by Tracy Weber
Sam was skeptical about babysitting all three dogs at once, but Rene, as always, was confident. She was already Bella’s designated dog-sitter, so how much trouble could two tiny puppies be? A true friend would have warned her, but these were extenuating circumstances. I vowed I’d make it up to her. Someday.
With a hundred and twelve pounds of canine chaos unloaded on my best friend, I headed to the studio to pick up Tiffany for our eleven o’clock appointment at Reproductive Associates.
She stood outside Serenity Yoga’s front entrance wearing an impatient scowl—and not nearly enough else.
“At least she’s not dressed in yoga clothes this time,” I muttered to no one in particular.
Tiffany wore a deep burgundy miniskirt that ended a mere four inches below her lady parts—about the same measurement her black platform shoes added to her 5'4" frame. The matching, midriff-
bearing bra-top exposed more skin than it covered, and its open back hinted that she wore no undergarment beneath it. She carried a black jacket draped over her left forearm, though why she chose to cover that part of her anatomy was beyond me.
She opened the door and hopped into the passenger seat. “No Bella?”
“It’s too hot to leave her in the car today. She’s at Rene’s.”
Tiffany stared from my shirt to my shoes and back again, frowning at my loose cotton slacks and conservative white blouse. “I thought you’d dress up a little. You practically look like a nun. They’ll never believe we’re a couple.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t know how to dress for an appointment. Where do you think we’re going? A strip club?”
“It’s hot out! Besides, this outfit is a lot dressier when I put on the jacket.” She latched her seat belt. “Come on, let’s get going. We don’t want to be late.”
After thirty minutes spent navigating Seattle’s famously slow traffic, we arrived at the fertility clinic’s main office, which was located in one of downtown Seattle’s newer glass skyscrapers. Twenty floors later, I stopped outside the elevator and fastened all three buttons of Tiffany’s waist-length, three-quarter-sleeve jacket. She responded by unbuttoning the top two of my blouse.
“I’m clearly the more feminine partner in this relationship,” she quipped.
“Fine. Whatever. But remember, I ask the questions. You listen and say nothing. I don’t think we’re breaking any laws with this little deceit, but I’m not positive. The last thing you need is another arrest on your record.”
“Stop worrying. I’ll be as quiet as a little church mouse.” Tiffany grabbed my arm and pulled me down the hall. “Let’s go!”
She sauntered through the double-glass doors and whistled. “Oooooh … swanky.”
And it was.
A huge saltwater aquarium spanned the reception area’s entire back wall. Water cascaded down tall stone fountains, filling the room with nature’s most soothing lullaby. The room even smelled tropical, thanks to huge floral bouquets scented with jasmine and tuberose.
But in spite of the soothing, gorgeous atmosphere, a single phrase reverberated through my mind. Trying too hard. The room’s energy felt conflicted, empty somehow. As if it couldn’t decide whether to be relaxing, hopeful, depressing, or tragic. Pamphlets advertising infertility support groups were artfully arranged on one set of tables. Photos of smiling infants decorated another. A tense-looking, middle-aged couple filled out forms while avoiding eye contact with each other. I unconsciously placed my hand on my belly. I’d recently told Michael that we should wait a few years before starting a family. Was that a mistake I’d later regret?
“Can I help you?”
An olive-skinned woman behind a large reception desk motioned me toward her. Her name tag read Daria Martelli.
I curled my lips up into a fake smile. “Oh, sorry. I got distracted looking at the space. It’s beautiful. I’m Kate Davidson. I’m here for an eleven o’clock appointment.”
Tiffany sidled next to me and spoke in a much louder voice than I would have preferred. “I’m here for moral support. I’m her partner, Tiffany.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you both. I’m Daria. We work with a lot of same-sex couples.” She smiled at me. “I’ll need your driver’s license and insurance card please.”
Nervous uncertainty tickled my belly. “Sorry, I left my insurance card at home. I thought the first appointment was free.”
