Rain Dance (2 page)

The nurse indicated the examination table. “Dr. Steele will be right in for your consultation. Just have a seat.”

While I waited for the doctor, my dread increased. Dr. Steele was confident we could conceive with a little help from him. Photographs and thank you letters lined the walls. Smiling parents held babies and celebrated birthday parties. Happy faces beamed from family pictures.

I remembered the questionnaires we had filled out about our health, motives, and ability to pay. The doctor invited us to add a page about anything we wanted. Ben and I wrote about our faith.

Dr. Steele read it and commented, “I feel much like a creator myself.”

Ben said, “We believe in only one Creator.”

Our physician shrugged and diverted our attention to the first test. He kept all conversations professional from then on despite the intimacy involved in our circumstances, even when disappointment moved me to tears in front of him. I guess that made it easier for all of us.

I gripped my damp, cold hands in my lap, while my thoughts tip-toed back to the woman in the waiting room. I decided it was time for a pity party.

How could this happen today of all days? I’m saying goodbye to a dream and she sits next to me? There’s nothing wrong with her goals. All the things she wants to do are good, but she is willingly sacrificing her baby on the altar of achievement. Does she think
that
because abortion is legal all women agree with her? Who was she trying to convince—herself or me? It’s not fair. Why can she conceive and I can’t?

Before I could battle the subject out further, the door swung open on silent hinges and Dr. Steele entered. His short, bristly gray hair stood straight up. Hazel eyes with amber flecks smiled from behind gold-framed glasses. His yellow smiley-face tie softened his starched shirt, creased trousers, and shiny shoes. A stethoscope hung around his neck.

“Hello, Jonica.”

We shook hands, and he sat in his desk chair.

“Where’s Ben?” he asked, as he slid a brochure on
in vitro
fertilization toward me.

His chair creaked when he leaned forward. “We can start anytime you’re ready.” He paused for a moment anticipating an affirmative answer.

A Godzilla-sized cramp squeezed my stomach.

I heard myself say, “Ben and I are done. Our insurance doesn’t cover the financial end of it, and the emotional costs are far too expensive. We don’t want to face the moral and ethical dilemmas that heroic medical methods involve.”

All my practice in front of the mirror at home hadn’t improved my verbal delivery.

He snapped his chair into the upright position. His eyes lit with a golden fire, and his lips drew a straight line across his face. He ran his hand through his hair, and let out a loud, slow breath.

“I can’t believe an educated and intelligent couple like you and Ben can’t see the future in medical science. Why let some outdated religious beliefs keep you from realizing your dreams?”

“God is the Creator of science. He knew you before your conception and gave you life as well as your incredible abilities as a doctor. He is the One who leads Ben and me in all areas of our lives. We’re uncomfortable with frozen sperm, harvested eggs, and test-tube babies. We don’t want to deal with three to six microscopic embryos—which we believe are human beings—inserted into my body and possibly losing them all. Each time we lost one, we’d grieve. We’ve decided to focus our love on the children already in our lives.”

“That’s quite a sermon.”

Suddenly short of breath, I couldn’t get a single word out. Cool air crossed over my tongue so I knew my mouth was open. The sensation caused a reflex action, and I pressed my lips shut.

“I’m sorry you feel this way. My confidence is in science and human abilities. Many Christian couples come to me for help and are grateful for our methods.” He flipped my file shut and continued, “What makes you superior to them?”

“We’re not better than anyone else—and if it works for others without guilt, I’m happy for them. It just isn’t right for us. I’m sorry I sounded so defensive. I hate it when I get that way. We made this a prayerful decision. I hoped you’d accept our choice. I didn’t want it to end this way.”

“This is goodbye then. I wish you the best in your life.” He rose to leave.

“Do you ever wonder if you’re wrong and God is real?” I asked, also standing.

He held the door open for me. “I don’t need to hear about your beliefs. I read your forms, and other Christians come here. I’ve heard it all before.”

