like the kids you teach at school.”
“Some of them.”
“And the kids at the church.”
“A few of them. Most of them.” She smiled.
“See, you’re already coming around. Have you talked about all this with Allan?”
“He just got home.”
“I don’t mean in the last hour or so, I mean recently. Does he know how you’re really doing with this infertility thing?”
She hated the sound of that . . . her “infertility thing.” But it was a good question. Did Allan know? She thought he knew. But did he really? They’d talked about it before. Several times, in fact.
“When was the last time you guys talked about it?” Jean asked.
“A little while ago.”
“Like what, a week before he left? A month ago? Does he know about you driving to the playground to watch the kids play?”
“I haven’t been doing that very long.”
“So, he doesn’t know.”
“No, he doesn’t know.”
“How many times have you done that?”
“Just a few.” Maybe three or four.
“Are you hiding it from him?”
“What? What a thing to say. Of course I’m not hiding it from him.”
“Then why haven’t you told him? Oh my gosh, I can’t believe this conversation we’re having.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember? A year ago you were challenging me for not sharing everything with Tom. Remember? When I thought I was pregnant?”
She did remember. Here she was, doing the very same thing. But why? Why was she holding back from telling Allan all the things she felt inside? She wanted to. A part of her did, anyway. But another part of her was convinced he didn’t want to hear it. He’d already made it clear. He’d agreed with her mother.
“What’s the matter, Michele? You look as if you’re going to cry.”
“I just realized why I’m not sharing all these things with Allan. It was a conversation at the house about a month ago, after a Sunday dinner. Everyone else had left. You and Tom had taken the kids upstairs. Allan and I were helping my mom put the kitchen back together. I don’t know how we got into it, but my mom was trying to comfort me about this not-getting-pregnant thing. And she brought up that ‘it’s only been a year’ argument, so I shouldn’t be that concerned. Allan jumped right in there with her, saying we had all kinds of time, and that maybe I shouldn’t be focusing on it so much.”
She inhaled deeply and said, “I have such a strong need to hold a child in my arms. My child. I want to press her soft little face next to mine.” Her words began to falter. “It’s all I think about, Jean. They don’t seem to understand how much this matters to me. No one does.”