behind his desk in a plush, red-leather chair writing in the notes of the previous patient. Behind him, the solitary window framed his upper torso like a painting, through which the last remaining rays of the day shrouded his head and shoulders in a glowing tippet. His pristine white shirt was probably designer label, Michael guessed, as most likely was the navy-blue suit and maroon and white striped tie he was wearing. He oozed cash, and Michael now had a clear understanding why the secretary was so protective of him. He felt a prick of jealously and briefly wondered what Angie was thinking.
The secretary gestured for them to take a seat in the leather chairs facing the doctor. Then she put Angie’s file on top of the desk and slipped quietly out of the room. While the doctor busied himself with the previous patient’s notes, Michael quickly scanned the room. Like the doctor, the office was immaculately decked out. The desk, something antique and mahogany by the look of it, dominated the room and engendered an air of iatric importance. On the wood-paneled walls to his left were the doctor’s many certificates and diplomas, hanging like captured standards. The breakfront bookcase to his right was filled with leather-bound medical books. Michael could imagine what Angie was thinking. The décor was what she would call “tastefully expensive,” everything from the gold plated fountain pen the doctor was scrawling with to the plush crimson carpet beneath their feet. It was not his type of décor at all, too garrulous, too pretentious. He felt distinctly ill at ease.
The doctor closed the file he had been writing in and reached for the new one. An awkward silence had fallen upon the room. “Hi, I’m Dr. Benjamin Rouben,” he said, clearing his throat and smiling broadly. Michael figured this was his “welcome” smile to first comers, one that was supposed to make them feel relaxed, but it looked forced and overly cheesy. “But please call me Billy, that’s what my friends call me.” He turned to each one in turn and acknowledged who they were.
Angie’s returning smile was anxiously thin and Michael saw her tighten her grip on her handbag. Michael flicked his eyes back to the doctor, nodded once, rigidly, and then lowered his gaze to his hands. The doctor reminded him of a Sicilian God-father. His dislike for him was immediate and surprisingly visceral. He disliked his slick black hair that clung like fresh paint to his scalp. He disliked the perfect whiteness of his teeth. He even disliked his olive skin, and he especially disliked his dark brown eyes that crawled all over Angie and mentally undressed her. True, he disliked most doctors, except his dad. They were all no-good arrogant sons of bitches who thought they were god, especially this one. Who was he trying to impress with his why-don’t-you-call-me-Billy routine and smiling like a cat that just ate the canary?
Michael shifted in his chair, decidedly uncomfortable with this whole thing. He looked at Angie, almost pleading with his eyes. He wanted to tell this guy thanks, but no thanks, that coming here was an unfortunate mistake, and then go and find another doctor who didn’t look so smarmy.
“Welcome to my clinic,” Dr. Rouben said, directing himself mainly to Angie. “I know you must be nervous. Everyone is on the first visit. But don’t worry, soon this place will be like your second home, and I hope just as comfortable.”
Angie kept returning his smile, and Michael kept shifting in his seat like one of his boys in his class desperately holding on to a full bladder. He really didn’t want to hear all this. He just wanted to get up and leave, but he knew the chances of that were not very good.
Dr. Rouben glanced down at the open file on the desk. “I have a little information about you both here,” he said, “from the preliminary medical form you sent to my secretary. Do you mind if I run through it with you to make sure everything is in order?”
Michael saw Angie nod out of the corner of his eye. It was obvious that she wasn’t having the same doubts he was. He resigned himself to staying. That’s okay, he thought. He’d hear him out and then tell Angie what he thought of him when they were at home.
“How often do you get migraines?” Dr. Rouben asked Angie.
“Not often, maybe three or four times a year,” she said.
“Do you take any medication for it?”
“Only pain killers. Nothing really works, just rest and a dark room.”
Dr. Rouben picked up his gold fountain pen, scrawled a brief note in her file and then flipped over to the last page of the questionnaire. “It says here that you had your first period when you were twelve.” Angie nodded again. “Have there been any problems?” he asked, to which she shook her head.
Michael looked at her, cocking his eyebrow. Had she not mentioned anything about the pain in her stomach? When did she plan on telling him? Or was she going to keep quiet about it?
“It seems everything is in order,” Dr. Rouben said. “There doesn’t seem to be any obvious medical concerns that would preclude you from conceiving a child, so now we need to get to the bottom of why it’s not happening. I believe you’ve been trying to have a baby for nearly three years.”
Angie nodded, gripping her handbag even tighter than she had. “Over three and a half, actually.”
Dr. Rouben cleared his throat again. “Before I go into the details of what this clinic is all about, and what we would like to do over the next few months, I want to be frank with you both. Ten percent of adults in the western world, male and female, are infertile. That means for every ten of your friends one of them cannot conceive a child. Either of you may be that one. This means that anywhere between ten to twenty percent of couples are going to be childless.” The room was silent. To Michael, it was as if the doctor was deliberately letting this piece of information sink in for several seconds before he went on. “Before we go any further, it is imperative you wash away all your feelings of guilt – both of you – for not being able to have a child the so-called normal way. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Michael crossed his right leg over his left, feeling uncomfortable with the direction this was going. It was opening up too many fresh wounds in his and Angie’s relationship, wounds that he’d rather have let heal in their own time without someone else intervening, especially someone like this guy. “We know it’s not our fault,” he began to reply.
Dr. Rouben held up his hand. “Of course, but it’s something that I like to address straight away.”
“Okay, thank you, Dr. Rou… Dr. Billy, but Angie and I are still a bit uncomfortable with this whole thing. We need a little more time before this will start to feel like a normal thing to do.”
Angie shot him a glance, but said nothing. He could sense that she didn’t appreciate him saying that. There was an impatient look in her eye, as if the last thing she wanted was to wait any longer for something to be done.
“I understand, but it may help to extinguish all concepts you may harbor of what you consider normal or natural,” Dr. Rouben said, twitching the first two fingers of both hands in the air, like rabbit ears, Michael thought, to emphasize the word “natural”. “This clinic specializes in assisting couples who are experiencing difficulties procreating, that’s all. We are not producing babies in factories. The pregnancy still takes nine months, the mother still gives birth, and the baby still needs feeding and its diaper changed. What can be more normal or natural than that?”
Michael switched legs. Angie remained silent.
“Look, Angie and Michael,” he said, directing himself mainly at Michael, sensing his unease. “I don’t want to do anything that you’re not comfortable with. That means both of you. If either of you are having doubts about going through with this, then it’s not going to work. I need full cooperation, no halfway efforts, and if you need