I reached into my purse. “I’d like to give you a small gift as my thanks for your effort to help us.”

“Clinic policy doesn’t allow us to accept gifts from patients.”

“Maybe you’d like to borrow this book from me then.” I handed him
The Case for Christ.

“This is a new one,” he muttered, glancing at the back cover.

“I know you’re disappointed and so are we. Please know we appreciate your knowledge and the time you spent with us. I’d love to be able to send you a photo of a little girl who looks like me or a little boy who looks like Ben celebrating a birthday or Christmas. Without divine intervention, that’s not going to happen.”

The lump in my throat warned me I was close to tears, but I managed to say, “Goodbye Dr. Steele.”

The golden flames in his eyes receded. “Good-bye.”

I watched him walk away. For all his gruffness and disbelief, I would miss him. He wanted to help us conceive and couldn’t. In a way, we’d both just lost. I walked down the hallway in the opposite direction. It was over.

When I returned to the waiting room, I heard the receptionist call, “Stacie Cutter.” Stacie got up and followed her out of my sight down the other hall.

I wanted to run and considered finding the stairs. Instead I paced while the elevator made a slow climb to my floor. A man on crutches and a woman in a wheelchair shared my descent and got off on different floors along the way down.

I dug the keys out of my purse while I speed walked to the parking ramp. Shaking, I missed the lock on my car door and the key scratched the paint.

I got into the car. Yanking on my seatbelt, I grabbed my payment stub from behind the visor. The tires squealed as I took the tight ramp corners a little faster than usual.

Hold on until you get home
, I commanded my tears.

I paid the smiling man at the booth, then three red lights and two stop signs later pulled into our driveway. I ran up the sidewalk, unlocked the back door, and threw my purse on the counter.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen with both fists clenched so tightly that my fingernails gouged my palms. My mind registered the pain, and then I pressed harder.

I sobbed out loud, “Lord, I’m angry! Why us? We waited for intimacy until marriage. We did what You asked. We love children. We tithe, we pray, we go to church. We believe in You, and we always will. Please tell me why You give children to women who will throw them away. Father, I feel so empty!”

Only the ticking clock answered my cry.

God said no. Our dream died, and Ben would always come home to only me.

Stacie

I wanted it to be over.

At the clinic I sat in the gaudy chair next to a natural beauty with just the right amount of shine. The woman’s long hair hung in soft, thick waves below her shoulders. Light lemon highlights shimmered among darker blonde tresses. She wore only a clear coat of polish on her rounded nails and sat with her slender legs crossed at the knee.

She flipped through a business magazine. We talked for a while. When she told me about her infertility, I blurted out my reason for coming. She stared at me for a moment, eyes opened wide as if in shock, then returned to her magazine.

What in the world is wrong with you?
I chided myself
. Why did I tell a complete stranger my life story? What if she’s one of those religious anti-abortionists?

The woman seemed sweet, but tense. She wanted children and couldn’t have them. I was pregnant and didn’t want to be. Reality as I saw it went this way: When life handed us challenges, we needed a plan and the guts to work it.

As a part-time research assistant, I believed my career would soon advance. A little pink on a home pregnancy test didn’t change anything.

My husband, Mike, was out of town on a business trip, but I knew he agreed with my goals. Starting a family right now didn’t fit our plan. We wanted a bigger house, nicer cars, and money to travel—freedom.

Hunger for success gnawed at my insides. A law degree and passing the bar exam had begun the process. I wanted to give the abused a voice.

I sometimes wondered why I resented men. The guys in my life treated me with love and kindness. I pushed back the question and told myself,
Who cares. Women need you.

As I waited to be called, my annoyance grew. Sitting idle was never one of my strengths. Even as a kid I hated to wait my turn. I preferred action and if it didn’t come my way, I found creative ways to start arguments and, given enough time, fist fights.

What a hassle. Dr. Steele had better know someone who performed abortions and soon. Waiting meant time to think, and I’d done enough of that.

