Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber

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      Tears filled her eyes. Never in all her life had she wept as much as she had in these last few years. Before long, she had a thick wad of tissues in her hand.

      It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. She’d submitted to every therapy available and ingested a pharmacy full of drugs. All those drugs. God only knew what she’d done to her body or what risks she’d taken, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing mattered except having a baby. She was willing to swallow anything, inject her stomach with drugs, volunteer for any experimental program, if there was even the slightest possibility it would help her get pregnant—and stay pregnant.

      “What are you doing out here?” Doug came into the room wearing striped pajama bottoms and no top; it was how he always slept. He sat down across from her. “What’s the matter? Can’t you sleep?”

      Afraid that he might hear the tears in her voice, she shook her head.

      He didn’t say anything and they sat together in silence. After a few minutes, her husband stood up and stretched out his arm to her and pulled her into his embrace.

      “You should try to sleep,” he said.

      “I know.”

      He didn’t try to lead her back to bed and she was grateful.

      “What about you?” she asked.

      “I don’t think I can sleep without you.”

      She smiled, comforted by the knowledge that she was as much a part of him as he was of her.

      A ferry glided toward Vashon Island and Carol forced her attention onto its slow progress from Fauntleroy to Southworth. The terrible tension returned and she had to ask the one question that had hounded her for months. “What are we going to do if I don’t get pregnant this time?” Her words came out a broken whisper. “Adopt?”

      “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

      “I can’t wait. I need to know now.”

      “Why?”

      “What if the adoption agencies decide we aren’t fit parents? What if we can’t get an infant the way we want? What … what if the IVF fails again? Oh, Doug, I shouldn’t think like that and yet I can’t stop myself.”

      Doug’s sigh rumbled from deep within his chest. “Then don’t think like that. If the IVF fails, we’ll adopt and if we aren’t accepted by the agency, then we won’t have children. Other couples have survived and we will, too.”

      “No … we won’t.”

      “Carol.”

      “It might be all right between us for a while, but then one day you’ll look at some little boy or girl and—” The lump in her throat made it impossible to continue.

      Doug didn’t try to deny it. “Don’t say that.”

      She gave a helpless shrug.

      “What makes you think we won’t be able to adopt? Other couples our age adopt. Why can’t we?”

      “Because we’re too late.”

      “Too late? Why is it too late?”

      “Because the waiting lists are years long. By the time they get to our name, we’ll be in our midforties.”

      “You’re erecting roadblocks where there aren’t any.”

      Carol couldn’t respond. Her misery was too great. It was easy for Doug to say she was agonizing over nonexistent problems; it wasn’t his body that failed them month after month.

      “We’re going to have a baby,” Doug said.

      “Don’t say that,” she cried.

      “Carol, stop it. You’re getting hysterical.”

      “I’m hysterical and frightened and depressed and—”

      “Defeated. Why go through with the procedure if you’ve already decided it isn’t going to work?”

      “Because I have to know.”

      “You want to know that you can’t get pregnant?” he asked gently.

      Doug thought he was helping but he wasn’t. In fact, he was making everything worse. “Just leave me alone.”

      “Carol, for heaven’s sake …”

      “I don’t want you here. I need some time by myself.” It was like this with the drugs, these wild mood swings. They’d been warned; nevertheless, Carol was caught unprepared.

      Doug stood up and walked over to the window. Gazing into the moonlit night, he rubbed his hand over his face as though considering his options. “I don’t think I should leave you alone.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

      “Please just go.”

      “You need me.”

      “Not now … I need to be by myself.”

      “Carol …” He turned toward her.

      “Please, Doug.”

      He hesitated and then reluctantly walked into the bedroom.

      As soon as he was gone, Carol wanted him back. She wanted him to take her in his arms and reassure her of his love. She wanted him to tell her he’d love her to the end of time, with or without a child.

      Closing her eyes, she fought off the ugly negative voices that harassed her from all sides and tried to think positive thoughts. It was a technique she’d learned from her online support group—creating the image of what you want and seeing it in such clear detail that you begin to accept the possibility … the reality.

      She pictured herself pregnant, her stomach extended, wearing a cheerful maternity top. Doug’s hands rested on her tummy and he bent over and kissed her belly. When he straightened, his eyes were full of love and pride. That was the image she held on to, the picture she framed in her mind. She refused to let her doubts defeat her.

      At some point during the night, she must have fallen asleep on the sofa. Before dawn, she stirred and climbed back into bed. Pressing her body against Doug’s, she cuddled him close and draped her arm across his waist.

      When she woke again, Doug was cuddling her. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

      “I am now.” She groaned and rolled onto her back.

      “What time did you come to bed?”

      “I don’t know, I didn’t look.”

      He nibbled on her ear. “Do you feel better?”

      She managed a soft smile. “Yes.”

      “Good.”

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