“It is, but we like to get everything photocopied for your chart.” Daria shrugged. “No worries. I can make a copy of it the next time you come in. I will need your driver’s license, though.”
I reluctantly handed her my ID. She photocopied it, then returned it along with a multi-page form attached to a clipboard. “Fill this out, both front and back, and be sure to sign at the bottom. The doctor’s assistant will call you back shortly.”
I slinked across the lobby to the chair farthest from the desk.
Tiffany chastised me every step. “You didn’t ask her any questions!”
“She’s not the person I want to talk to.”
“So? You want to know more about the guy who got killed, right? Who better to ask than the receptionist! Receptionists talk to everybody. I’ll bet she knows more about that doctor than he knew about himself.”
She was right.
“Let me fill out the new patient forms first. Then I’ll have an excuse to go back and talk to her.”
“Fine,” Tiffany grumbled. “But you’re a much better patient than you are detective.”
She had a point about that, too.
Tiffany curled next to me in a comfy blue loveseat while I answered page after page of embarrassing questions. When I’d had my first period (age twelve), how regular my cycles were (like clockwork), if I’d ever been pregnant before (no, thank goodness), and the number of abortions I’d had (zero).
I flipped over the page and stared at a long list of sexually transmitted diseases. The form asked me to indicate whether or not I’d ever acquired each disease by circling the word yes or no next to it.
Tiffany peered over my shoulder and pointed to one in the middle. “Pick that one.”
I yanked the form out of her reach and hissed, “Are you nuts? I am not falsifying my own medical records. How rude are you, anyway? What if the answer really was yes.”
Tiffany rolled her snooping, prying, beady little eyes. “Puh-lease, Kate. You’re much too boring to have contracted a social disease.”
I turned my back to her and completed the form in private. Ten minutes later, a middle-aged blonde woman entered the waiting room.
“Kate Davidson? We’re ready for you now.”
I leaned over and whispered to Tiffany, “Keep your eyes open for a pretty Hispanic woman. It might be Mariella.”
The nurse led us down a long hallway while we dawdled and stalled and glanced in every open doorway, hoping to glimpse Mariella. No success. The blonde ushered us into a tastefully decorated office and pointed to two guest chairs.
“Dr. Steinman is finishing up with a guest. He should be with you shortly. Would you like a bottle of water or an espresso?”
“Seriously?” Tiffany replied. “I would kill for a latte.”
“I’ll have the receptionist bring one in for both of you.”
She exited the office and closed the door behind her. Tiffany leaned toward me and whispered, “What kind of ritzy doctor’s office is this? When I go to the free women’s health clinic, I’m lucky if the water fountain works.”
I ignored her question and asked one of my own. “How much time do you think we have? I’d like to snoop around a little.”
“Go for it. If anyone comes, I’ll tell them you went to the bathroom.”
I cracked open the door and peered up and down the empty hallway. I’d already checked out the exam rooms to the right, so I turned left and glanced into the larger room acr
oss the hall. It was filled with an assortment of lab equipment, microscopes, and computers. A woman in plum-colored scrubs eyed me curiously.
I smiled, then quickly turned away. “Sorry, wrong room.”
Next to the lab, I hit pay dirt: a closed door with Dr. Jones’s name on it. His office, I assumed. I tried the handle. Locked.
The receptionist’s voice sounded behind me. “Can I help you?”
I pasted on a confused expression. “I’m sorry. I went to the restroom and got turned around. Isn’t this the office I was waiting in?”
She smiled. “No. Dr. S’s office is two doors down. Come on, I’ll show you.” She gestured with her chin to the tray of porcelain mugs she was carrying. “These are for you.”
When we entered the office, Tiffany stood at the wall, pretending to examine Dr. Steinman’s many diplomas. I had a feeling she’d been doing some snooping herself.
