A Theory of Small Earthquakes Page 23

  Mark held Alison’s hand as Dr. Schrier guided the ultrasound probe inside her. Her ovaries appeared on the monitor above her head, gray sacs filled with tiny white balloons.

  “Wow,” Mark said. “Am I seeing things, or—”

  “You’re seeing follicles.” Dr. Schrier looked up at the screen. “Sixteen of them, each about twenty millimeters. That’s a good number, considering your age, Alison, and the low dose of hormones you’ve been on.”

  “Low dose?” Alison asked. “If I were any more hormonal, Mark would sell my body to science.”

  Schrier withdrew the probe and snapped the gloves off his hands. Alison sat up, clutching the blue paper gown to her chest.

  “I’m going to give you a shot now, to release the eggs from the follicles.”

  “How nice for all of us,” Alison said. “More hormones.”

  Dr. Schrier smiled. “I’m imagining we’ll end up with seven or eight eggs. You’ll come back thirty-six hours from now. We’ll harvest and fertilize them and watch them grow for two days. Then I’ll implant as many of the highest-ranked embryos as you want me to.”

  “We want one baby,” Mark said. “Can’t we just implant one embryo?”

  “The fewer we implant, the lower your chances of pregnancy,” Schrier said. “But the more we implant, the greater the chances of multiples.”

  “Twins?” Mark asked.

  “Or triplets,” Schrier said. “Or more.”

  “More than three?” Mark asked.

  “If more than two fetuses take, I’d strongly recommend a fetal reduction.”

  Alison’s head spun, imagining having to abort one or more of the babies she was working so hard to conceive.

  “You mentioned ranking. What’s that?” Mark asked.

  “Based on how fast the cells divide, and whether they’re dividing symmetrically, we rank each embryo grade A, B, or C.”

  “And then you decide which ones live or die,” Mark said.

  Schrier frowned. “We’re not doing Hitler’s work here, Mark. Some people oppose a woman’s right to abortion. Some people oppose stem cell research for the same reason. It’s all a matter of what your priorities are.”

  And what you can live with, Alison thought. And what you can’t live without.

  Mark’s health insurance paid 80 percent of their infertility treatments. Even so, “baby” was a significant line item in their monthly budget.

  Mark’s salary wasn’t about to change unless a miracle was visited upon Mother Jones in the form of a well-endowed donor. It was up to Alison to fill the gap. So she sat at her computer cranking out queries and sending them to multiple magazines, feeling like an ATM that spit out follicles and articles instead of cash.

  As usual, the ideas she came up with didn’t stray far from her current obsession.

  “WHY BABY?”

  Query for a feature story

  The majority of humans on the planet do it. The survival of the species depends on it. Sometimes it happens by accident, sometimes by design. Increasingly, it happens for middle-class, middle-aged Americans only as a result of many thousands of dollars spent, dozens of difficult decisions made, and buckets of tears shed. How babies are conceived has become a topic of dinner-party conversation. But regardless of the process by which they participate in this miracle, few people—even those who spend months or years of their lives undergoing fertility treatment—ask why they, or anyone else, choose to have children.

  “Why Baby” will explore that question with women and men who are parents, those who are considering becoming parents, and those who are grieving their inability to become parents. My own experience with infertility will provide the story’s narrative thread; experts will provide professional opinions.

  Alison reread the last sentence, reconsidered, and rewrote it: “I’ll find a couple whose experience with infertility will provide the story’s narrative thread and experts who will provide professional opinions.”

  She hit “save,” went downstairs, and flopped onto the couch. She slipped into a daydream about having Mark’s baby. About having another baby with Mark.

  Alison had a new secret, a sweet one. She was hoping for a girl. She saw herself pushing a little girl on the swings at the toddler park near Alta Bates Hospital, where she swung Corey when he was small. “This is my daughter,” she was telling another mother. “This is my daughter, Emma.”

