Inconceivable! (35 page)

“Do you remember our first kiss?” John placed his hands on my waist as we faced each other, ignoring the masterpiece beside us.

“Of course. What I remember is how you tasted. Minty, delicious. But I was in shock because I totally wasn’t expecting to lock lips with you. I thought I was here as a reporter, remember?”

“I do. I’m glad you didn’t slap me or run screaming from the church. Happy anniversary, love.”

One year of marriage. Wowsers
.

After a make-out session in front of the altarpiece, we walked down the street arm in arm. Every shop window displaying baby clothes caught my eye. A physical ache rose up in my chest as I thought about going in and picking out organic cotton onesies for our baby-to-be. It didn’t matter I wasn’t yet pregnant. I would be soon, by golly, and I wanted to nest.

After passing the fourth baby clothing boutique, I told John to wait. A small bell jingled a welcome as I went inside. The ancient hardwood floors had an attractive luster, making the tiny clothes on miniature hangers seem even more delicate and luxurious. A light green sweater caught my eye. I took it from the rack, walked to the counter, and paid for it. Cash, of course. Didn’t want to leave behind any evidence.

When I emerged from the shop, John smiled. “Find something you like?”

“Yes. It’s darling.”

I pulled the sweater from the bag, realizing how reckless this was. If someone recognized us and saw me with baby clothes, it would be international news within minutes. But the streets weren’t crowded and no one was paying attention to us. We were unremarkable in our winter coats and hats.

“Baby King will love it,” John said, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

Sitting in front of my wardrobe at Langbroek, I held the sweater, marveling at its impossibly small size. The fabric felt soft against my cheek. I placed a light kiss on the garment before I wrapped it in white tissue paper with reverence and placed it in a plastic storage bin. The container also held the baby blanket Tilda gave me for Christmas, a pair of white crib shoes (Astrid placed the online order in her name), and my childhood copy of Goodnight Moon. Mom didn’t ask any questions when I asked her to mail it to me. But I was pretty sure she knew I was in baby mode.

As I slid the storage bin into the floor of my wardrobe, I remembered the other treasure I’d put in there last summer and my curiosity grumbled. I decided to make time to read a little more in Princess Beatrix’s journal. I decided to wait to tell lohn about it because I was afraid I’d no longer have the opportunity to read it. That seemed horribly selfish, but I never knew his mother. Reading her journal allowed me to get to know her through her own words rather than John’s memories. I was eager to read more.

r. Dreesen will be ready to see you in about fifteen minutes. Would you please just wait here?” The nurse left us alone in the waiting room. Our guards stood in the hallway.

John screwed up his lips on one side; he looked torqued. He never had to wait for anything or anyone.

I adjusted in my chair, creating a loud series of squeaks. I looked at my phone and the date jumped out at me. Adela’s due date, March 22, was rapidly approaching.

“Adela’s getting close, you know?”

John didn’t look up from his phone. This is why I almost never talked about the infertile elephant in the room. It was a miracle he was accompanying me to the doctor this time.

“Why can’t I be happy for them?” I asked because I really wanted to know.

“Because you aren’t happy for us. We seem to be stuck, and they’re about to cross the finish line.”

Get off your blinking phone and look at me!

“It hacks me off,” I said. “They didn’t wait to have sex until after they were married, and now they’re being rewarded with a baby. I’m an awful, terrible person for feeling that way.”

The door opened. “Hatty? John?”

Our first names. Nice touch. We stood and followed the nurse down a bright hallway with taupe walls.

Our attorney Lars Franke visited this doctor’s office last week and took care of the necessary paperwork, adding an extra layer of privacy protection on top of the country’s already-strict patient confidentiality laws. Having the medical staff sign additional confidentiality documents was a routine matter anytime a member of the royal family needed to see a specialist. That, and we always had our appointments after hours. Because we were seeing an OB/GYN who specialized in infertility, we
really
wanted to keep this on the down-low. In fact, John had asked Lars not to mention our appointment to anyone in the family.