Daria set a cup on the desk in front of each guest chair. “I make a fabulous latte, if I do say so myself.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We’re not used to such great service in a medical facility. Do you treat all of your patients this well?”
“You’re more than patients to us,” Daria replied. “You’re part of our professional family.” She smiled. “We like to make all of our guests feel welcome.” She pointed to a silver container. “We have sugar, honey, brown sugar, and artificial sweeteners if you need them.” She tucked the tray under her arm and turned to leave. Tiffany poked me in the ribs and mouthed, Ask her something.
I resisted the urge to poke Tiffany back and asked the first question that came to my mind. “Hey, were you the person I spoke with on the phone yesterday?” Tiffany had made the phone call, of course, but hopefully Daria hadn’t figured that out.
She stopped at the door. “No, I don’t answer the phones. Dr. S wants me free to focus on guest hospitality. You spoke to our scheduling assistant. She makes all of his appointments.”
“Well, please tell her how grateful I am that she fit us in so quickly, given the circumstances.”
“Circumstances?”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “The doctor who was killed.”
“Dr. Jones.” Daria’s smile disappeared. “You know about his death? Is that why you were poking around outside his office?”
I pretended to be surprised. “Was that his name on the door in the hallway?” I shuddered. “Creepy.” I put my hand on Tiffany’s shoulder. “Hon, can you believe that? I almost walked into a dead man’s office.” I looked back at Daria. “I don’t know why I didn’t remember his name from the newspaper. I must be more nervous than I thought.”
Daria narrowed her eyes suspiciously. I widened mine in pretend innocence.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “This is a big day for you.” She turned toward the door again, clearly trying to end the conversation.
Tiffany spoke. “It must suck to have your boss murdered. Unless he was a jerk, that is.”
Daria stiffened. “Dr. Steinman is my boss. But yes, Dr. Jones’s death is a terrible loss to his patients. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
Tiffany interrupted. “What will happen with them? His patients, I mean.”
Daria frowned but didn’t answer.
I reached over and interlaced my fingers with Tiffany’s. “I’m sorry. All of these questions must seem terribly rude. Please understand, this baby is important to us. We don’t want our case to get lost in the transition.”
Daria glanced behind her, then eased back into the room. “You won’t have to worry about that. Dr. S held a staff meeting this morning. The clinic’s future is secure. He has a long list of fertility specialists vying to get on staff here, and he plans to have two new doctors on board within the next month. He’s wanted to bring on additional physicians for some time. Now that he’s the sole owner, he can.”
“Wow,” Tiffany replied. “Sounds like the clinic may be better off without Dr. Jones.”
Daria stared at her feet for a moment. When her eyes met Tiffany’s, they seemed conflicted. “I wouldn’t say that. Not exactly. Dr. Jones was a great doctor. His patients loved him. But he was complex. He didn’t have good—”
A stern voice interrupted from the doorway.
“Daria! Shouldn’t you be at your desk?”
I gasped, and not simply because I’d been startled. I recognized the man scolding Daria. It was the silver-haired man I’d seen standing with Dr. Dick and Mariella at Lake Washington Medical Center’s open house.
Dr. Steinman, I presume.
Daria flinched. “Sorry, Dr. S. I was just telling these two ladies how much they’ll enjoy being clients here. I’m headed back to my desk now.” She scurried out of the office.
He closed the door behind her and smiled at us through impossibly white teeth. “I’m Dr. Charles Steinman. Which one of you is the patient?” I wiggled my fingers. He reached out and shook my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. … ” He glanced down at my chart. “Ms. Davidson.” He tilted his head toward Tiffany. “And you are?”
“I’m Tiffany Davidson. At least I will be, after we get married.” She wrapped her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “We got engaged last week.”
Dr. Steinman kept smiling, but his brow furrowed. “Well, that’s wonderful. Congratulations.” He sat behind the desk, laid my chart face-down on its surface, and laced his fingers together. “So, you two ladies are ready to start a family. How can I help?”
