Page 8 of Baby Maker

All I can say is thank God for blow jobs.

* * *

I glanceover the paperwork before visiting with my newest patient. Calliope Webster. That’s an unusual moniker. Thirty-seven years old, no children. Fairly standard in this field.

I push open the door, my gaze focused on the paperwork. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Webster.”

“Calliope is fine.”

Her voice. Her voice is like warmed honey oozing over me. Low and throaty, with a killer English accent to boot. Glancing up, I realize she looks as good as she sounds. Not that she’s actually trying to impress me—or anyone, for that matter. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her auburn hair pulled into a braid, and not a speck of makeup covering her ivory complexion.

A natural beauty. I’d forgotten there was such a thing.

I extend my hand in greeting, offering a smile. “I’m Dr. Russo.”

I shoot a quick glance around the consultation room, looking for her partner. None to be found. Then again, it’s not that odd these days, and I try not to judge my patients. Or their decisions.

That detached perspective took years to acquire, and I still often slip from my seat of neutrality, despite best intentions.

Here’s the thing. People decide to have a child for a myriad of reasons—desire and obligation among them. But in the world of infertility, there is another pervading emotion—desperation. These people often feel less than and are desperate to prove their worth. Sometimes they don’t even know why they want a baby, or their reasons make my head spin—to rekindle a romance, rebuild trust, repair a relationship—all equally terrible ideas.

No matter how cute a baby may be, they are not bandaids. They’re stressors, and they won’t fix anything that was broken before their arrival.

A sad but true fact—saddest for the child.

In the beginning, I would voice my opinion, hoping to trigger a lightbulb moment before patients went careening further down a path of expensive self-loathing. I learned involvement in their affairs was not in my best interest. Emotions ranged from a dismissal of my concern to downright fury at my insinuations. Now, I do my duty and leave my opinions at the door. There’s simply no room for them in this line of work. At least, not if I want to keep a patient roster.

Settling behind the desk, I fold my hands in front of me, meeting her gaze. Unlike some of my patients, she’s not giving off an air of nervousness or desperation. I get a different read off her. Determination. That’s a nice change. “What brings you to my office, Calliope?”

“I want to have a baby. Although you likely knew that already.”

“Your file indicates that you’re thirty-seven years old, and you don’t have any children?”

She nods, her lithe fingers toying with the edge of the desk. “That’s correct.”

“Have you ever been pregnant?”

“Three times. I suffered miscarriages with all three, early in the pregnancy.”

I clear my throat, tapping my pen against the desk. Her history is all too common and often doesn’t bode well for the patient, especially after three failed pregnancies.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

My eyes widen as I meet her gray gaze. Wow, she has the most unique eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like a storm brewing over the ocean, and right now, they’re ready to rail at me. “What am I thinking, Calliope?”

She stands, pacing the length of the carpet. For such a tiny woman, she certainly takes determined strides. “That I’m too old. I’ve had too many failed pregnancies. I should just suck it up and accept my situation.” Calliope stops directly in front of me, turning to face me. “But you’re wrong.”

I lean back in my chair, the corners of my mouth pulling up. “You’ve summed up our entire visit, and all I’ve done is say hello and ask your age.” I hold up my hand, stopping her from answering. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re wrong about what I’m thinking.”

“Bugger. Now, you likely also think I’m a haughty bitch.” She flops back into her seat with a sigh. “I had to gear myself up for this visit. Be ready to take on whatever argument you threw at me.”

“As much as I’m enjoying your self-diagnosis, and diagnosis of me, might I jump in? Offer my two cents? I do have a little experience with the subject.”

Calliope chuckles, wiping her hand across her brow. “I’m sorry, Dr. Russo. I’m like a cat on hot bricks today.”

I can’t hold back the chuckle. “A what?”

“Good old British slang. I’m nervous.”

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