Czytaj książkę: «You're What?!»

One

“Sperm bank!” Michelle groused aloud and shook her head in disbelief. “Who would’ve thought it would come to this?”

She rolled her eyes and slouched on the edge of the examining table. With a paper sheet tucked tightly under her arms, she scraped nonexistent dirt from beneath her freshly manicured nails.

Thirty-six years old, divorced, and no man on the horizon. What choice did she have? She glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time. It’s not as though she hadn’t given the system a chance. In the three years since she’d been back on the single scene, she’d had her share of dates—enough to make her more than a little cynical about finding Mr. Right. Besides, the longer she was on her own, the more she liked it.

She heard a door open and close in the next room. Michelle stopped playing with her fingers and dropped them in her lap. This anxiety was counterproductive. She had to control her wavering emotions and think positive thoughts.

For a start, she remembered this morning’s clear blue sky and the weatherman’s prediction of sixty-two degrees by noon— almost unheard-of for mid-March in Detroit. If being here was wrong, surely there’d be a blizzard with icy, impassable roads. The paper crinkled under her legs as she shifted positions and wrestled with her nagging doubts.

Looking for a distraction, she surveyed the small, sterile room. White walls displayed framed photographs of pudgycheeked cherubs, each one seeming to smile in her direction, each tweaking her heartstrings and causing her eyes to mist over. More than anything, she wanted a baby. If only there was another way…

After a loud knock, the door flew open beside her. Startled, she twisted toward it. An intense, white-coated doctor sprang into the room, his entrance instantly reminding her of Kramer on the sitcom “Seinfeld.” She almost laughed before eyeing the footlong sheathed instrument in his hand.

Ceremoniously, the doctor placed the syringelike object on a stainless-steel tray, then picked up her chart and perused his notes. Michelle studied his thick crop of wildly curly hair until he lifted his gaze. Finally, he flashed a wide smile, exposing large white teeth.

“Michelle Purdue! And how are you?”

Great! Another poet. She hated it when anyone rhymed her name in that singsong way. “Fine…I guess.”

An exaggerated frown replaced his smile. Deep furrows creased his high forehead. “You guess? Oh-oh. Second thoughts?”

More like third, fourth or fifth. She lifted her chin and lied. “No. Not at all.” This was one strange man. But then what kind of doctor would make a career at a place like this?

He put the chart down and rubbed his hands together, the smile back on his long, angular face. “Good. Then today’s the day. Right?”

She smiled back and nodded. “Right.” He was almost vibrating with energy. She hoped it was his eccentric personality, or too much coffee. The alternatives were scary.

“Any questions?”

She thought about asking him if he’d ever watched “Seinfeld,” but then she shook her head.

He grabbed the door handle with the same gusto as when he’d entered and called over his shoulder, “The nurse will be right in to get you ready.”

Michelle let out a soft laugh as he exited but cut it short when a more sedate, middle-aged woman walked in behind him and closed the door.

“My name’s Ellen. If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just ask,” she said, wasting no time in positioning each of Michelle’s feet in cold, stainless-steel stirrups. This wasn’t exactly making her feel more comfortable.

She squirmed on the hard table, knees pointing east and west. When her teeth began chattering and goose bumps appeared on her arms, she asked, “Is there anything warmer than this paper sheet?”

“Sure there is!” Ellen smiled sweetly. “I’ll be right back.”

Michelle drew her knees together in an attempt to retain some body heat and restore a modicum of dignity. But Ellen was back in seconds, covering her with a blanket and prying her legs apart once again.

Now the gray-haired nurse held up earphones in one hand and a half-dozen cassettes in the other. “Would you like to listen to a tape?” Michelle studied the selection and pointed to an instrumental medley of Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes. Ellen inserted the tape and handed Michelle the headset.

“Anything else I can do for you, dear?”

How about bringing in Kevin Costner and dimming the lights? “A magazine would be nice,” she said instead.

Ellen moved to a small wall-mounted rack. “Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens or People?” she asked.

Ah, the double standard. How successful would this place be if donors were given the same choice? “People will be fine, thank you.”