I pointed at the paperwork I’d spent twenty minutes completing. “Don’t you want to read my chart first?”
He gazed across the wide walnut desk, unblinking, as if preparing to deliver a well-rehearsed speech. “Here at Reproductive Associates, our relationship with your family is more than writing on a clipboard. More, even, than the process of uniting sperm and egg. We like to think of ourselves as your extended family. If you’ve read our website, you know that we stay with our clients from pre-conception through birth. If you’re a good fit for our clinic, the three of us will spend significant time together for well over a year. There will be plenty of time to discuss your patient forms. For now, tell me about you.”
I froze, my mind suddenly blank. A professional detective would have already come up with a detailed backstory. But a professional detective wouldn’t have spent the last week teaching yoga and wrangling six-pound fur demons. I stalled by asking a question. “What would you like to know?”
“Why don’t you start by telling me your goals?”
“Goals?”
“Yes. Why do you want to start a family now, and what made you choose Reproductive Associates?”
Tiffany chewed on her bottom lip and pointed to me. “Kate’s the one who made the appointment. Go on, Kate. Tell him.”
They both stared at me expectantly. I was afraid I’d stumble over a lie, so I opted to tell the truth. Or at least a version of it. I spent the next fifteen minutes talking about Michael and me, though I substituted Tiffany’s name for Michael’s. How we’d met when I was trying to find a home for Bella, how we’d fallen in love almost instantly, how I’d stupidly tried to throw our relationship away, and how after six months of living together, our relationship seemed more solid than ever.
To my surprise, I actually believed the words I spoke next. “I’m thirty-three now. I know my biological clock isn’t ticking very loudly—at least not yet—but I might want to have multiple children. I probably shouldn’t wait much longer.”
Dr. Steinman pushed my file to the edge of his desk. “Our scheduler told me that you seemed to be in a hurry.” He looked at his desktop for several beats, then back up at me. “I understand your concern, and I make my living helping people create babies. So believe me, I don’t say this lightly. Starting a family should never be a rushed decision. The beauty of practicing reproductive medicine in a fertility clinic is
that there are no accidental pregnancies. My clients are, by definition, choosing to have a child.”
He leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and laced his fingers together. “You should choose to have children when you are truly ready, Ms. Davidson. Not one minute before. Same-sex couples like you actually have an advantage, timing-wise. You can always wait and have the younger partner conceive.”
Tiffany, the smart-ass, nudged me under the table.
The doctor continued. “Barring that, we could retrieve some eggs and freeze them for later.”
“Thirty-three’s not too old, though, right? I mean, women give birth in their forties all the time.”
He smiled. “Thirty-three isn’t close to being too old. Many women wait until their late thirties or even their early forties to start having children. With an egg donor, you can wait longer than that. Relatively speaking, getting pregnant in your early forties isn’t the hard part. The challenge of starting a family later in life comes as both you and the child get older. When you’re fifty-five, do you want to be saving for retirement or your child’s college tuition?”
Gulp.
“On the flip side, having a child changes your life dramatically. Are there things you’d like to do before you start raising a family?”
Answer? Absolutely. I just didn’t know what they were yet.
Dr. Steinman leaned back in his chair. “Ms. Davidson, I have to be honest. You seem hesitant to me. I can’t predict your future, but unless you have fertility issues we haven’t discovered yet—other than needing a sperm donor, of course—we have no reason to rush. I suggest that you wait to conceive until you know that you’re ready.”
His points were all valid, and ones I hadn’t considered before. I sensed a serious conversation in Michael’s and my future. For the moment, though, it was time to shift the conversation toward Dr. Dick—and hopefully Mariella.
“I appreciate your candor, but Tiffany and I have thought about it, and we want to start our family now.”
“Excellent.” He reached into a file folder and pulled out a pamphlet. “This has information about choosing a sperm donor.”
