Trespassing(20)

“Someone with the lab will be calling you soon, but—”

“Mommy.” Elizabella climbs onto my lap.

I wrap an arm around her and prepare to hear the words no one wants to say: our last embryo is gone. I wipe my raw nose with a paper towel—I’m out of tissues—and swallow a few more tears. “It’s okay.”

“But I’m calling about your outstanding balance, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

“I’m sorry . . . what?”

“There’s an outstanding balance on your account.”

“Our insurance will cover four cycles. This is the third. There shouldn’t be—”

“Mr. Cavanaugh’s been paying out of pocket.”

“But we have a new insurance plan,” I explain. “My husband took a new job—” Wait. I stop myself. “What insurance card do you have?”

“The last on record is Blue Cross of Illinois, but the policy lapsed. Mr. Cavanaugh has been paying—”

“That’s our old card. Didn’t he get you a new one?”

“No, ma’am. As I said, the invoices have been paid out of pocket.”

I’m back at the family planning station, opening a file drawer and pulling out a file with IVF written on the tab.

“Maybe that was when he was between jobs,” she continues. “If you scan and e-mail the new card, I’ll resubmit the claims to your insurance company.”

There was no time between jobs. Diamond headhunted him straight from United.

Tucked inside the file are the yellow copies of the bills we receive after every appointment at the IVF lab. Scrawled in red at the top of each is a credit card confirmation number and Micah’s chicken scratch—paid—and the date. He’s been paying for the services out of pocket?

“But . . . why,” I say aloud, “when it’s covered by insurance?”

“You’ve explained it, Mrs. Cavanaugh. You have new insurance. Scan and e-mail the new card, or next time you come in, if you wouldn’t mind bringing it—”

“Sure.”

“And I’m sure everything will go through. Recent charges, I mean. Insurance doesn’t cover the storage fee for Mr. Cavanaugh’s specimen.”

“Thank you.” I wait, even after her you’re welcome. Because something isn’t making sense. “Specimen? You mean the two embryos? I thought we paid storage fees up front for—”

“For the embryos, yes, you’re paying monthly, but there’s an annual renewal fee for the storage of the spermatozoa.”

“The . . . we’re storing Micah’s sperm? But why would we—”

“It renews every year, ma’am, unless you send written notice.”

“I was unaware we were storing . . .” Why would we be storing something he produces, without fail, every time we batch eggs? “I apologize about the account, but I’ll find the new insurance and get you a copy of the card.”

As I hang up, the doorbell rings.

Detective Guidry. It has to be. Of course! That’s why he hasn’t returned my calls; he’s in the field. Stopping by is better than a call back.

Halfway down the hall, however, when it’s too late to pretend I haven’t heard the bell, I spy Claudette Winters and her no-nonsense bob, perfectly coiffed, on my doorstep. She’s cradling a casserole and waving frantically through the seeded glass window in the door.

I swear under my breath. She knows there’s a problem or she wouldn’t be bearing a casserole. What are the odds she assumes my recent avoidance has something to do with my infertility issues? Or maybe she’s here to make amends for lecturing me—for calling my child spoiled—at the park.

“No hiding that there’s trouble,” I mutter, once I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror hanging in the hallway. I’m a mess.

“Are you talking to Nini, too?” Bella asks.

“I guess I am.” I scoop up my daughter and balance her in the perfectly accustomed place on my hip. “Nini says Mommy looks terrible.”

“No. Mommy’s pretty.” Bella presses a wet kiss to my cheek, and I tighten my grip on her little body.

The second I open the door, Claudette steps into my foyer, with Crew and Fendi in perfect cadence a pace behind her. “Veronica, you should have called.” She whisks past me, down the hall and into my kitchen. By the time I catch up with her, she’s making room in my refrigerator for her casserole. “This is gluten-free pasta with farm-raised chicken and organic peas and carrots. Nothing fancy, but it’s the best I could do on such short notice.”

Crew locks me in a blank-expression staring contest, while his sister smirks. I imagine they’ve never had a mother who skipped a shower or cried off all her mascara.

I say nothing to the children but mutter a thanks to Claudette when she turns to face me, head cocked, brows slightly knit. “Imagine my surprise when the police department calls me and asks me to check in on you.”

Wait. They’ve called her but haven’t had a moment to return my calls?

“Honey, listen.” She drums manicured fingernails against the black granite countertop on my island, which is at the moment strewn with files I’ve perused and torn apart in pursuit of Micah. “Whatever it is you’re going through, you can count on me. I won’t judge you—”