Ellen moved toward what looked like a doorbell and pressed it. “The doctor will be back any moment.” The nurse returned to the table and laid a warm hand on Michelle’s shoulder. “Try to relax, dear. It will increase your chances of success, you know.” Michelle glanced at the long tube on the tray and shuddered involuntarily. “I know it looks scary, but I’m sure Dr. Adam explained. It has to be that long in order to reach through the cervix and up to the eggs. There’ll be some cramping, but not for long.” With one last pat, she smiled and moved to her observation post at the end of the table.

Michelle closed her eyes and played with the volume on the headphones. She let her mind float with “The Music of the Night,” for the moment ignoring the magazine on her chest. She wondered if she could relax enough to fall asleep. She had twenty minutes to lie here once the procedure was finished.

But before long, she felt Dr. Adam’s latex-covered hands lift the covers, and she knew sleep was out of the question.

Heart pounding, she kept her eyes shut and conjured up images of Costner, hoping he would provide a respite from this bizarre reality. Her mind raced through his many roles, stopping when she remembered Dances With Wolves. The scene in which he was reunited with his pregnant wife after a long separation came into focus. She pictured him jumping off his horse and running to meet her. They kissed and hugged each other wildly, dropping into the snow, rolling in ecstasy, oblivious to those around them.

The doctor warned her she was about to feel some pressure. Michelle felt a cold steel instrument followed by more pain than she’d anticipated. A small groan passed her lips. Within seconds she felt a tug at the end of the table and she glanced down. The doctor lifted her feet from the stirrups and brought her legs together on the extended table. Then he gave her what she guessed was a reassuring wink and a quick pat on the knee, before brusquely leaving the room, Ellen in tow.

Michelle stared at the closed door, dumbstruck by the speed and cold efficiency of it all. But then what had she expected? For the doctor to lie down on the table next to her and offer her a cigarette? She looked at the ceiling and blinked away an unexpected tear. If she was going to be a single parent, she had better get used to going it alone.

Determined to recapture her earlier fantasy, she picked up the forgotten magazine and flipped through the pages, hoping to find her favorite actor’s handsome face. All she found was Billy Crystal and Jack Palance with a big cow.

Exasperated, she slapped the magazine shut against her chest and pressed the earphones to her head. “Kevin, Kevin…” She shook her head and exhaled a long, weary breath. “Where are you when I need you?”

“Kevin!”

Dr. Kevin Singleton stopped at the end of the hall and looked over his shoulder, annoyance pinching his forehead.

The chief of staff, Paul Westerfield, closed the distance between them. “Have a couple minutes?”

Kevin looked at his watch, already knowing the answer. “Not really, Paul. Got one in postop and another up in half an hour.”

Paul placed a hand on Kevin’s shoulder and nudged him back toward his office. “I’ll be brief.”

Kevin eyed his friend as they stepped inside the office. Paul closed the door behind them and motioned for Kevin to sit. Instead of taking the seat beside him as usual, Paul sat heavily behind his desk, sending a clear message.

“Since you’re in a hurry, I’ll get right to the point.”

Kevin crossed his arms, ready to take his medicine. It was probably another resident complaint. Those poor delicate egos. Okay. He’d take the reprimand, promise to try harder, and be out of here in two minutes.

“I’ve been looking over your schedule.” Paul held up a printout. There were numerous pencil markings and what looked like calculations in the margins. “Are you aware that you logged more hours than any other doctor on staff last year? And outoperated the next-closest by nearly twenty percent?”

Kevin shrugged. It didn’t surprise him. So where was the problem?

“And that this year you’re ahead of last on a per-week basis?” Paul dropped the paper and leaned back, the creaking of his worn leather chair the only sound for the next few moments.

Kevin watched and waited while Paul studied him over the rims of his half glasses. Finally Kevin propped his elbows on his knees and hunched forward. “What? Just tell me.”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, my friend…and you’ve lost something along the way.”

Kevin bristled. “Like what?”

“Your sense of humor, for one thing.”

Kevin slapped his hands on his knees, then stood. “I’ll try to get to a comedy club next week. If that’s it, I have work to do.” He turned and started to leave.

“Sit down.” Paul raised his voice, bringing Kevin back around. “We’re not finished.” He pointed to the seat.