The nurse led us into a spacious, neat exam room. “Dr. Dreesen will be right in to see you.”

John sat stiff and upright in the chair. When we were alone, I took his hand. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Of course. I’m interested in hearing what she has to say about you.”

“It’s kind of a team effort, you know. I can’t get pregnant on my own.”

I tried to be patient with him, but it wasn’t easy. I think it was the sight of Adela’s emerging bump that nudged John’s emotional barometer; since December, he randomly asked questions about our efforts to get pregnant. Him: Do you think we’re having enough sex? Me: I think sex every day definitely hits the mark. Him: Tell me again why you take your temperature every morning. Me: To track my basal body temperature so I know if I’ve ovulated.

I checked the time on my phone. Ten minutes after six. An alert flashed silently on the screen, telling me I had a new message from Kendra27. I read the first few words: “Good luck at the doctor…” I quickly darkened the screen and flipped my phone so it was facedown. I worried what John would think about me sharing a few details about my situation with a woman I’d “met” through an online infertility discussion site.

There was a short knock and the door opened. A petite woman with dark hair and a sizeable baby bump walked in. She extended her hand to each of us. “I’m Dr. Dreesen. It’s nice to meet you both. Tell me what’s been going on.”

I explained to her I’d gone off birth control pills in December 2013, less than a month before we were married. “I think Dr. Cloutier’s office sent you my records. I saw him late last summer, and he didn’t think anything was wrong. He told us to keep trying. What’s not in my chart is that in early December, the day my period was due, I did a pregnancy test. I saw two lines, but the second line was really faint. About an hour and a half later, I did another test. It was negative. The next morning, my period started.”

John squeezed my hand. Oh right. I’d never mentioned the tests to him.

“Was your period heavier than normal?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How long are your cycles typically?”

“Usually twenty-eight days. I was about five days late last July.”

“Do you have any pain with your period?”

“I went on the pill in high school to help with cramping. Since I went off the pill, I’ve had some pain, but I just take medicine for it.”

“How about during sex? Any pain then?”

John shifted in his chair. I knew this was way outside his comfort zone.

“No. Well, sometimes a little, but not enough that we have to stop.” Another tidbit I’d never shared with John.

“And not bad enough that she’s ever told me about it,” John said, looking past me to the doctor.

“Hatty, I’ll give you a minute to undress. I’d like to do an exam and we’ll also draw blood. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

When she was gone, I got undressed and for the first time, my nakedness didn’t stir a reaction from my husband. He sat there looking uncomfortable, nervously checking his phone.

My frustration with his emotional distance boiled. “Are you expecting a call?”

“No.”

When Dr. Dreesen returned, she completed the exam, and then drew blood from the crook of my arm. “We didn’t want to ask someone to stay late just to get your blood.”

She and I watched the red liquid snake its way through the tiny tubing attached to the needle in my arm. She slid the needle out after filling two vials and covered the tiny bleeding spot with a bandage.

“Hatty, you can get dressed. John, since we’re doing a fertility work-up, we’ll need to check your sperm count. We’ll look at the morphology and motility―the shape of the sperm and how well they move.” She opened a drawer and took out a plastic cup with a sealed lid and blank label.

“Take this in the bathroom…”

“I’m sorry. I need to go.” John left the room.

You’ve got to be kidding me? I just went all spread-eagle for this lady and you can’t pop some off into a cup?

Dr. Dreesen and I didn’t speak for a couple of seconds. I sat under a sheet on the exam table, my legs cold and my face burning in anger and embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I think this is all very strange for him. It’s weird for me too.”

“This process is overwhelming. Take this container with you. Perhaps you can convince him to do it at home. Just don’t use any lubricants or saliva. After you have the ejaculate in the cup, put the lid on and place it in your bra. You’ll need to keep it warm against your body and bring it to the office right away. Do you think you can do all that?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll get it done. Thank you for your help.”

“My nurse will call and schedule a follow-up so we can review the results.”