I hear papers flipping. “You didn’t have any infection or blood clotting abnormalities or a weak or tilted or septate uterus.”
“What’s a septate uterus?”
“A septate uterus means a uterus divided into almost two chambers by tissue. You don’t have that. No fibroids or adhesions or diabetes or polycystic ovary syndrome.”
“That’s all good, right?” My voice is barely a thread.
“Are you all right? I’m throwing a lot of information at you.”
“It’s okay. I needed to know. What else is there? In my file?”
“That’s all I have. So you were in some kind of accident?”
“Head injury,” I say.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll be sure to pass this along to Dr. Gateman. If there’s anything we can do—”
“No, thank you. This is all I need for now. I appreciate your help.”
“There’s always hope, you know.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and bend over in the chair, holding my middle. My muscles seize up, and my hands go numb. The massage oil for spiritual healing. Our long summer trip to the island, to get away. The decision to escape, to leave the city. You feeling better? Rachel said at the mercantile. Jacob kept my medical history from me—what else is he holding back?
I knock on Sylvia’s office door. No answer. The lights are off. I slip a note under the door, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. On the ride home, I pedal hard against the wind. Jacob greets me in the foyer. “Where have you been?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say as I hang up my coat.
“Whoa, you look upset. What’s going on?” He tries to wrap his arms around me, but I stiffen and pull away.
“The miscarriages. Why didn’t you tell me?”
All the blood drains from his face. “What are you talking about?”
“You knew about them.”
He strides past me and sinks into the couch, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. “How did this come up? How did you find out?”
“I shouldn’t have had to find out.”
“You remembered.”
“Not exactly. But I know about what happened. I called the doctor.”
“Which doctor? Why? How . . .?”
“It doesn’t matter. The point is, you didn’t tell me.”
His shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would come up. I thought it was behind us.”
“Everything is behind us.”
“I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“If I didn’t know I had miscarriages, how could I ask you about them?”
“Believe me, my decision did not come easily.”
“A lie of omission is still a lie. Did it happen here? The most recent miscarriage?”
He looks uncomfortable. “The fire’s out. You need to get warm.” He gets up abruptly and starts arranging logs in the woodstove.
“I need an answer. That’s what I need.” I’m shaky, a headache piercing my skull.
“What did the doctor tell you?”
“I spoke to the nurse. I had two miscarriages, but I might still be able to have children.” I try to keep my voice steady. It’s all I can do not to scream.
“How have you been making long-distance calls?”
“We don’t have long distance here, so I called from the bed-and-breakfast.”
“I’ll add long distance to our line. It was an oversight. The technician has to come out from San Juan Island.”
I nod, but it’s the last thing I’m worried about right now. “What if I hadn’t found out on my own?”
“There are reasons I didn’t tell you.”
“I hope they’re good.”
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He goes to his room. The hall clock ticks interminably, while acidic emotions eat through my stomach. Sadness, anxiety, and anger at Jacob. He returns a few minutes later carrying a small wooden box the size of a large hardcover book. The latch is made of polished brass. He places the box on the coffee table and sits on the couch, clasping his hands together on his lap, elbows on his thighs.
“What is this?” I say, touched by dread.
“Pandora’s box. The reason for everything.”
“What do you mean, everything?”
“The reason you got depressed.”
“I was depressed.”
“It was the reason we left Seattle and came here last summer. You wanted to be away from everything. So I brought you here. To get better.”
“From the miscarriage? Why didn’t you show this to me before?”
“I was going to show you, when you were ready.”
“When did you think I would be ready?” I open the box, and the smell of scented powder wafts out. Baby powder. With trembling fingers, I pull out a tiny white jumper for a newborn. Pale purple leggings and a matching knit sweater. White booties. A rolled up, lavender-scented blanket, as soft as a puff of air.
Despite the roaring fire in the woodstove, the room is suddenly too cold. “What is this, Jacob? Why did you keep this from me?”
“You asked me not to show it to you.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You wanted to forget. It was too painful for you. I thought, if you started to remember, then I would tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”