Kevin ground his teeth. With great restraint, he lowered himself into the chair, not masking his irritation.

In a quieter voice, Paul continued. “We’ve been friends a long time, guy. I have to tell you, you’re headed for trouble.” He shook his head and smiled. “All work and no play. When was the last time you got—”

Kevin narrowed his eyes and glared. “Is this personal or business? Because if it’s personal—”

“See what I mean? No sense of humor. I was going to ask, before you so rudely interrupted, when was the last time you got eight hours’ sleep? But if you’d care to share other information with me, feel free.”

Kevin slouched back in his seat. “Okay. Guess I had that one coming.” Maybe he was a little uptight lately. If all Paul wanted him to do was shave a few hours off his schedule, he’d see what he could do.

“I’m not going to sit here and say I know how you feel. If my marriage ended like yours…” Kevin looked at the floor between his knees and Paul changed tacks. “It’s been nearly four years, Kev. I know you don’t need the money. Hell, you give more away than most people make. And the new cardiac care wing you donated is fully operational now. You can’t use that project as an excuse anymore.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll cut back.”

Paul took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ve never pulled rank on you, Kev, but this time’s different. It’ll take more than cutting back. I’ve scheduled you for two weeks’ vacation, beginning April 15th.”

Kevin’s head snapped up. “I can’t. I have surgeries booked—”

“Reschedule.”

“It’s not that easy, I—”

“It never is. If you can’t fix it, I will.”

Kevin held Paul’s even stare. He could see the determination in the set of his boss’s jaw. Kevin could argue, but he knew he wouldn’t win. Besides, there wasn’t time for a major confrontation. “If that’s it, I have to get going.”

Paul’s face relaxed, seeming relieved. “Just one more thing. No seminars or anything work-related. A real vacation.” Kevin was halfway out the door when Paul called out, “Someplace warm, with women in bikinis.”

“Yeah, yeah.” In spite of himself, Kevin smiled over his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He strode down the hall, raking his hair off his forehead, trying to feel annoyed with the chief, but not succeeding. Actually, a vacation didn’t sound half-bad. Someplace warm, huh? Florida in April was out of the question. With his luck, he’d find himself in the middle of spring break and all those raging hormones. No, something more sedate, maybe farther south.

He pushed open the door to Recovery vowing to do two things on Saturday: get a haircut and visit a travel agency.

As long as he stayed in Recovery, his every thought remained with his patient. But a few minutes later, scrubbing for his second bypass surgery of the day, he let his mind drift back to the conversation with Paul. He despised being ordered around, anyone telling him when, where or what to do. But as the idea took root, he had to admit to feeling a certain amount of excitement. When was the last time he’d taken a real vacation? It had to be before Jessica.

Damn. He was doing it again. Measuring everything in terms of Jessica. Before she this. After she that.

With his sterile hands pointed to the ceiling, he pushed the operating room door open with his back. Later, he’d thank Paul for forcing this command down his throat. But for now, taking a closer look at the young mother of two on the table in front of him, he said a silent prayer, and put all other thoughts from his mind except this young patient and the precarious life he held in his hands.

* * *

For the next two weeks, Michelle worked with a vengeance, refusing to dwell on the calendar and the significance of each passing day.

It was Easter Sunday and she’d planned to go to St. Mary’s for mass, then Greektown for breakfast. But at eight-thirty, as she looked out the seventh-floor window of her waterfront apartment, ice pelted against the glass and she changed her mind. The Detroit River and Windsor beyond hid behind a curtain of sleet and gray. A melancholy settled over her sparsely furnished apartment. It was too quiet. Too empty. She started a CD of Streisand’s biggest hits and tightened her robe around her waist. Holidays were the toughest.

It’d been over two years since her parents’ fatal accident, right on the heels of her divorce. As an only child, she’d grown up with a lot of time to herself, but never completely alone. The last Easter she spent with Mom and Dad, they’d still hidden bright-colored eggs all over their Traverse City home. And pretending to be too old for such games, she’d happily gathered them up, thinking the game would never end, that there would be many more Easters.

