With Bryte out of the house, Everett was able to search online for that doctor’s number without her seeing. He’d been looking it up earlier when she’d come to tell him she was leaving, startling him as much as if he’d been caught looking at porn. He’d quickly flipped back to another screen before she saw, waiting for her to leave before he tried again. He got up and watched from the front window until she was safely out of sight, her back moving steadily away from him as she pushed Christopher in the stroller to go get Rigby.
He wondered what she would say if she knew he was going through with his idea to talk to the doctor, to get things moving along. He knew she was scared. He knew that the fertility issues leading up to the pregnancy had been hard on her—harder than anyone could understand. Something had changed in Bryte, beginning when they didn’t immediately conceive, and spiraling progressively downward the longer pregnancy eluded them. By the time she got pregnant, it almost seemed too late, that the damage—psychological? physical?—had already happened. He’d urged her to go to support groups, to talk to someone, but she’d steadfastly refused. Ultimately, it was Christopher who brought her back. But she wasn’t interested in ever doing it again.
And yet, he saw his son growing up like he did—an only child, always alone—and he didn’t want that for him. He’d worked on Bryte for several months but was getting nowhere. The only thing he knew that might jump-start things was to make a grand gesture. And making an appointment to talk to the doctor himself was the best idea he could think of. When she learned he’d done that, surely she’d see how serious he was, how much he wanted this. If he could go, maybe she’d muster the courage to do the same. Granted, his part in the process had been minimal, but what man in his right mind voluntarily goes to a fertility specialist without his wife forcing him to do so? It had to make an impression. It just had to.
He spoke to the nurse, who seemed confused by what he was asking. “And this is an appointment for your wife, sir?” she asked.
“Um, actually, it’s for just me,” he said. “To talk to the doctor myself.” He could feel his face reddening.
“It’s highly irregular for the husband to come in without the wife, sir,” she said, her voice clipped.
“Yes, I realize that, but I’m just trying to gauge what we’re looking at this time around. And since we worked with Dr. Ferguson in the past, I thought perhaps he could, er, talk me through what we can expect. Just in case there’s anything I can do to get the ball rolling, so to speak.” He cringed at that particular choice of words.
“I see,” the nurse said, but the note of doubt in her voice told Everett that she didn’t see at all. She was humoring him at this point, leaving the rest to the doctor to sort out. She made the appointment, wished him a good day, and hung up.
He held the dead phone and tried to feel something other than foolish, something akin to hope. He strode over to the mantel and pulled down the photo his parents had snapped at Easter, the one on the front steps with him and Christopher in those goofy matching ties, Bryte in a pretty spring dress. He tried to see the three of them as any other person might. Did they look like a complete family? He didn’t think so. He squinted at the photo and tried to see another child there with them, another boy or maybe a little girl, the one who would turn their triangle into a square, the one who would make their lives complete. He looked for the place where he or she might fit, if only his wife would make room.
ZELL
Two days after the visit to the hospital, she could feel herself getting sick. Those places were germ factories. She made it through the morning without letting on to Cailey, but by lunchtime, she couldn’t fake it any longer. She told the child to occupy herself, and sank into the couch for a little rest. She pulled the afghan over her and rolled over to her side, so that her vantage point was the den windows, which faced the house next door. Jencey’s car was there, again, and she didn’t know how to feel about that. She closed her eyes and thought of Debra’s leaving, and whether it was time to tell Lance what she knew about it. The thought of telling him made her feel sicker. She could anticipate the look on his face, the betrayal that would spread across his normally open features the longer she talked.
Before Debra and Lance had lived in that house, she’d never befriended the people who lived there, never really had time to. She was always dashing off to activities and commitments, running one child here and another there. John joked that they ought to put in one of those revolving doors like they have in hotels so that he and Zell and the kids could actually run in circles instead of just feeling like they were. She always felt bad for not being more neighborly, but really, who had the time?
When Debra and Lance moved in and it turned out they were Yankees, well, that just cinched it. She certainly didn’t have time to fool with Yankees who didn’t know how things were done. They put tacky blow-up characters in their yard at Christmas. Their Halloween decorations were just plain evil looking and, if you asked her, disturbing to children. They launched fireworks in the street on New Year’s Eve and set all the neighborhood dogs to barking to the point that she couldn’t sleep a wink and was tired all through New Year’s Day. She could hardly make her pork and collards and black-eyed peas like she was supposed to.
Still and all, she minded her manners and smiled in passing at Debra or Lance if they were in their driveway. Sometimes she gave a little wave. She’d watched with a detached fascination as Debra had their second child, a son. She saw Debra pose in front of the gigantic (and tacky, if you asked her) stork they put in the front yard, holding up the pinch-faced baby, looking swollen and strung out. Zell felt equal parts envy and relief as she watched the scene play out. Oh, to do it all over again! Thank God I never have to do that again!
And yet, as she watched Debra maneuver the baby blankets so that Lance could get their son’s face in the photo, Zell tried to recall the day she’d brought any of her babies home, the feelings and thoughts she must’ve had. She aimed for some vivid, standout recollection, crisp and clear in her mind. But all she could turn up was a vague sense of exhaustion and panic. She wondered if she’d retained any of the experiences of motherhood, the scope of it, if the joy would ever start to outweigh the anxiety. She felt as though she’d been sucked up into a whirlwind and periodically touched down long enough to look around, register the unfamiliar scenery, only to be sucked up and tossed about again.
She’d taken them a loaf of quick bread, still warm and smelling of chocolate and bananas, and knocked on the door, intending to leave it and dash away. Debra had answered the door, looking haggard but glad for company. “Please come in,” she’d said, and the please sounded less polite than desperate. Zell agreed and found a seat at the nearby kitchen table.
Debra sat across from her. In her arms, a bundle of blue squirmed. “You wanna hold him?” The note of hopefulness in her voice told her she needed Zell to say yes. Debra thrust Alec into her arms before she’d even finished nodding.
She dutifully studied the baby, making appropriate comments about his size and features. “Who does he look like, do you think?”
“I think my father, but of course Lance thinks he looks just like him.” Debra laughed and Zell joined in, though she didn’t fully understand the joke.
They limped through small talk, covering the weather and the local schools and the headlines. But it was conversation and it filled the dead air. She’d played the part of the good neighbor that afternoon, and that had been, very nearly, that. She watched as the boy grew from baby to toddler to kid, registering the changes from afar just as she’d always done with the people who lived in that house, being a tolerable neighbor, if not an especially good one.