Page 9 of Baby Maker

“You know what helps nerves?”

“Whiskey?”

Her banter and sarcasm are infectious. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed speaking to a patient in this manner. “True. I’m referring to answers, though. I had a professor in medical school who said that you don’t need all the answers. You only need to know where to look to find them.” I motion to myself. “I’m your means to find those answers.”

“I really hope so.” There’s something so earnest in her face, the set of her jaw. An immense pain bracketed by a thin layer of self-preservation.

This infertility issue has really put Mrs. Webster through the wringer. “Did they do any testing after your miscarriages?”

“No. They discussed it, but I never pursued it.”

An odd decision for someone so obviously desperate to have a child. “That’s the first step, then. Obviously, you don’t have issues conceiving. Still, we have to verify if there is a physiological reason why you couldn’t carry a baby to term. We’ll draw some blood, check your hormone levels and then perform a transvaginal ultrasound. That will check the condition of your uterus and ovaries. Have you and your partner discussed alternatives if you can’t carry a baby to term?”

“I’ve looked into surrogacy as an option.”

Okay, still no mention of a partner. “What about adoption?”

“No.”

Her answer is quick. Final. Again, not the first time I’ve seen patients display this behavior. They don’t want to hear that natural conception methods won’t work for them. Often, after several rounds of failure and tens of thousands of dollars, they come around to the concept. “Let’s start with step one. We’ll draw some blood, and then I’ll examine you. When we’ve determined your ability to carry a child, we’ll take it from there. Fair enough?”

Calliope nods, but she fails to stand when I do. That’s never a good sign.

“Something wrong, Mrs. Webster?”

“I sound like a horrible person, knocking down the idea of adoption. I think adoption is a beautiful thing, but I need this child.”

“I understand.” And I do, to a degree. I’ve never felt the pull toward parenthood, but I understand the inclination. Women are nurturers, and this woman seems an optimal candidate to be a mother. An odd deduction, considering I know nothing about her, save for the few details in her file. For all I know, she’s a prostitute, turning tricks for dope. Although, judging by her posture and unblemished skin, I highly doubt it.

I rub my brow, wishing I had taken some aspirin before our appointment. It’s turning into a banger.

“You should try trigger point massage. It’s helpful for headaches.”

“Did I mention having a headache?”

“You don’t have to. You’re squinting, rubbing your brow. Trust me, it works. At least, it always has for me.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Heavens, no. I’m a yoga instructor.” She stands, closing the distance between us. “May I?”

Before I can reply, she reaches up, placing her hands on either side of my brow.

“There are pressure points that help relieve the pain. At least until you can find some aspirin.” Her fingers work gentle circles over my temple, and although the tension in that head has been released, there’s tension growing in the other one.

I clasp her hands, halting her movement. Do I want her to stop? No way in hell. But she’s a married woman desperate to have a child. Me getting a hard-on does not figure into that equation.

She draws her hands back, biting her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. I just thought I could help.”

I blink, noting that the pain has indeed lessened. “You did. I must remember that trick.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch you again. Promise.” Her pale skin reddens, and she stares at the carpet. “That sounded even worse.”

Actually, it sounded even better, but I’m not letting her know that fact.

* * *

“I’m leaving.Are you headed home soon, or do you have plans for the evening?” Alice drops some files on my desk, her lips pursed.

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