Michelle settled into the recliner facing the window, covered her legs with her mother’s handmade afghan, and picked up a romance novel from the table alongside the chair. She read two chapters before she set the book down and stared out the frosty glass. Until this very moment, she hadn’t admitted there was something else weighing on her mind. And it had nothing to do with the weather or missing her parents. It had everything to do with the mild cramping in her midsection. She threw back the afghan and marched to the bathroom, angry with herself for postponing the inevitable. A quick check would tell her whether her fears were substantiated.

They were.

Numb with disappointment, she dragged herself to the kitchen.

“Enough, Purdue.” She swiped at a lone tear with the back of her hand and sniffled loudly, then slapped a filter into the coffee maker. While the brew dripped through, she found a yellow legal pad and pencil. A moment later, she poured her coffee and took everything to the table.

Making lists always empowered her; crossing things off gave her a sense of accomplishment. For the next hour she wrote out her plan…Call clinic, make another appointment, continue taking temperature daily, log results, finish urgent jobs within two weeks, clear calendar for week following, call travel agent, make reservations for someplace warm…

She chewed the end of the pencil and lingered on the last entry. After the first insemination she’d buried herself in work to keep her mind occupied. Maybe the pace and tension had ruined whatever chances she’d had. This time she’d give her mind, as well as her body, a well-deserved break. But where should she go?

Restless, she pushed out of her chair and began pacing the small area from the table to the living room window, finally stopping at the window after half a dozen turns. The sleet had stopped. Windsor was now in clear view. Idly she watched cars making their way along the Detroit River on the Canadian side. Her apartment was small, the rent steep. But this was why she’d signed the lease. She never tired of the awe-inspiring view.

A freighter, low in the water, made its way down the river. Michelle watched it, wishing it was warmer and she was on it, feeling the sun and wind on her face.

That was it! That was what she’d do! Not a freighter but a cruise. She’d thought about it last January and even gone as far as picking up a few brochures.

Michelle raced for her computer workstation, nestled neatly in the corner of her bedroom. Opening a bottom drawer, she riffled through a stack of magazines and brochures until she found what she was looking for: Norwegian Cruise Line-ninety-three full-color pages. with countless choices. She closed her eyes and pressed the glossy pages to her chest. She thought about the last year’s worth of charts and temperatures. She’d been blessed with a fairly regular schedule. Only twice had she been late ovulating, and then merely by one or two days.

She grabbed her calendar and returned to the kitchen table. She did a quick calculation, then flipped through the pages looking at departure dates. There it was. The Norway departed Miami at 4:30 p.m., Saturday, April 15, which should be the third day of her fertile cycle. If she was late by two days she would still be fertile Saturday morning. Perfect.

Excited, she refilled her mug and returned her attention to the glossy pages in front of her. Tomorrow she’d call the travel agent and book passage. She’d heard there was usually lastminute space, sometimes at bargain prices. And she’d call Donna at the clinic and let her know she’d be back April 13th, 14th or 15th, depending on her temperature.

Michelle closed the brochure, a vague uneasiness creeping up her spine as she thought about Donna. After months of working with the young woman on the clinic’s computer system, she’d thought she’d allayed all her concerns about using a sperm bank. But surprisingly, one small detail still bothered her—the unknown face of the donor, should her lucky day ever come. She sipped her coffee and tried shrugging off the thought, but the idea of a faceless father niggled away at her otherwise perfect plan. According to Donna, this was a common problem. She’d said some women found handsome men’s photos—either in magazines or catalogs or the ones that came in frames—and pretended they were the daddies.

She leaned back and thought about it for a moment until a devilish idea tugged at the corners of her mouth. What if she found someone on the ship? Not a relationship. Just an affair of the heart with some perfect stranger…a face to remember if—no, when the time came she needed one.

Yesiree. A great plan. Later tonight, a little mood music and a glass of chardonnay, and she’d imagine the perfect face…and maybe the perfect body, too. Suddenly the cruise was taking on a whole new dimension, and the thought of it sent shivers of excitement down her spine. Next month everything would work out and today’s disappointment would be history. She could almost smell the salty night air, feel the wind whipping her hair away from her moist neck, music drifting from a dance floor…