Page 6 of Baby Makes 3
“Mail for you,” she says, handing me a small stack of white envelopes.
I quickly glance through them. “Mostly bills, but a couple of payments, too.” I hand them back to her. “Would you mind taking care of these?”
“No problem,” she says as she returns to her task of preparing the cash drawer.
Christy is a lifesaver. With her here to run the shop and handle most of the daily business tasks, I can concentrate on painting.
I pass through the curtained doorway to the work area in back. My art studio is divided into two sections. The front half is a retail shop featuring my paintings for sale, postcards, calendars, and various other art-related merchandise. The back half of the building is where I do my painting. At any given time, I have a dozen or more paintings in various stages of production. Some are commissions. Some are destined for the shop, and some are earmarked to go to art galleries in New York City, L.A., Atlanta, and right here in Chicago.
I stow my purse in a desk drawer, hang up my jacket, and put on my work apron in an effort to protect my clothes from paint and varnish. Today I’m putting on the final sealer coat on a painting of Chicago River commissioned by an assistant district attorney here in the city. He wanted me to paint the view out his high-rise office window.
I jump right into my work in an effort to keep my mind off the failed pregnancy test this morning. I’m still feeling the remnants of my emotional reaction. I guess it was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. My periods have been getting more and more erratic.
Each time I pee on a stick and am disappointed by the outcome, the pain hits harder. Deeper. I need to face reality.
I’m going into early menopause.
And that means I can’t give the man I love more than life itself the one thing he desperately wants.
We’ve already started to discuss other methods of starting a family—namely adoption and surrogacy. We’re open to both of them. I was holding out hope that we could do it the old-fashioned way but I think it’s time to let go of that dream.
After I apply a first coat of varnish to my commission, I retrieve my phone and call my OB-GYN’s office.
When the receptionist answers, I go through the spiel I’ve rehearsed in my head half-a-dozen times this morning. “Hi. This is Molly Ferguson. I’d like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Shaw.”
“Is there a day or time that works better for you?” the receptionist asks.
“I’d like her first available, if you don’t mind.”
“We just had a cancellation, so there’s an opening tomorrow at nine. Will that work?”
“Yes, thank you. That’ll be fine.”
I end the call and tuck my phone into my apron pocket.
“Molly, is everything okay?” Christy asks from the doorway.
I jump, not hearing her approach. “Yes, fine.”
She frowns. “I was just wondering because” —she points to me— “your eyes are red. I thought maybe you’d been crying.”
“Oh.” I was hoping it wouldn’t show. “It’s nothing. But thanks for asking. I appreciate it.”
Christy nods. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
The bell hanging over the front door rings, indicating we have a customer.
“I’ll get that,” she says as she steps back through the curtain.
I’m glad my doctor’s office was able to fit me in so quickly. Even though I’m afraid of what I’ll hear, I guess it’s for the best. We need to know.
Ineed to know.
Because the sooner I accept reality, the sooner Jamie and I can move forward.
Chapter 4 – Jamie
I hate feeling helpless. Molly’s hurting, and I don’t know how to ease her pain. She’s been through so much already—first beating breast cancer, then her ass-of-an-ex-husband abandoning their marriage, and finally surviving his attempt to kill her. It’s so unfair that her own body is betraying her now.