But it was so hard.
The problem manifested itself every day, every time she saw a pregnant woman, or a mother pushing a stroller, every time someone in her circle announced a pregnancy, a baby shower, a birth, it was there, underscoring her isolation.
She had devoted herself to helping troubled women, women who’d been abused. She guided them through the tragedies in their lives, helped them recognize lifelines, repair the damage and take control. Because she was contending with her own secret sorrow, it made her better at her job.
Above everything, she counseled her patients to never, ever, lose sight of the possibility that things could get better.
For Claire, her latest grasp at hope now stood before her at the edge of the Wilshire Corridor in the shape of a gleaming ten-story complex and the offices of Dr. Marlen LaRoy.
He was one of California’s leading fertility experts—a pioneer specializing in controversial treatments. Claire had been seeing him for the past few months. In that time she’d undergone a series of procedures and examinations to determine if she was a candidate for a radical experimental treatment.
Claire had been surprised, and mildly annoyed, when his office called her this morning to make a sudden, unscheduled appointment without giving her a hint as to what it was about.
She steered her Toyota into a parking space, then reached for her phone. Making this appointment meant she had had to juggle sessions with her patients, which was a concern.
She called her assistant.
“Doctor Bowen’s office.”
“Hi, Alice, it’s Claire. How is everybody doing?”
“So far so good. Except for Amber Pratt.”
“Amber? I don’t see her until next week.”
“She said she’s anxious, feels like she’s being watched. She wants to push up her next session.”
“Okay, see what we can do. Thanks. Gotta go.”
Claire took a deep breath, then headed into the lobby and stepped into the elevator, hoping she could get back to her practice by eleven.
“Ms. Bowen.” The receptionist stood to greet her. “Thank you for coming. Our apologies for such short notice, but Dr. LaRoy has to fly to a conference in Dallas today and insisted on seeing you beforehand.”
The receptionist directed Claire to the doctor’s office.
LaRoy was standing at the window, talking on his cell phone, and indicated for her to take the chair across from his desk. LaRoy was a thickset fifty-nine-year-old New Yorker, who’d graduated from Harvard. He had white hair and an air of sweet, gentle grumpiness. He finished his call, took his seat.
“Hello, Claire. We’ve got some results. I need to show you something before we talk.”
LaRoy began pecking at his keyboard that faced two monitors. He swiveled one toward Claire and showed her a series of images and graphs. For the next several minutes he reviewed the goal of the previous tests and procedures Claire had undergone. As LaRoy went over every detail, pointing to the monitor and explaining other images, Claire felt her pulse quicken.
“This is all good, right?” she said.
“It’s very good. Claire, this means you are receptive to the new drug and new cycle therapy. I’ll need you to sign some paperwork and take some literature home and read it.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll start you in a few weeks.”
“And then?”
“Within a few months you’ll be pregnant.”
“I’ve been pregnant before.”
“Yes, but I’m quite confident that this time you’ll give birth to a healthy baby.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Really?”
“We’ve checked your results carefully. All the indications are strong, Claire.” LaRoy passed her a tissue. “Really strong.”
5
Van Nuys, California
Pilot Robert Bowen eased the Gulfstream jet into the corporate hangar for ExecuGlide and cut its twin engines.
He liked the G200. It had a smart design and flew evenly no matter what the conditions were. Taxiing and landings were fluid.
God, how he loved to fly—loved the rush of power and control, to rise above everything on earth.
“That was a nice touchdown, Tim. Good to be home,” he said to his copilot, switching everything off and unbuckling his belts.
After bidding farewell to the eight TV producers they’d flown on a multi-city charter to Seattle, Vancouver and San Francisco, Bowen collected his bag and signed off on the flight. Heading for his SUV in the parking lot, he turned on his phone to text Claire, to let her know he’d returned.
A text from her was waiting for him.
Wishing you a safe landing. Dr. LaRoy’s office called me in this am. No appt—wouldn’t say why. Have to scramble. Good news maybe??? Talk later.
Love C.
Bowen responded.
Good landing. Good trip. Good luck with doc—any word?
He waited several minutes.
When no response came he figured Claire was driving, or with the doctor.
After placing his bag in the rear he got into his SUV. Nothing was out of place. No disturbed maps, take-out wrappers or filthy commuter cups. It was spotless, showroom clean and still smelled new. Bowen insisted on order. The leather seats squeaked as he buckled up. He flipped on the radio and listened to traffic conditions, then decided to take Ventura to the 101, rather than swinging over to the 5.
Joining the freeway traffic, he considered Claire’s text to him. He was hopeful her sudden call to see Dr. LaRoy would result in good news. How many times had they had their hopes raised only to be disappointed? It was not fair to Claire. It hurt him to see her anguish. She ached to have a baby, he wanted one, too, for her. It had cost them thousands, but he didn’t care. He loved her and would do anything for her. He didn’t want to lose what he had with her, the way he’d lost what he’d had with his first wife.
Cynthia.
Like Claire, Cynthia was beautiful and so giving. In his quieter moments he still thought of her. They had been so in love. At that time he was flying commercial, his schedule was brutal and he was rarely home. Cynthia began to change. She complained, grew jealous and started imagining terrible things.
It shouldn’t have ended the way it did, but they couldn’t continue and that was that. Why dwell on it? Sometimes, even after all these years, he’d felt something was unresolved and wished he could talk to Cynthia, to tell her he was sorry about the way it had turned out for them. But he had a new life now, a good life, and you can’t go back in time.
Bowen left Ventura and got on the 101 southbound. There was more traffic, but it was moving at a good speed. He’d gone less than half a mile when something blue rocketed by in the left lane, startling him.
He cursed.
The thing must’ve been doing one-thirty. Looked like a pickup truck. He couldn’t tell the model as it knifed through the lanes ahead, leaving a wake of brake lights and angry horns.
That idiot’s going to kill somebody.
The distraction passed, and with it, Cynthia faded from his mind.
He repositioned his grip on the wheel, maintained a safe speed as