Side Trip(58)

Tears well.

Will she ever feel a baby growing inside her? Will she ever touch her belly and feel joy rather than sadness? Will she ever be able to give Mark the children he desperately wants?

An unexpected noise comes from the stoop, the scuff of shoes on concrete, drawing her attention. Keys jangle and the bolt unlatches. The front door opens, then closes, and there stands Mark in the parlor entryway. Perspiration sheens his forehead and darkens the pits of his lavender shirt, which is unbuttoned at the collar. He’s removed his tie and rolled up the sleeve cuffs. His suit jacket is draped over an arm. He looks at her with love and worry swirling in an elixir of frustration and disappointment.

“You’re home early,” she says. It’s only two in the afternoon.

“I’m worried about you, Joy.” Mark comes into the room.

“I’m okay.”

He sends her a look and she deflates. Even to her own ears she sounds unconvinced.

Mark lays his jacket over the back of the couch and drops a plastic Target bag on the cushion. He settles on the ottoman facing her and takes her hands.

His palms are clammy. She can smell the city’s mugginess on him, the sharp tang of sweat that hits the back of her nose when she inhales.

“Why aren’t you at work?” she asks.

“I couldn’t concentrate, so I took a walk.”

“You walked all the way here?” His office is in Midtown, past Rockefeller Center, over thirty blocks from their home. “Why?”

“I’ve been thinking. We . . .” He squeezes her hands, looks down at them. “We should take a break.”

“A break,” she murmurs.

His gaze lifts to hers. She sees his stress in the fine lines flaring from the outer corners of his eyes. He wears it like his ties. Up front and center.

She feels a tear drop on their linked fingers before she realizes that she’s crying. “I’m sorry.”

Mark cups her cheek, waits for her to lift her face. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “This isn’t all on you.”

But it is. Dr. Egan said so. Not directly, but in enough words for Joy to understand that it’s up to her to take the next step that would hopefully make everything right.

For over a week, Joy’s been home moping, wasting personal leave hours she should be saving for their annual vacation on the coast. But she hasn’t had the motivation to go into work and spend time on a product she’s thoroughly lost interest in, and with only three months until launch. They’re in the final stages of product testing. She’s surprised she hasn’t been fired.

But her reason for staying home has nothing to do with her career and everything to do with the single bar on the EPT stick. Not pregnant, yet again. After months upon months of multiple negative pregnancy tests and three short-term miscarriages, she’s lost steam. Sex is a chore, a task item on her schedule, and she and Mark have been arguing more than ever. Little things set her off. He leaves dirty socks on the bathroom floor and she yells at him. She forgets to purchase his favorite trail mix at the grocery store and he snaps at her.

How’s she supposed to know he finished the bag the night before? Telepathy?

Go buy it yourself, she’d grumble under her breath.

Joy has been checked. So has Mark. Her hormone levels are normal and periods regular. Mark’s sperm count is average. Everything is in working order and, in theory, she should be able to get pregnant and carry.

But she hasn’t. So at her last appointment, Dr. Egan suggested a tactic she hadn’t expected. Therapy. He thinks she should consider that there might be something else going on, something inside her head. Women fail to get pregnant and miscarry for no obvious medical reasons, he explained. Stress plays a big factor in spontaneous abortion. So does PTSD.

Dr. Egan knows that she was in the car when Judy died. He also knows that she hasn’t talked to anyone about the tragedy since her few therapy sessions right after the accident.

“I think we should do what the doctor suggested. We should see a therapist,” Mark announces.

Joy shakes her head. No therapy, and definitely not with Mark.

Judy’s death will come up. The therapist will make her pick apart that night in front of Mark. What if she slips and blurts the truth?

If she tells him, she’ll have to tell her parents, which means she’ll tell them everything. She’s been living a lie.

“You don’t want to do therapy? Would you at least talk about it with your parents then? I could mention something to them, if that helps. Do you want me to fly your mom out?”

“No, I—” She stalls, unsure how to explain or if she can.

“Joy, I’m going to take a leap here. I’ve respected your choice not to talk about your sister, but I think you should. You lost her and it hurt. You’re still hurting.”

“You don’t know a thing about how I feel.” She wants to leave the room. She tugs her hands.

Mark’s grasp tightens. “You’re right, I don’t. Listen to me. I’m trying to help. You don’t talk about her. It’s like she never existed.”

“That’s not true,” she whispers, an ache in her voice. Another tear falls. She thinks of Judy every time she tests a new tube of lipstick or walks around Manhattan while wishing she had her own line of skincare products and lived in Manhattan Beach.