Trespassing(5)

He grips the back of my neck. “It’s crazy, all right. As crazy as I am about you.”

I try not to laugh, but while he’s working my neck with one hand, he tickles my ribs with the other and gives my earlobe a nibble. “Stop!” I say on a breathy giggle. “This is serious.”

“Listen.” He scoots his chair closer. “I don’t want you worrying about anything.” His hand settles on my abdomen. “Think about two little embryos. Still kicking in their test tubes.”

“Not great odds.” The lab’s call this morning informed us that of six, only two eggs fertilized. I’m thirty-one years old. Too young to be going through this.

“If these two fresh ones don’t make it, we still have one more shot to batch,” he reminds me. “And if we don’t have anything to show for that attempt, we still have two frozen at the lab. All it takes is one, babycakes. All it takes is one, and we already have two. One is silver, the other’s gold, all right?”

I rest my head on his shoulder. I don’t tell him so, but I can’t handle the prospect of having to endure this again—the shots, the medications, the side effects—perpetually hungover and queasy, without the benefit of the drink, for months on end. Especially because I’m becoming less and less confident in the process. Sure, IVF worked when we conceived Bella, but I’m four years older now, and things are different. On our second try, I miscarried twins at thirteen weeks. Brutal. Painful. Not fair. To go through it all for nothing but heartache.

“Do you think it’s going to happen for us?” I ask. “Do you think we’ll have another baby?”

“No two people on this planet deserve it more.”

I don’t disagree with him, but that’s not what I asked. “I know you want a big family—”

“If this is it, if all we have is Bella, I’d die a happy man. Having the two of you is more important than anything in this world.” He tickles my ribs. “Or even in God Land.”

I roll my eyes at his bad joke. “It’s just that I don’t feel good. And even a simple trip to the park turns into a stressful situation.”

“Maybe go with someone, give yourself an opportunity to socialize, have adult conversations. Set something up with Claudette.”

Claudette is the closest thing I have to a friend, but she’s one of those supermoms, always toting organic snacks, always with firm control of her children . . . I can’t measure up. Sometimes being with her feels a little less like socialization and a lot more like judgment day. But I know Micah’s trying to help, and it’s good advice. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

But my husband must sense my hesitation because he tickles the back of my neck. “Whatcha thinking?”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m up to the task, all right? I’m not as good at this as Claudette is. I just want to push my daughter on a swing. I want to enjoy her, let her have fun. But being with Claudette sometimes reminds me of all the reasons I’m not quite the mother she is.”

“Then I’ll put a swing in Bella’s room. You won’t have to leave the house.”

I shake my head and smile ruefully. Micah’s mind is methodical. Even when our pregnancy tests kept turning up negative, he researched infertility tirelessly and found a solution, and in time, it worked. But I wish he’d see that not everything is fixable. Sometimes life just sucks, and there’s nothing to do but cope—and coping is hard work.

“I wonder sometimes . . .” I hesitate. “Natasha and I were good friends.”

His brow peaks with the mention of my college roommate. He drapes a curl over my ear. “You don’t have to beat yourself up for the rest of your life, you know. Natasha moved on. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“I know, but being friends with her was easy. Not like it is with Claudette or even anyone in Old Town. Is friendship supposed to be so . . . forced?”

“You’ve got a lot on your plate. Things will fall into place for us. I promise. We’ll have more babies. We’ll have friends . . .”

I hold my tongue, but I want to tell him he can’t will these things to be.

“My mom’ll be back from Europe in a couple of weeks,” he says. “Maybe she can come help for a while after our embryos are implanted, until we’re out of the woods, until we see little blips of heartbeats on sonograms.”

“I’m sure she’ll be in the throes of another benefit for the hospital group before long, and besides, she won’t leave your father for more than a week anyway. If only you’d consider reconciling with him—”

“Man’s a tyrant.”

“They could both come, is what I’m saying. I could meet him. He could get to know his granddaughter while Shell plans her next seminar or charity event.”

“Nicki. No.”

I stare into his clouded eyes. I never knew my father; to think Micah has one and doesn’t care to know him . . .

“I know he made some mistakes,” I say, “but if Shell’s forgiven him, maybe, with time . . . I just think a man should have a relationship with his father, shouldn’t he? If it’s at all possible?”

“We’re better off,” Micah says crisply. “I don’t want to talk about it.”