“Yesterday,” the mother said.
“Don’t give me that,” Marissa snapped.
“This child hasn’t been bathed in a week, if then.”
“Maybe it was a few days ago,” the mother admitted.
Marissa was livid. She was tempted to tell the girl she wasn’t fit to be a mother. Resisting the impulse, she buzzed one of the nurses and asked her to come to the examination room.
“What’s up?” Amy Perkins asked.
Marissa could not bring herself to look at the mother. She only gestured in her direction.
“This child needs to be bathed,” she told Amy.
“Also, these open sores need to be cultured. I’ll be back.”
Stepping from the examination room, Marissa went into the deserted supplies closet. She put her face in her hands, fighting back tears. She was disgusted with her lack of control. It was scary to be this close to the edge. She could have hit that girl. It made the discussion she’d just had with Linda Moore seem a lot less academic.
For the first time she wondered if she should continue seeing patients in this hyper emotional state.
“Why don’t we go out for dinner?” Robert suggested after coming home late as usual from his office.
“Let’s go to that Chinese restaurant. We haven’t been there for months.”
Marissa thought it was a fine idea to get out of the house. She wanted to talk to Robert, particularly after he’d slept in the guest room the night before. That had been a disturbing first. Besides, she was starved and Chinese food sounded particularly appetizing to her.
After he’d taken a quick shower, they climbed into Robert’s car and headed into town. Robert seemed in good spirits, which Marissa thought was a good sign. He was pleased about a deal that he’d struck that day with European investors concerning building and managing retirement-nursing homes in Florida.
Marissa listened with half an ear.
“I went to see the counselor at the Women’s Clinic today,” Marissa said when Robert’s story came to an end.
“She was even more helpful than I’d anticipated.”
Robert didn’t respond. Nor did he look at her. Marissa could sense immediate resistance to her turning the subject of their conversation to their infertility problems.
“Her name is Linda Moore,” Marissa persisted, “and she’s very good. She’s hopeful that you will come in for at least one session.”
Robert glanced at Marissa, then back at the road.
“I told you yesterday, I’m not interested,” he said.
“It might be helpful for us,” Marissa added.
“One thing that she suggested was deciding in advance how many cycles we are willing to try before giving up. She says it is less stressful knowing that the process is not open-ended.”
“How many did she suggest?” Robert asked.
“Eight,” Marissa answered.
“Four isn’t enough to take advantage of the statistics.”
“That’s eighty thousand dollars,” Robert said.
Marissa couldn’t answer. Was money always on his mind?
How could he reduce a child to a simple dollar value?
They traveled in silence for a while. Marissa’s interest in talking with Robert cooled, yet she still wanted to bring up the issue of his sleeping in the guest room. She had to say something.
Nearing the restaurant, Robert had no trouble finding a parking place. As Marissa opened her door, she found the courage to ask him about it. She discovered Robert wasn’t in the mood to discuss it.
“I need a vacation from all this,” he said irritably.
“I’ve been telling you that this in-vitro stuff is driving me crazy. If it’s not one thing, then it’s something else. Now it’s this counseling garbage!”
“It is not garbage!” Marissa snapped “There you go again,” Robert said.
“Lately I can’t talk to you without you flying off the handle.”
They stared at each other over the top of Robert’s car. After a moment of silence, Robert changed the subject again by saying, “Let’s eat.”
Disgusted, Marissa followed him into the restaurant.
The China Pearl was run by a family who had recently moved from Chinatown to Boston’s suburbs. The restaurant’s decor was typical: simple Formica-topped tables and a couple of ceramic red dragons. By that late hour only four or five of the twenty or so tables were still occupied.