  Alison had always loved that name. As she imagined Emma, her mouth quivered into an uncertain, hopeful smile. She closed her eyes and dozed into a dream. Emma was playing with a noisy toy. A toy that was getting noisier. Alison opened her eyes. By the time she got to the phone in the kitchen, it had stopped ringing.

  The mechanical voice on the answering machine announced, “One new message.” Alison hit the “play” button.

  “Hi, you two. It’s Nancy at the clinic.”

  Alison’s mouth went dry.

  “Dr. Schrier wants to see you as soon as possible. I’ve penciled you in for this afternoon at four. No need to call unless that time doesn’t work for you. See you then.”

  Alison played Nancy’s message again to make sure she hadn’t dreamed it. For no reason she could explain, she went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Then she went to call Mark.

  Nancy greeted them in the waiting room.

  “She looks happy,” Mark whispered to Alison as they followed her to Schrier’s office.

  “He’ll be right in.” Instead of offering them tea or water or vodka, Nancy sat in the extra chair beside Dr. Schrier’s desk. A good sign, Alison thought. She and Mark sat clutching each other’s hands.

  Dr. Schrier walked in and leaned against his desk instead of sitting behind it. He had a smile on his face. “Hello, Alison. Mark. Nancy and I wanted to tell you the good news in person.” He beamed at them. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’re going to have a baby.”

  Alison burst into tears.

  “Oh, my God.” Mark jumped up and lifted Alison out of her leather chair and swung her around.

  Alison leaned into the circle of Mark’s arm, light-headed, faint.

  “You said baby,” Mark said. “Does that mean there’s only one?”

  “It’s too soon to be absolutely sure. But based on Alison’s hormone levels, I think so, yes.” Schrier glanced at his Rolex.

  “How can we thank you?” Mark asked giddily.

  “Just take good care of your beautiful wife.”

  Alison started to correct him and stopped. She and Mark were having a baby. How much more married could they be?

  They took Corey to Szechwan Gardens to tell him the news. Clearly, he sensed his parents’ mood of largesse. “Can I have broccoli beef?” he asked.

  Alison and Mark didn’t eat beef, didn’t buy beef, and didn’t want Corey to eat beef. Alison had found enough Double Whopper wrappers in his trash can to know that Corey had exempted himself from the ban. She and Mark had adopted a “don’t ask” burger policy. Corey wasn’t about to tell.

  “Have whatever you want,” Mark said.

  “Pot stickers?” Corey asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I get to have pot stickers? What’s up with you guys?”

  Mark gave their order to Sam, who’d been waiting on them since Corey sat on a booster seat at that table, eating rice with his hands.

  “We have good news,” Mark said.

  Corey raised his eyebrows.

  “Honey,” Alison said, “we’re going to have a baby.”

  “What?” Corey sputtered.

  “We knew you’d be surprised,” Mark said. “We’re pretty surprised ourselves.”

  “You’re too old,” Corey said.

  “We had a little help from a doctor,” Mark said. “He—”

  “No!” Corey waved his hands frantically in front of his face. “Don’t say anything gross.”

  Sam brought a tray loaded with steaming platters. He winked at Corey as he set the broccoli beef in front of him.<
br />
  “Why didn’t you tell me you were planning this?” Corey asked.

  “We didn’t know if it would work,” Mark said.

  “You make me show you my report card the day I get it, whether it’s good or bad.”

  Alison wondered whether all teenagers thought families were democracies or if that delusion was particular to Berkeley teenagers.

  “Can I have a Coke?” Corey asked.

  “Don’t push your luck,” she answered.

  Corey spooned a small mountain of beef onto his plate. He glanced at Mark and added a single spear of broccoli to the pile.

  “This is your fault, you know,” Alison said to Corey. “If we didn’t love you so much . . .” Tears caught the words in her throat.

  “I know what you mean,” Corey said. He handed Alison his dirty napkin. “Don’t cry, Mom,” he said. “Maybe you’ll get another one as good as me.”

  That night Alison was pulled out of a deep sleep by a strange presence in the room. A large, dark form was bent over her. She opened her mouth to scream.

