“Miss Penrose,” Doctor Bjorn chided, standing up to pour me a glass of water. He handed it to me. I gulped it in one go. “I know it’s not the news you wanted to hear. You don’t have to be brave here. It is okay to be upset.”
This, of course, was untrue. Breaking down was a privilege other people had. I was programmed to be fearless. Life threw curveballs at me left and right. I’d glided past them like a cartoon character with a smile on my face.
I picked up my Chanel tote from the floor. “If I need to get pregnant this year, I will. No man? No problem. I’ll get a sperm donor. I hear they’re tall, smart, and good with numbers. What more can you ask for in a baby daddy?” I let out a metallic laugh, standing up. The OB-GYN remained seated, still staring at me in complete shock.
Yeah, I know. I’m heartless. Emotionless. And, as of five minutes ago, clinically womb-less too.
“Don’t you want to think about it?” he asked.
“There’s nothing to think about. Time’s working against me. I’ll get a sperm donor and get it done.”
I also didn’t have the kind of money it took to use a surrogate. Plus, becoming pregnant was a part of the deal. In the past few years, I’d watched my friends and sister popping out kids like they were PEZ dispensers. Sporting round, beautiful bellies and eccentric cravings and giddy smiles as they mulled over the eternal question: pastel paint or wallpaper for the nurseries?
I wanted all those things.
Every single one of their mundane, trivial experiences.
Other than one.
The husband.
Getting married wasn’t in my plans.
Men were volatile, untrustworthy, and above all … a danger to me.
“Well, in that case …” Doctor Bjorn reached his hand out for me to shake. “I’m prescribing you with 50 milligrams of Clomiphene. You should take it starting the second day of your menstrual cycle the month you intend to get pregnant. Five pills, one for every day, for five days. To be taken at the same hour. Stay hydrated and watch your cycle. Ovulation tests are going to be your new best friend. When you find your perfect donor, let me know. I want to read through their medical history to see if they’re fit for you.”
“Wonderful!” I turned around, swaggering my way out of the room, bolting before he managed to sneak in another grave diagnosis about my body.
I waved the receptionist goodbye and got out of the building without any memory of doing so. I guess I was having an out-of-body experience.
I advanced toward my sporty BMW, when my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my handbag. It was my sister, Persy.
“Hey, Pers.” I greeted her warmly, no hint of distress in my voice. Pretending I had my shit together was an artform I’d perfected long ago.
“Hey, Belle. Where am I catching you?”
“Just got out of the OB-GYN.”
“Nothing like having your insides poked by a complete stranger with a magnifying glass.” She sighed with what I suspected was genuine longing. Dang, she and her husband Cillian were kinky. “Everything okay down there?”
I heard my nephew, Astor, making exploding sounds in the background. He loved imagining shit was blowing up when he was playing Legos. That kid was becoming ninety-nine percent tyrant, and I was here for it. Auntie needed brand new ice-breakers and having a dictator nephew was a great conversation topic.
“My vag is in immaculate condition, for someone who is overworked and underpaid.” I slid my designer sunglasses up my nose, strutting along the street. “Ya need anything?”
My sister and I spoke at least four times a day, but she didn’t normally ask me where I was. Maybe she wanted me to babysit Astor. Now that she had a newborn—baby Quinn, the most handsome little dude on planet Earth—she often needed a helping hand.
“Nope. Mom is coming over to take care of the kids. Cillian is taking me on a date. Our first since Quinn was born. I just had this weird urge to call you to make sure you’re okay. I don’t know what came over me,” my sweet, intuitive baby sister lamented.
Persephone “Persy” Fitzpatrick was everything I wasn’t—romantic, maternal, and a rule-follower.
Oh, and the wife of the richest man in America. No big deal.
I came to a halt, propping a hand against a red-bricked wall. Salem Street sprawled in front of me in all of its summer glory, sprinkled with bakeries, colorful cafes, and flowers spilling from hung baskets.
“No, Pers. You were exactly right. I needed to hear your voice.”
Uneasy silence filled my ears. When Persy realized I wasn’t going to elaborate on why I needed to hear her voice, she said, “Is there anything I can do for you, Belle? Anything at all?”
Can you have a baby for me?
Can you fix my uterus?
Can you erase my past, which screwed me up so thoroughly, so exhaustively, that I can no longer trust anything or anyone other than myself?
“Just hearing your voice is enough,” I smiled.
“Love you, Belle.”
“Right back at ya’, Pers.”
I slipped the phone back into my bag, smiling nonchalantly as though nothing was amiss.
And then … then I felt my cheeks wet with furious, unstoppable tears.
Was I full-blown crying in the middle of a busy main street? You bet your ass I was.
Bawling was more like it. Gasping for air worked too. My tears were bitter and hot, full of self-pity and fresh anger. The unfairness of my situation made my breath catch. Why was this happening? Why me? I wasn’t a bad person.
Actually, I was a pretty kick-ass one.
I donated to charities and babysat my friends’ kids and always bought Girl Scout cookies. Even the lemon-ups—which, let’s admit it—were so bad they should have been illegal in all fifty states.
Why was having a child going to be more difficult for me—if it was even possible—when everyone around me fell pregnant whenever their husbands so much as asked them to pass the salt?
Dejected, anxious, and confused, I stumbled straight into the temple.
No, not the place where you pray. A place called Temple Bar.
Getting drunk in broad daylight might not be the smart thing to do, but it sure was comforting. Plus, I needed to pregame before going to a party tonight. And I was definitely partying tonight.
I pushed the door open, stomped to the bar, and ordered a tall glass of whatever the hell would get me drunk in record time.
“An After Shock and a glass of wine coming right up.” The bartender saluted, slapping a polishing cloth over his shoulder and pulling a steam-filled glass from the dishwasher.
I slumped on a barstool, massaging my temples as I tried to process my new reality. It was either have a baby now or pretty much never.
Tourists and professionals lounged in green wooden booths, enjoying pints of Guinness, coddles, and Irish stews.
Irish folk songs belted from the speakers, jolly and full of mirth. Didn’t the world know I was hurting?
The place looked like an authentic Irish pub, with ornate high ceilings and liquor-soaked walls.
The bartender came back with my drinks before I could burst into spontaneous tears. I hadn’t cried since I was five, maybe six, and I wasn’t going to start turning on the waterworks regularly now that I found out I had to get pregnant at thirty while financially insecure.
I downed the After Shock in one go, slamming the glass on the counter and moving straight to the wine.