Page 28 of The Facilitator: Part 3
“I have an appointment in London at ten so I’m hanging around here. I’ll be in after,” I replied.
“Okay. I’ll see you soon,” she said, and then left the house.
She’d never ask what my appointment was or with who. Not because we had secrets, other than this one, but because I had meetings all the time, every day, mostly. Sometimes that was simply to catch up with fellow businessmen, Americans, or to talk about investments.
That morning, however, I was anxious, nervous, even. I knew I wouldn’t get any answers that day, it was just the beginning of testing, but it was a start. A step onthe path to getting a definitive answer on whether I could father a child. I hadn’t broached the subject with Lauren, I should have, but I was that person who wanted to know first. When I had news to share, I’d share it.
I tried to get on with some work, I caught up with emails and approved a few press releases, but I couldn’t concentrate. I headed for the kitchen and grabbed an espresso, then poured it away in case I had to give a sample. I didn’t want anything leaving my body to be caffeine laden. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and I sat in the garden. I scrolled through my phone, bored, until I stumbled across a property site. I clicked on and searched for homes by the coast. Of course, the site was worldwide and I had to narrow it down within the UK. There were some magnificent properties along the south coast, Sandbanks in particular. I bookmarked the page, perhaps we’d take a trip down that way to check it out.
When I heard my car pull on the drive, I locked up the house, and left. I was quiet on the journey. Usually I chatted to the driver but I was too anxious. When we arrived, I sat in the car for a moment and looked at the building. Like most in Harley Street the small plaque gave the details of the medical facility.
“I don’t know how long I’m going to be, I suspect an hour. I’ll text,” I said.
“No problem, Mr. Miller. I’ll just park up and wait for your message.”
Without thanking him, I left the car. I buttoned up my jacket and walked through the door. I found myself in a rather old and slightly scruffy building with a sign to follow for reception. I guessed the age of the building didn’t allow for anything modern, such as an elevator.
I signed in, took a form on a clipboard to complete, then handed it back. I waited. Right on time I was called in.
Sam Rules, as he introduced himself, rose from behind his desk. He offered me to sit.
“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Miller,” he said, and I recognized a slight American accent.
“It’s Mackenzie,” I replied.
“A fellow American. Although I left there many years ago,” he said.
We chatted about the States and where we were from before he got down to business.
“I’ve studied all your medical records. Annoyingly, the earlier data is vague. I can see that you were involved in a vehicle accident that resulted in testicular trauma.” He peered over his glasses as me. “I also see that you were unconscious for a while. I’d suspect that a good thing with the level of damage to the testes.”
I laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I’m super pleased to have avoided that pain.”
“Did anyone actually tell you what happened?”
I shook my head. “My friend was killed, I was high and stupid. The focus was on whether to arrest me or not. I don’t recall seeing anyone after I was discharged.”
He shook his head and sighed. “I suspected as much. Had something been done at the time, Mackenzie, you probably wouldn’t be sitting here now. There was a bleed, obviously, and, if you look here, damage that resulted in scar tissue.” He turned his computer screen to show me my balls in all their X-rayed glory.
“The scar tissue is the problem?” I asked.
“Part of it. We can remove scar tissue but that’s not going to help with the production of sperm. We need to run some tests, obviously. I’d like a sample just to see if you are producing any of the little blighters. I’d like to do bloods, a health check to see how fit you are, in case we choose a surgical route, although I suspect you keep fit,” he said, again peering at me over his glasses.
I’d learned in my research that he’d been a professor at both Oxford and then King’s College. He was a pioneer in reconstructive surgery for trauma victims, which is why I chose him. He pressed a button on his desk and his nurse appeared.
“Follow Karen, she’ll get you sorted, then I’ll see you after,” he said. He started writing on his pad.
“This way, please,” she said. I was taken to a door. “You’ll find a pot with your name and a selection ofreading material. If the reading material is not to your liking, please switch on the television. When you’ve left your sample, just place the container in the tray and cover with the cloth. Then wait out here,” she said. I nodded as she opened the door for me.
It was a surprisingly comfortable room, considering what it was used for. There was a chair in the corner that I chose to ignore. I had no idea how thoroughly that was cleaned before sample depositors. I brought Lauren to mind and…nothing.
“Fuck,” I said, panicking and then laughing.
I fished around for my phone and made a call. “Hey, baby. I need to ask you something really odd,” I said, when Lauren asked.
“Are you okay, you sound veryechoy?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Talk dirty to me?” I said, balancing the phone on my shoulder and freeing my cock with one hand while holding the pot with another.
