the best magazines. It practically felt like a holiday at her office.
I flipped through the pages—past silly articles on celebrities who did things just like us regular folk, like pick up their own dry cleaning and wash their cars—and put the magazine down a couple of minutes later. Scanning the other titles, I picked up the latest copy of Femme and turned to the food and recipes section. It was nearly Thanksgiving, and Hannah had done a two-page spread on putting a holiday-worthy feast on the table in under an hour. Seeing her smiling face in the corner thumbnail photo made me think about how she’d looked nothing like that happy woman at our drink date the other night—her eyes red rimmed, her ponytail disheveled and her spirit broken.
She’d tried to cancel on me; she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to infect me, and could we do it another night? When I showed up at her place thirty minutes later, saying that unless she was vomiting or running a 104-degree fever, she was coming with me, she’d gotten dressed without another word. Ben had watched her carefully as she left the room to get changed, after which we chatted about the nonimportant stuff like work and the girls’ recent soccer game until she came back out. But I knew he was worried, like I was. The past few months had taken a lot out of her, and it was as if whatever was chewing her up inside had just showed up on the outside for all of us to see.
Another twenty minutes and two magazines later I sat on the exam room table, waiting for the doctor. There was a knock, and a woman’s voice from the other side of the door. “Kate? You all set?”
Lisa Kadari was a petite woman with a big presence. She had thirteen-year-old twin boys—whom she had somehow managed to birth naturally at six and half pounds apiece—golden skin and hair that hung straight down her back in a glossy black sheet. When I asked her once how she got her hair so shiny, she’d said genetics and coconut oil. So I’d gone out and bought a giant tub of the stuff, slathering it all over my hair that night. I’d woken up with an oil-stained pillowcase despite the plastic shower cap and a new pimple on my forehead. That was the end of my beauty experiment with coconut oil.
She came in and took both my hands in hers in greeting, and I could see the remnants of a henna tattoo on her skin. “My cousin got married this past weekend,” she said, holding her hands out—her fingers splayed to show off the temporary tattoo.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, noting how intricate the designs were as they wrapped around her fingers and snaked up her arm in deep brown vines and leaves and starbursts, disappearing under the sleeve of her pastel-pink blouse, which poked out from her white coat.
“Thank you, I agree. Now, tell me, how are things?”
I dutifully filled her in for a minute or so on the girls and David and life before she asked, “And what can I do for you today?”
At this question I shifted slightly, clearing my throat and looking at my toenails, which I had fairly hastily polished that morning when I realized how ugly they looked bare. My feet were never going to win me any compliments, my toes slightly wonky and nails ridged thanks to years of dance class in too-tight shoes.
I wasn’t due for my annual physical for another seven months, and had been vague with the receptionist when I’d called to see if she could squeeze me in.
“I had a few questions...” My voice trailed, and then I laughed. “I have no idea why I’m so nervous all of a sudden.”
Dr. Kadari smiled. “Questions about what?”
“About another pregnancy,” I replied, the words tumbling out of me quickly.
“You want to have another baby?”
“No...that’s not what I want...” Dr. Kadari’s eyebrows rose slightly as she waited for me to explain. “David’s vasectomy might make that a tad tricky.”
“Yes, that’s the whole point of a vasectomy,” she said, laughing with me.
I took a deep breath and looked down at my toes again. “So, here’s the thing. I’m wondering if I’m in okay shape to get pregnant again. If my eggs are, you know, still young enough and all that good stuff.”
She rested her hands on her crossed knees and leaned back in her chair. “Well, you’re only thirty-five and have two healthy, beautiful children,” she said. “Of course we never can tell about egg quality based on age alone, but I’d say you probably have at least a few healthy ones left.” She winked and smiled, and I smiled back, feeling infinitely more relaxed.
“I’m considering doing something and I wanted to get your medical opinion before I say anything to anyone else. Is that okay?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Dr. Kadari said. “So tell me, what is it you want to do?”
KATE
“I saw Dr. Kadari today,” I said, holding hands with David while we walked a few paces behind the girls. We had promised them after-dinner ice cream if they did their homework first, and we were on our way to make good on that promise.
“Oh, yeah? How is she?” David’s middle finger traced small circles on my palm, which tickled but not enough to pull my hand away.
“Good. Same. Tiny. Still with that perfect hair.” I sighed, running my other hand across my own hair, which was due for a wash.
David laughed watching me. “I hope you’re not thinking of pulling that coconut oil out again.”
“I gave that to Hannah ages ago. Apparently it’s great for baking.”
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