She didn’t bother to check her messages for fear the results from her pregnancy test had already been called in. Instead, she sat and brooded at her desk. Never had she felt- so isolated and alone. Except for Wendy, she couldn’t think of anyone to talk with.
After an hour, she began to entertain the idea of seeing some walk-in patients to take her mind off things, but then she quickly realized she was still too distraught to concentrate All she could think about was the Women’s Clinic.
When the telephone rang, she lifted the receiver off the hook before the first ring had completed. It had startled her.
“Hello?” she said.
“Dr. Blumenthal?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes,” Marissa said.
“This is the lab over at the Memorial,” the woman said.
“We have your beta human chorionic gonadotropin level. It was only two mg/ml. We can do another in twenty-four or thirty-six hours if you’d like, but it doesn’t look good.”
“Thank you,” Marissa said, her voice completely flat. She wrote down the value, then hung up the phone. It was exactly as she feared: a result just like Wendy’s. She wasn’t pregnant!
For a moment Marissa merely stared at the figure she had written on her scratch pad. Then her vision blurred with tears of grief. She was so tired of it all. She began to think of Rebecca Ziegler again and the troubles that drove the poor woman to suicide-if it was suicide.
Suddenly the phone rang again. Marissa grabbed the receiver with the ridiculous hope that it was the lab at the Memorial calling to say they had made a mistake. Could she be pregnant after all?
“Hello?” Marissa said.
“The operator told me you were in,” the receptionist explained.
“You have a visitor down here in the main reception.
Should I..
“I can’t see anyone,” Marissa said. She hung up the phone.
Almost immediately it rang again. This time she ignored it. After nine rings, it stopped.
A few minutes later there was a knock on her door. Marissa didn’t move. There was a second knock, but she continued to ignore it, hoping whoever it was would go away. Instead, she saw the knob turn. Marissa faced the opening door, ready to snap at whoever dared disturb her. But when she saw Dr. Frederick Houser’s portly figure at the threshold, she softened.
“Is there something wrong, Marissa?” Dr. Houser said. He was holding his wire-rimmed glasses in his hand.
“A few personal problems,” Marissa said.
“I’ll be all right.
Thank you for your concern.”
Undeterred, Dr. Houser stepped into the room. Marissa could see that someone was with him. With some surprise, she immediately recognized Cyrill Dubchek.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” Cyrill said.
Flustered, Marissa stood up, straightening her hair.
“Dr. Dubchek told me you and he worked together at the CDC,” Dr. Houser said.
“When the receptionist called me to say that you weren’t seeing visitors, I thought it was time for me to intervene. I hope I’ve done the right thing.”
“Oh, of course!” Marissa said.
“I had no idea it was Dr.
Dubchek. Cyrill, I’m so sorry. Come in, sit down.” Marissa gestured toward an empty chair. She hadn’t seen Cyrill for several years, but he’d not changed one iota. As usual he was impeccably dressed and was still as handsome as ever.
Thinking of her own appearance, Marissa became acutely selfconscious.
She knew she looked as terrible as she felt, especially with all her recent bouts of tears.
“I think I’ll let you two have some privacy,” Dr. Houser said tactfully. With that, he quickly left and closed the door.
“He told me you’ve been having quite a time with this infertility treatment,” Cyrill told her.
“It has been a strain,” Marissa admitted. She collapsed into her desk chair.
“Only moments ago I learned that the last embryo transfer was not successful. So I’m afraid I’ve been cryingagain.
I’ve been doing more than my share of crying over the last few months.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cyrill said.
“I wish there was some way I could help. But you look fine.”
“Please!” Marissa said.
“Don’t look at me. I can’t bear to imagine what I look like.”