passenger side of Robert’s car. Her body felt heavy and all she could think about was getting home and climbing into bed. She looked out at the rush-hour Harvard Square traffic with a sense of detachment. It was beginning to get dark. Most of the cars already had their lights on.
“Dr. Wingate told me your egg retrieval went very well,” Robert said.
Marissa nodded and looked across at him. His sharp profile was silhouetted against the evening lights. He didn’t look at her.
“We got eight eggs,” she said, emphasizing the “we.” She studied him to assay his response. She was hoping he’d pick up on her meaning. Instead, he changed the subject.
“Did you hear about the tragedy at the clinic?”
“No!” Marissa said.
“What tragedy?”
“Remember that woman who hit me?” Robert asked, as if Marissa could have forgotten.
“The one carrying on in the waiting room when we arrived? She apparently committed suicide.
Took a swan dive from the sixth floor into one of the flower beds.
It was on the noon news.”
“My God!” Marissa said. She remembered too well her own vivid identification with the woman. She had understood the woman’s frustration, feeling it so frequently herself.
“Did she die?” Marissa asked, half hoping there was a: chance that the woman had not succeeded.
“Instantly,” Robert said.
“Some poor patient on her way into the clinic saw the whole thing. Said the lady was sitting on a window ledge, then just dove headfirst.”
“That poor woman,” Marissa said.
“Which one?” Robert asked.
“Both,” Marissa said, although she had been referring to Rebecca
Ziegler.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me this also isn’t the right time to talk about this in-vitro protocol,” Robert said.
“But having that lady go berserk like she did underlines what I was feeling this morning.
Clearly we’re not the only ones to feel the pressure. I really think we should stop this infertility stuff after this cycle. Think about what it’s doing to your practice.”
The last thing Marissa cared to think about was her pediatric practice.
“I’ve spoken candidly with the director of my group and he understands,” Marissa explained, not for the first time.
“He’s sympathetic to what I am going through, even if other people aren’t.”
“That’s fine for the director to say,” Robert said.
“But what about your patients? They must be feeling abandoned.”
“My patients are all being taken care of,” Marissa snapped. In truth, she had been concerned about them.
“Besides,” Robert added, “I’ve had it with this ‘performing’ stuff. Going into that clinic and getting that plastic cup is demeaning.”
“Demeaning?” Marissa echoed, as if she’d not heard correctly.
Despite the Valium, she found herself once again strongly provoked.
After she had suffered that very day through a painful and risky procedure, she could hardly believe that Robert was making an issue of his brief, painless contribution to the process. She tried to restrain herself, but she couldn’t help speaking her mind.
“Demeaning? You find it demeaning? And how would you find spending a day flat on your back with your legs spread before an array of your colleagues while they poke and probe?”
“My point exactly,” said Robert.
“I didn’t mean to suggest this has been easy for you. It’s been tough on us both. Too tough.
Too tough for me, anyway. I want to call it quits. Now.”
Marissa stared ahead. She was angry and she knew Robert was. They seemed to be quarreling constantly. She watched the road ahead as it sped toward her. They stopped at the toll booth on the entrance to the Mass. Pike. Robert slammed the coins into the hopper with an angry gesture.
After ten minutes of driving in silence, Marissa had significantly calmed down. She turned to Robert and told him that Mrs. Hargrave had come to visit her that afternoon.
“She was My sympathetic,” Marissa said.
“And she
“Dr. Wingate told me your egg retrieval went very well,” Robert said.
Marissa nodded and looked across at him. His sharp profile was silhouetted against the evening lights. He didn’t look at her.
“We got eight eggs,” she said, emphasizing the “we.” She studied him to assay his response. She was hoping he’d pick up on her meaning. Instead, he changed the subject.
“Did you hear about the tragedy at the clinic?”
“No!” Marissa said.
“What tragedy?”
“Remember that woman who hit me?” Robert asked, as if Marissa could have forgotten.
“The one carrying on in the waiting room when we arrived? She apparently committed suicide.
Took a swan dive from the sixth floor into one of the flower beds.
It was on the noon news.”
“My God!” Marissa said. She remembered too well her own vivid identification with the woman. She had understood the woman’s frustration, feeling it so frequently herself.
“Did she die?” Marissa asked, half hoping there was a: chance that the woman had not succeeded.
“Instantly,” Robert said.
“Some poor patient on her way into the clinic saw the whole thing. Said the lady was sitting on a window ledge, then just dove headfirst.”
“That poor woman,” Marissa said.
“Which one?” Robert asked.
“Both,” Marissa said, although she had been referring to Rebecca
Ziegler.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me this also isn’t the right time to talk about this in-vitro protocol,” Robert said.
“But having that lady go berserk like she did underlines what I was feeling this morning.
Clearly we’re not the only ones to feel the pressure. I really think we should stop this infertility stuff after this cycle. Think about what it’s doing to your practice.”
The last thing Marissa cared to think about was her pediatric practice.
“I’ve spoken candidly with the director of my group and he understands,” Marissa explained, not for the first time.
“He’s sympathetic to what I am going through, even if other people aren’t.”
“That’s fine for the director to say,” Robert said.
“But what about your patients? They must be feeling abandoned.”
“My patients are all being taken care of,” Marissa snapped. In truth, she had been concerned about them.
“Besides,” Robert added, “I’ve had it with this ‘performing’ stuff. Going into that clinic and getting that plastic cup is demeaning.”
“Demeaning?” Marissa echoed, as if she’d not heard correctly.
Despite the Valium, she found herself once again strongly provoked.
After she had suffered that very day through a painful and risky procedure, she could hardly believe that Robert was making an issue of his brief, painless contribution to the process. She tried to restrain herself, but she couldn’t help speaking her mind.
“Demeaning? You find it demeaning? And how would you find spending a day flat on your back with your legs spread before an array of your colleagues while they poke and probe?”
“My point exactly,” said Robert.
“I didn’t mean to suggest this has been easy for you. It’s been tough on us both. Too tough.
Too tough for me, anyway. I want to call it quits. Now.”
Marissa stared ahead. She was angry and she knew Robert was. They seemed to be quarreling constantly. She watched the road ahead as it sped toward her. They stopped at the toll booth on the entrance to the Mass. Pike. Robert slammed the coins into the hopper with an angry gesture.
After ten minutes of driving in silence, Marissa had significantly calmed down. She turned to Robert and told him that Mrs. Hargrave had come to visit her that afternoon.
“She was My sympathetic,” Marissa said.
“And she
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