I shoved away my niggling nerves and calmed myself with the reasoning I had learned in health classes at school and at home all my life: “It’s your body; your choice. The world is full of unwanted and unloved children. Complete a pregnancy only when the time is right for you. Besides, the world is overpopulated anyway.”

The words helped—sort of like a religious mantra, except I didn’t believe in God. No church or guilt feelings were going to get in my way. The only creed I knew, Eve, my mother, had instilled in me long ago. It involved believing in her, in the superior abilities of women, and in my rights. I struggled with the “me” part. If Eve was never satisfied with me, how could I be? The men in my life adored me. Why wasn’t that enough?

Eve admitted I was beautiful, but even that didn’t garner her approval. I could still hear her telling me on my tenth birthday, “Your beauty can be a handicap or a powerful tool. Men will see you as someone to control and often make their choices based on your appearance. Use your looks to get to the door of success, then knock it down with your brain. You must always be in control of your body, mind, and destiny. Reproductive choices belong to you.”

The fire in her heart flashed into her jade eyes when she shared the importance of women’s rights. Eve’s passion. A childish desire bothered the edges of my mind. I longed to be the one she fought for, stood with, and held close. I wanted to be her passion. I didn’t even come in second.

She molded me from a distance but with determination. She regarded any and all resistance as rebellion. No free thinking was allowed. She badgered me with her beliefs as if I were someone to be converted to her cause at all costs. I questioned her only in my mind.

Her strong voice echoed in my memory, “I sacrifice my personal life to make the world a better place for you and all women. As a senator I can stop men from holding women back.”

Sometimes I believed her. Most of the time, I missed her.

I heard the woman next to me breathe in sharply. I thought she was going to say something to me, but just then the nurse called, “Jonica Johnson.”

She stood, took a step, then turned back and offered me her magazine.

When she had gone, my mind wandered again to Eve. Although we enjoyed different styles of clothes and decorating, in the mirror I was her reflection. I hoped when she saw herself in me it helped. I wanted her love, but more than anything I yearned for her to be proud of me. College graduation and passing the bar had worked for a while. But Mike and marriage came between us.

He made enough money as an architect that he encouraged me to follow my dreams. Eve was certain he had a hidden agenda that translated into me becoming a dependent wife.

“He will insist his ways are your ways,” she warned.

Dad enjoyed watching me fall for Mike and get married. He believed our relationship energized me. He was right.

My father allowed Eve to follow her dreams, standing beside her when she asked and apart from her when she didn’t. He understood that her job demanded times of separation.

Eve considered my love for Mike a weakness. She didn’t want me to need anyone—especially a man. The independence she wanted for me required complete acceptance of her ideology. No wavering or defining my own way—that had been done by the feminists who had gone before me.

In my first big act of rebellion, I planned the wedding. My dad wrote the checks and celebrated my excitement. Eve made an appearance and only enjoyed the day when the press arrived. While she posed and postured, I danced and fantasized about my honeymoon.

I considered telling her about the pregnancy. I knew it would displease her. I could feel her disdain over what she would assume was my lack of physical restraint and my misuse of birth control. I couldn’t tell her we’d used so many products I had no idea how one tiny cell from Mike connected with one from me. She’d take that as a lie and question my intelligence yet again.

I’d find time to tell her later, after I made the reproductive choice she’d fought so hard for. I wanted to tell Dad, but couldn’t stand the possibility he might be happy to be a grandparent. Mother’s philosophy drove me on.

I’d craved Eve’s acceptance for as long as I could remember. Moving ahead of my class in elementary school and graduating from high school and college early weren’t enough. None of my accomplishments satisfied her. She continued to push me on to yet bigger things.

I checked the time on the watch Eve had given me for college graduation. The silver scales-of-justice charm twinkled in the artificial light. After not reading a single word in my book, I closed it. Jonica came around the corner, clutching her purse as if holding on for dear life. She hesitated as though unsure which direction to go.

The nurse called out, “Stacie Cutter.”