The next month, it was much the same. I waited for the symptoms, begged my husband for intimacy at every opportunity, but still…negative. I was beginning to hate the way that blue line stared back at me so smugly, darkening as time passed. I wanted to be pregnant with every fiber of my being. I read pregnancy forums, searched for tips and tricks from fellow trying-to-conceive mothers, and waited eagerly for the first sign of my imminent pregnancy.
One day, Mark had come home from work late and was surprised to find me waiting up for him.
“It’s late,” he said. “What are you still doing up?”
I turned the volume down on the television. “Today’s my last potential ovulation day, so I thought we could give it one more shot.”
He set his briefcase down and, with it, his shoulders slumped. “We just did it yesterday.”
I raised a brow, feeling insulted. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t realize it was such a chore.”
“It’s not a chore, Han. I’m just not in the mood tonight, okay?”
“Not in the mood?” I demanded, pulling my legs up under me on the couch. “How convenient is that? The last day that we have the chance and you couldn’t care less about sex.” I scoffed, rage fueling me.
“We are having sex more now that we’ve ever done before, and it’s all because you want to have a baby. How do you think that makes me feel?”
I frowned. “All because I want to have a baby? You know, Mark, maybe we aren’t getting pregnant because you’re so against it.”
“You’re right. I willed my sperm not to impregnate you.” He strode past me angrily and pulled open the fridge.
“That’s right,” I egged him on with fury in my veins. “Grab your wine. Grab your whiskey. Have yourself a drink, but God forbid you sleep with your wife.”
He spun around with his back up against the cabinet, slamming the refrigerator door shut. “You’re acting ridiculous, Hannah. I’m allowed to not want to have sex with you every once in a while. It’s not a crime, you know.”
I reeled back as if I’d been slapped. “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Just forget it.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he said, the anger wiped from his face and replaced with frustration. “I’m sorry.” He reached for my arm, stopping me from walking away. “I’m sorry, Han. I didn’t mean that. I just…I’ve had a bad day, and I wanted to come home and relax, okay?”
“A bad day?” I asked. “Anything you want to talk about?”
He looked at me with a strange expression, as if he was actually going to open up, but quickly, his lips tightened into a thin line. “It’s just…work stuff. I don’t want to bore you. I just need a minute to wind down, okay?”
“Of course. It wasn’t like I was planning to jump your bones the second you walked through the door,” I said.
He smirked. “Jump my bones?”
“Yeah, you’re acting like I was planning to force myself on you. I wasn’t even going to bring it up, I just thought we were on the same page about wanting this to happen. It’s been three months, and I’m starting to get worried.”
“Lots of people spend months trying for babies. Three months really isn’t that long.”
“Sometimes I think you don’t care about this at all,” I said, my chin quivering as I realized I’d let my deepest fear slip off my tongue.
“About what?”
“About any of it, Mark. About having a baby with me.”
“Why are you so obsessed with this?” he asked, slamming his hand down on the counter. “I’m doing all that you ask. I don’t know what else you want me to do. I can’t help it if you’re not getting pregnant.”
“I know you can’t help it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t care about how I feel. I’m…I’m sad that it hasn’t happened yet, and I feel really alone in that. It feels like you don’t even think about it.”
“It feels like it’s all you think about,” he said under his breath.
“What else am I supposed to think about? You’ve got me locked up here in this house all day. No job, no friends.”
“Well that’s a little dramatic,” he said. “I’ve never told you you couldn’t leave the house. Go see your friends, go take a yoga class. I don’t care what you do. And as far as the job, plenty of women would love to not have to work. I would think you’d be a little more appreciative toward me for that.”
I let out a breath. “I do appreciate you.”
“Then maybe stop treating me like I’m such a shit husband just because I can’t stay home and obsess over drinking beet juice to thicken your whatever lining and taking my temperature every morning just to make sure we have every chance of getting pregnant like you do. It’s not my thing, Hannah. It’ll happen when it happens, and I’m okay with that. I’ve got too much on my plate to worry about anything else.”
I shook my head, taking a step back from him. “This is not how this is supposed to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just going to go to bed,” I said, turning away from him. I waited for him to try and stop me, to reach out for my arm or call my name, but he never did. Instead, I heard the refrigerator door open and the familiar clinking of glass bottles as he wrestled the wine free from the door.
The next morning when I woke up, there was a box of red raspberry leaf tea on my nightstand with a note.
I’m sorry for fighting. It had been a long day, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I love you.
PS. This tea is supposed to help your whatever lining. ;)
It’s going to happen this month, I can feel it.
Chapter Twelve
Her
“Hey, girl,” my mom said, pulling me into a quick hug. “You’re losing weight.” She stepped back, her hands still wrapped tightly around my biceps. “What’s wrong?” She knew me too well.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I assured her.
“You don’t eat when you’re stressed, Hannah. Are you stressed? You look like you’ve dropped twenty pounds.”
Thirty, actually, but I wasn’t going to correct her. “Lots of free time. I’ve been working out.”
“Well, don’t lose any more. You’re turning into skin and bones. I always envied your curves.”
I changed the subject quickly, sitting down at the wrought iron table outside the café. “How are you and Dad? How’s Henry?”
“Henry’s spoiled rotten, as usual. If your dad doesn’t stop loading him up with treats, the vet says he’s going to end up with diabetes. Can you imagine? A cat with diabetes? Your father, though, he couldn’t stand the idea of depriving him of anything.” She smiled. “God love him.”
The waiter approached us and took our drink orders, disappearing quickly after so the conversation could resume.
“You didn’t order wine? My God, are you pregnant?” my mother asked, one brow raised. I couldn’t fault her. Not a lunch between the two of us had gone by that I hadn’t drank alcohol. And, to be fair, she had no idea that Mark and I had been trying, let alone struggling, to conceive. I felt my cheeks flush before I could answer and her eyes grew wide. “Oh my God, you are!”