He stands at the head of the bed and rests his hands on my shoulders. I keep repeating the word no.
“No, no,” I say again.
There is the weight of his hands for what seems over a minute. He quiets me without a gesture.
Dr. Noel sighs. “We’ve talked about the statistics. How a woman over forty has a five percent chance of becoming pregnant each cycle. IVFs help, of course, yet they aren’t miracle workers—we’re dealing with the age of the egg. Elodie, please listen. I am advising you against any more procedures—I’m not confident that you can carry a baby to term.” Her voice is terse, final. But isn’t she like that? There isn’t much compassion coming from Dr. Noel.
James keeps rubbing my shoulders. Dr. Noel stands near him, as if they’re team players consoling a fallen teammate. Had I tried earlier in my marriage for a child, I might never have walked into Dr. Noel’s ultra-pacifying office filled with melancholy. Dr. Noel, who stands behind her desk to shake hands at every office visit. Like an ad for Shutterfly, a framed picture of her three children, twin girls and an older boy, sits on the corner of her desk.
Light that streams in from the window facing west bounces near me. I attempt to hold my arm up, the one that isn’t strapped to an IV, to stop the noise, the wrong answers.
Dr. Noel’s lips are thinner than usual when she pulls herself up straight and discreetly finishes the exam. “I will have you monitored for the afternoon.”
“Meaning what?” I look at James, who takes my hands in his and kisses my forehead.
“Then we’ll see,” she says. “That’s what I can convey at this moment.”
The clatter of her heels begins as she heads toward the hallway. I resist apologizing once more. Have I ruined everything? I should not have put off having a family in my early thirties. Or is it more specific—was I drinking too much caffeine, should I not have gone on Katie’s boat only a week ago? I watch James pace the way he does before he closes a deal, when he is concentrating ceaselessly, waiting for the outcome.
Someone is behind him. A nurse? My mother? I can’t be certain until I hear James.
“Hi, Mom,” James says, his voice low and deflated. Has Mimi, James’s poised yet not always to be trusted mother, been waiting in the cafeteria, outside in the visitors’ lounge? I would feel better had she fit in another round of cards at Longreens and skipped her visit with me.
“You poor girl.” Mimi comes close to the bed. “How are you?”
I know she means well, as my mother would say. I turn away.
“Elodie, dear, James is distraught.”
“Mom?” James says. “Listen, maybe you could give us a minute. Dr. Noel just left.”
“Darling,” Mimi says, “James, you look spent. Depleted, really.”
At least Mimi has a son to inappropriately fawn over. My lost baby flashes before my eyes. Her deep-pink-and-fuchsia crib sheets are from Carousel Designs—she smells the way other babies smell, only better, more familiar, because she is mine. Next I envision myself strapping her into a stroller for a mother-daughter walk along Worth Avenue. In this trance, I’m such a happy mother that when Mimi appears, I’m magnanimous, handing my nameless baby over. I’m about to announce a name—What name would that be? Why haven’t we narrowed it down?—when I feel another ripple through my abdomen. My reverie halts.
“I wanted to offer moral support, to check on you.” Mimi gives me a small, square smile.
A wave of cramps, more blood. I am afraid; I don’t want to be transfused.
“Well, thank you,” I say.
My mother-in-law seems to be considering the latitude. Her instinct to safeguard James is always there. James, a good son, attempts to handle us both. My mother, who besides being wise and cautious likes Mimi, bought me a book when James and I were first married on the mother-in-law, daughter-in-law, son/husband triangle. I read that mothers-in-law should never criticize their daughters-in-law, that they should avoid driving a wedge into what is already a complex situation. According to that book, it’s James’s turn to say something.
“James is worried about me.” I sound snippy, I can’t help it.
Mimi rummages through her handbag and opens a tortoise compact mirror, as if she’s meeting friends at the Brazilian Court for lunch and is the first to arrive, with a few moments to primp.
James straightens up. “We are worried about you. Everyone is.”
Mimi shuts the compact, sighs. She is dressed in the clothes she wore this morning, a floral-print dress and medium heels—both now seem wilted.
“Right, Mom?” James says. “Mother?”
She isn’t listening; she arches her neck. “Will you excuse me a moment? I think I see the Carrolls, my neighbors. You know their daughter has had a few problems.”
Mimi dares to step toward the door frame and pokes her head out.
“Sure, that’s fine.” James follows her, escorting his mother to her escape. He is polished. I mouth Thank you without speaking a word.
A few minutes after she has gone, I decide I only want to speak with my own family. Probably this is similar to the need someone has after she’s given birth—to be with her family over her in-laws.
“Have you heard from my parents?”
“They’re here, Elodie. See?” James points to the hallway, where it is true that my parents have materialized.
First my father, in his tennis whites, glances into the room; presumably he’s displeased. He probably got the text in the middle of a set at Longreens. My mother is behind him. Like Mimi, she is dressed as she was this morning, when she was proud of me, lapping up the praise for my programming, lavished by a board member, Kira Stengler. Even in my present state, I concede how both my mother and father assiduously sidestep problems. Their motto is “Avoid anything unpleasant”; their caveat is “unless it is for the family.” They’re visiting because I’m their daughter. Together they are one operative, “the Veronica and Simon Show,” as my sister and I call them. Under any circumstance, including my miscarriage. Within seconds my mother is at my bedside stroking my hand while my father walks around the room.
“Dearest, what an ordeal.” Veronica, as I call her, angles her head in my direction. “When that ambulance arrived, we were so frightened. Laurie is a fine assistant, so levelheaded. Your librarians—why, two of them came to the podium and urged us all to stay. Julianne Leigh kept going.”
“Veronica,” my father says. “There isn’t any reason to describe—”
“No, there is. Elodie should know the lecture went on. Afterward a few women, members you know well, asked if you had passed out. If you were well.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m mortified.
“It was a very successful event, in any case,” Veronica says.
Simon is at the window. “There are a few black skimmers outside. You can see them clearly and the windowpanes need cleaning. They’re beyond the main building,” he says. “Can you see, Elodie?”
“No,” I tell him.
“Simon?” My mother angles her head again.
“A room with a view, isn’t it?” Simon says.
Her nude patent Manolos don’t click with the same tempo as Dr. Noel’s or Mimi’s, but near enough, as she hastens toward my father. “What an awful situation it is for Elodie and James.” She lifts my father’s wrist, code for Not here, not now.