  “It’s me,” Corey whispered.

  “Oh, honey. You scared me.” Without thinking, she pulled back the covers. He crawled in beside her. Alison put her arms around him.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered back.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say congratulations,” Corey said quietly. “I wasn’t that happy about the baby when you first told me. But I’m happier about it now.”

  “Oh, babe.” Alison stroked Corey’s stiffly gelled hair, his soft wide forehead. “You’ll probably feel happy about it sometimes and not so happy other times.”

  “Duh, Mom. That’s what I just said.”

  Alison smiled in the dark.

  Corey was getting fidgety, awake enough to realize where he was. Alison scratched his shoulders, hoping to keep him with her for another moment or two.

  “You’re so good at that,” she whispered.

  “At what?”

  “Being honest about how you feel.”

  “I know,” Corey said and went back to his own bed.

  Alison called Zoe and invited her out to dinner. “I’ll buy,” Alison said. “You pick the place.”

  After a brief, charged silence, Zoe said, “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Telling Zoe made the truth of it, the joy of it, swell inside her.

  “Wow,” Zoe said. “That was quick.”

  “We got really lucky.” Please share this happiness with me, Alison begged silently.

  “Did you tell Corey?”

  “Last night.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He was shocked. But he’s coming around.”

  “Poor kid. He’s dealing with a lot these days.”

  “We’re giving him a sibling, Zoe,” Alison said, “not a disease.”

  After another pause, Zoe said, “I’m happy for you. I know how much you’ve wanted this. The problem is . . .” Zoe sucked in a breath and exhaled noisily. “The problem is what I want for myself.”

  Alison felt a quickening in the region of her heart. Most of the time, she managed to ignore what the deepest part of her knew: that in spite of Mark, in spite of Trudy, in spite of the friendship and the family they’d made, Zoe wanted more from Alison. As long as they never spoke of it, they could go on as if it weren’t true.

  “You being pregnant . . .” Zoe said, “it brings up a lot of stuff for me.”

  “I understand,” Alison said gently.

  “I’m not sure you do. I’ve been thinking about having another—having a baby, too.”

  “You have?”

  “With Trudy.”

  Alison’s mind raced. For fourteen years Alison had thanked Zoe, and thanked the goddesses for Zoe, perhaps a million times. But until this moment, as Alison contemplated how she might ever repay it, she’d never grasped the enormity of Zoe’s gift.

  “That’s great.” Alison coughed, clearing a lump from her throat. “Oh, and hey. Guess when the baby’s due.” She didn’t wait for Zoe to do the math. “April 8. Your birthday.”

  “Really?” Zoe’s voice was thick with emotion.

  “Really. And I’m hoping she’ll be a beautiful, crazy, talented, generous, loving Aries,” Alison said. “Just like you.”

  Every Tuesday at 9:00 AM, Alison went to Redwood Fertility for her weekly ultrasound. Mark went with her the first few times, but as Election Day approached, he was too crunched to take time off work. Like every media outlet, Mother Jones was projecting an easy Bush win. Unlike most media outlets, Mother Jones was on a mission to keep that from happening.

  Alison looked forward to her appointments now. The news was always good, and her visits doubled as research for her article. She interviewed Nancy, Dr. Schrier, and Lowell, the sweet, shy Filipino ultrasound technician. Nancy was helping Alison find patients willing to be interviewed.

  Those initial, painful visits to the clinic seemed to have happened to someone else. Alison was pregnant, and everyone knew exactly how that had happened: no secrets, no lies. She was a Redwood Fertility Center success story. One of the lucky ones.

  Alison was standing naked in the bathroom, looking at her body in the mirror.

  She was looking for signs. Signs of what? She wasn’t even three weeks pregnant. She turned and examined her profile. Maybe her breasts were a little fuller. She turned again. Maybe not.

  All that technology. They knew everything so soon now. She’d already had an ultrasound. They knew that there was only one baby. They knew how big the baby was, down to the centimeter. In four weeks she’d hear its whooshing heartbeat. If she asked, they’d tell her whether her baby was a boy or a girl.

