What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [60]
I said no.
Then I got a little snappish and said that my doughnut was stale.
That was a fib. It was actually quite delicious.
Elisabeth’s Homework for Dr. Hodges
It was surreal hearing Alice ask me if I tried again, so wide-eyed and respectful. I nearly laughed. I wondered if it was an act.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought properly about those early “losses,” as you call them with a straight-mouthed grimace, as if you’re constipated. I sort of hate that face you pull, Dr. Hodges. I bet your wife does, too. It always makes me think about what else I could be doing with the $150 I spend on you. I remember in one session you wanted me to start talking through the “early losses” (grimace, grimace), and I gave a dramatic sigh and said I didn’t think I could, but really I was just so irritated by that expression on your face.
Mostly now I just think of my “losses” as bullet points on my medical history. If a doctor asks me for my history I can reel off every single procedure and test and crushing disappointment without even a tremor in my voice, as if they don’t mean a thing, as if they happened to somebody else.
So I can say “second first-trimester miscarriage in April 2006” without blinking, and I don’t even think about what it was like, or how it felt.
I want you to know that I’ve missed all of Grey’s Anatomy now. I’m really working hard on this therapy. I wish you were grading me. You should give grades to your approval-seeking patients.
I remember how happy we were when we got pregnant again, because this time, for some reason, we managed a “natural” pregnancy.
That was to be my January baby, due on 17 January (the day after Ben’s birthday; imagine if it was born on the same day! But no, shhhh, don’t say that out loud). We kept the pregnancy a secret this time. We thought that telling everybody about the first baby had been our beginner’s mistake. I imagined announcing my second pregnancy with calm, womanly confidence after I’d passed the first trimester. It seemed a more grown-up, safer way to handle things. “Oh no, not an IVF baby this time,” I’d say casually. “A natural pregnancy.” This time we didn’t talk about names, and Ben didn’t pat my stomach when he kissed me goodbye each morning. We said things like “If I’m still pregnant at Christmas” and lowered our voices to a whisper when we used the word “baby,” as if getting our hopes up had been the mistake, as if we could trick the gods into not noticing us sneakily trying to have a baby.
This time Ben was there for the first ultrasound and we both dressed up carefully as if it was for a job interview, as if our clothes would make a difference. The woman doing it was young, Australian, and a little cranky. I was worried, but on the other hand I was faking it for the cameras, if you know what I mean. I was all twitchy nerves on the surface, but deep down part of me was enjoying observing my anguish: Ooh, look at her digging her nails into her hands as she lies down, the poor, traumatized thing, when of COURSE there is going to be a heartbeat THIS time because this sort of thing doesn’t happen twice! I could already feel the huge rush of relief that would be released. I had tears of joy banked up, just waiting for me to push “go.” I was ready to send a poignant message of love to my first baby, something along the lines of “I will never forget you, I will always hold you in my heart,” and then it would be time to focus on this baby: our real baby. Alice’s baby would only be a few months older. We could still call them twins.
The cranky girl said, “I’m sorry . . .”
Ben clenched his jaw hard and took a step back, as if someone had just threatened to hit him in a pub brawl and he was trying not to get involved.
I’ve heard so many professional “I’m sorry”s now, Dr. Hodges. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Yes, your colleagues in the medical profession are all very sorry. I wonder if one day you’ll be the next to say, kindly and sadly, “I’m sorry but I can’t cure you.