Was she a possibility? Nora might point out her unzipped boot, maybe segue into the weather, and then see where the conversation went. Strange that infertility clinics like this felt like safe spaces, Nora thought, filled with instant sisters. A sorority no one wanted to be in.
The best way to start a conversation was to find common ground, go from there and see what she could find out. Trying to chat with women, strangers, in doctors’ offices like these, she needed to be careful, subtle, intruding gently on their personal space. Probably easier at a pediatrician’s, where squabbling children and maternal choices might engender instant camaraderie. But easy wasn’t the point. She knew to wait until it felt right. Scout for a possible victim. And then take the first step.
Announced by a gentle ping of the door chime, a new patient arrived in the waiting room, this one bundled in black wool against the lingering March winter, revealing only red lipstick and fatigued eyes. The woman scanned the room and chose a spot on a maroon leather love seat, spaced as far away from each of the others as possible. Aloof, solitary, wary. Not a possibility, Nora decided.
Each woman here, reading, or texting, or simply staring at the soothing butterscotch walls, possessed the same hopes and the same fears.
Except for Nora.
“Could you hand me that magazine?” Nora said to the woman in the boots. “I don’t want to reach over you to the table.”
The woman handed her the outdated Newsweek with a wan smile.
“Oh, dear,” Nora said, flipping the pages. “I’ve read this one.” She chuckled softly. “Guess I’ve been here too often.”
“Once is too often,” the woman said.
“Got that right.” Nora nodded, sympathetic. Commiserating. “It’s so hard, but we just want, I mean, I just…” She let her voice trail off, wistful. “Never mind, sorry to bother.”
“Oh, no, no bother.” The woman shifted in her seat, turned to her, wrapped her cardigan closer. “You okay? You look sad.”
“We all look sad, right?” Nora shrugged. “You can tell the ones who…”
“I know.” The woman pressed her lips together.
“Could I ask—I mean…” Nora looked at the ceiling, then moved closer to her, whispering. “Were you … surprised? At anything? Was it like they said? Or different? I don’t mean to intrude, and I know I’m kind of being inarticulate, but I only—”
“It’s awful,” she said. “My husband is so disappointed, and I am too, but we’re hoping they can—” She closed her eyes, opened them again. “That’s what I’m here to find out. Supposedly. I’m sure it’ll be fine. They can fix anything. I tell myself that. I’ll try anything.”
“They’re supposed to have a miracle drug here,” Nora whispered. “Well, not a miracle drug, I guess. But something that really works.” She paused, deciding how far to push. “Is that why you’re here? Did they say they could help you get pregnant?”
She nodded.
“Did they?”
The woman’s eyes welled.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “And maybe not … ever. But I can’t think about that. I won’t.”
When the white-coated receptionist called her name—“Nora?”—she was so focused on the other woman’s story that it took a moment before it registered, and she remembered Nora was her. The others had lifted their eyes as the receptionist stood, eager. Then they exchanged embarrassed glances, as if to say, Oh, not yet? She’s first? Oh, okay. I’m okay. Nora had acknowledged them all with a sympathetic half smile as she picked up the brass-latched sample bag she’d tucked under her chair. You’ll be fine, she tried to telegraph.
“I am so sorry, that’s me,” Nora said. She should have gotten the woman’s contact information, or even just her name, but there was no time now. Damn. Nora reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out one of her cards. She touched the woman’s arm, a split-second gesture, kept her voice low. Handed her the simple white rectangle, as she’d done several times before with other women like her. “Call me if you want to talk. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“You too,” the woman murmured. “Thank you.”
Douglas Hawkins, MD, had been almost an hour late. Craggy, experienced, congenial. White coat and stethoscope. Since he knew she was a pharmaceutical company salesperson pitching him, he didn’t bother with bedside manner. Nora had been instantly forgiving of his tardiness, brushing aside his perfunctory apologies. Negotiations could be delicate, and it was best to start with sympathy on your side. Points for politeness, her mother had always told her.
“Thank you so much,” Nora had said. “I’m brand new to this and to Boston, so I’m grateful for your time. And truly, I simply want to leave you with some materials about our company’s latest—”
Hawkins didn’t let her finish her sentence.
“Sure,” he said. “I have fifteen minutes. I’ll check my email while you prepare.”
He gestured her to one of the navy-blue upholstered guest chairs across from his desk. Strange, she thought as she took her seat, for a doctor’s office to look more like a lawyer’s or banker’s. Syracuse, Johns Hopkins, Massachusetts Board of Registration in Medicine—the framed parchment credentials were placed precisely at a visitor’s eye level. Nora set her sample case at her feet and clicked it open. She’d expected the usual exam room, white-walled and glaringly fluorescent. And was relieved she didn’t have to endure one of those again. Maybe this inner sanctum was where he and his patients conferred, where he presented his news, happy or sad. Where there was room for a spouse, if there was one.
“Ready?” Hawkins glanced again at his computer screen, then back at her. Seemed to take her in, her now-auburn chin-length hair, pale green eyes and severe dark suit. She looked like a Nora Quinn; she’d planned it that way.
“Fourteen minutes now.” His tone had changed, now almost amused or welcoming. She noticed his wedding ring, a conservative gold band. “But who’s counting?”
“Thanks.” She pretended to wince, drawing in her shoulders, looking at him with apprehension in her eyes. “Like I said, I’m new, so you probably have a lot more experience than I do in this…” She kept talking, pitching, hardly looking at her detail sheet, careful to portray nothing but business. It fascinated her, the way some men—not all, but some—believed so devoutly in their authority. Forgetting how quickly one can go from king to pawn.
Though Dr. Hawkins was already a pawn. Poor thing. After she started talking, he hadn’t looked at his computer again. Not once. Nora was good at what she did. That’s who “Nora” was.
The glow of the restaurant now beckoned down darkening Appleton Street, coppery lights warm through the dark wood entrance. Douglas reached out to open the restaurant door for her. Nora walked through, and when she turned, she saw he was smiling.
Gotcha, she thought.
CHAPTER 2
ELLIE
Ellie Berensen stopped in the apartment hallway as the elevator doors clanked shut behind her. A woman sat cross-legged on the dark neutral carpeting in front of 3-B, two brown cardboard moving boxes stacked next to her.