  Alison wanted her baby to be a girl. She wanted Emma to be just like Corey, but with everyone knowing everything this time, right from the start.

  She spread her fingers across her flat belly. “Who are you in there?” she asked her new baby.

  Tears blurred her eyes. This was Alison’s first time talking to her daughter. To Emma.

  27.

  san francisco

  October 2004

  Alison was belly-up on the table in the exam room at Redwood Fertility, draped in a stiff blue paper gown, her barely bulging abdomen glistening with conductive jelly. The flimsy white paper on the table was sticking to the backs of her thighs, as usual. She was elated, as usual. As usual, Lowell was gliding the ultrasound wand over her belly, watching the monitor to the right of her head.

  The digitized date stamp on the ultrasound read October 17, 2004—the fifteenth anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake, Alison realized. She saw herself and Zoe after their final insemination, standing outside the juice bar on Shattuck, arguing. What were they fighting about? Alison couldn’t remember. They were always fighting back then. But she’d never forget the sidewalk rippling beneath her feet, the Wells Fargo building swaying, the sirens screaming. And Zoe, her hero, terrified.

  “How’s my little clump of cells doing?” Alison asked Lowell gaily. Each of her eleven weekly exams had been a shared moment of triumph, a walk around the winner’s circle with the team that had brought the long shot in.

  Lowell didn’t answer.

  “Lowell?” Alison’s heart banged once, hard, against her chest. She propped herself up on her elbows. “Is everything okay?”

  Lowell replaced the wand in its holster. He didn’t meet Alison’s eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He closed the door behind him.

  Alison sat up. She stared at the back of the door. Her clothing was hanging in perfect order on the shiny metal hook. Pale blue Indian cotton tunic. Black drawstring yoga pants, the only ones that still fit. To keep from embarrassing Lowell, Alison always hung up her bra and panties first, even though she took them off last.

  Alison didn’t believe in God, but she started praying. Please don’t let Schrier be the next person to come through that door. Please let Lowell come back and say, I’m sorry I scared you. Everything’s fine.


  She cupped her hands over her belly. “You’re fine, Emma,” she told her baby. “Don’t worry. You’re okay.”

  The door opened. Schrier came in first. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said.

  “I am worried,” Alison said.

  Lowell followed. “Lie back, please, Alison,” he said in the softest, saddest voice she’d ever heard. He squirted jelly onto his small gloved hands, spread a fresh coat over Alison’s belly—over Emma—and inched the sensor over her skin in slow, overlapping circles. Schrier stared at the monitor, his lips a thin flat line across his face.

  Lowell turned off the monitor and left the room without speaking or looking at Alison. Dr. Schrier offered a hand to help her sit up.

  “It’s possible that everything’s fine,” he said. Strange sounds were seeping out of Alison’s mouth, small whimpers.

  “Should I call Mark?” she asked.

  “No need for that.”

  He didn’t say yet, but Alison heard it. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “The measurements haven’t changed since your last ultrasound. At eleven weeks, that’s somewhat concerning. But it isn’t entirely uncommon.”

  When Schrier handed her a small, square box of tissues, Alison realized she was crying.

  “I’m going to have you come in for another ultrasound on Friday.” Dr. Schrier stood up, met her eyes briefly, then busied himself washing his hands.

  “Is it possible that—”

  “I know you have questions, Alison. But it’s too soon for me to give you any answers. The best thing you can do is think positive.”

  Was he kidding? Think positive?

  “I’ll see you in a few days,” Schrier said, and he was gone.

  Alison got dressed and trance-walked out of the office, out of the elevator, and onto Sutter Street. On her way to BART, she passed a Stanley’s Steamers hot dog stand. The stench of boiling beef made her gag.

  At a red light at Montgomery and Market, Alison laid her hand on her belly. And then she realized that for the first time in eleven weeks no one at the clinic had said the word baby.