by Amanda Aksel
“Transformative Medicine of San Francisco, can you hold please?” the receptionist asked.
“Sure.” Eastern meditation music played and I tapped my foot. No answer after five minutes, so I called back.
“Transformative Medicine of San Francisco, can you hold please?” a different voice answered.
“Hi, I was just on hold for five minutes—”
“Yes, ma'am, we have a lot of calls coming in this morning. Would you like to hold or call back later today?”
“I'll hold,” I said, and without another word the music played again. I set the phone on my desk and listened to a traditional sounding Guzheng on speaker while I checked my emails and reviewed my appointment calendar. There wasn’t much time before my first patient arrived. I quickly set up my office for patient number one. Five minutes before my session, Diana rang my desk phone. I put Dr. G.’s serene music on hold and answered her.
“I'll come get them in a few minutes,” I said.
“Okay, well, would you like me to . . .”
I hung up before she could finish her sentence. Sorry, Diana. The music still played and I couldn't believe I had been on hold for nearly thirty minutes! What if I couldn't get an appointment for six months? Or longer? If the tranquil tunes were there to keep callers calm during ridiculous hold times, it wasn’t working.
My clock read eight-twenty-eight and I had my own patients on hold. I pulled the receiver away from my ear, then . . .
“Thank you for holding. How can I help you?”
I clutched the phone to the side of my face. “Yes, my name is Marin Johns-Young and I would like to make an appointment with Dr. G. please.”
“Okay . . . And the reason for your visit?”
“My friend, Ginger Cash, do you know her?” I asked
“Actually, yes. She brings us makeup samples all the time.” I heard a smile and could tell she was a fan of Ginger.
“Yes, she referred me to Dr. G. for fertility treatments.”
“Hmm, let me see. The soonest I can get you in would be Tuesday afternoon at three p.m. on the seventh.”
Three weeks from now? Not too bad. I’d come that far. What was three more weeks of chasteberry and progesterone cream?
“Great, I'll take it!” I had no idea if I had my own patient scheduled at that time, but I didn't care. Mission: Get Pregnant was first priority.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mommy Dearest
When I stepped out on the porch that spring Sunday morning to let the dog out, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun warmed the city to a beautiful sixty-five degrees. I stretched my arms above my head and let out a wide yawn. It was the first time in months that I’d had two full days off in a row, and as much as I wanted to make mojitos and relax in my own backyard, we’d promised my brother, Michael, that we’d spend the day at his house with our mother.
James and I packed up a blueberry pie, store-bought of course, and a bottle of Riesling, then headed across the bridge to my brother’s. We arrived just after noon. His wife, Jennifer, opened the door with a welcoming smile, her chestnut-blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail. I hadn’t seen her since Christmas, and I quickly noticed that her smile lines had become more permanent. No woman liked the idea of wrinkles, and I had been blessed by the skin gods thus far, but if I were to have any kind of line on my face, I’d go with smile lines—a true indication of one’s happy life. Jennifer gave us big hugs and I spied my mom with her freshly died black hair approaching over my sister-in-law’s shoulder.
“Hellooo!” my mom sang and pulled me in for half a second, then went straight for my husband. James had to bend over to give my mom a proper hug.
“Hi, Mom!” he said. She loved that he started calling her “mom” last year after we got married.
Mom squeezed his cheeks between her small, stubby fingers. “He is so handsome, isn't he? How are you doing?” she asked . . . him.
He raised his brows. “Uh . . . we're doing good,” he finally said with a smile.
“Good, good. Come in!” She took his arm and led him into the house.
Jennifer and I shared a crooked look. “If it makes you feel any better. She's always been nicer to Michael.”
“Oh, I know,” I said with a tight-lipped smile. Mom was nicer to Michael when we were kids too. She’d never admit it, but I’d bet deep down she wished I’d been a boy. In that moment, I vowed I would never, ever make my future-child feel inferior to anyone or anything.
I glanced around the transitionally decorated Victorian house as I followed Jennifer back to the kitchen. I expected my beloved niece and nephew to rush around the corner and beg me for hugs, but they were nowhere to be found.
“Where’re the kids?” I asked.
Jennifer waved a dismissive hand. “In their rooms watching YouTube or Snap-chatting or something. I'm sure they'll be down in a little while.”
I gazed up the staircase as we passed by, hoping the two would appear anyway, but it was like being in a childless home. They grew up so fast.
My brother, Michael, was putting the finishing touches on a pan of lasagna. His dark, wavy hair was longer than I remembered and his hazel eyes mirrored mine. “Hey, Marin! I was just about to open that bottle of wine you brought. You want a glass?” he asked, smiling and keeping his hands busy.
“Sure,” I said. Even under my current circumstances, alcohol was a given when I was around my mom. So there was a good chance I wouldn't see her for my entire pregnancy and probably while breastfeeding.
“You sure?” he asked with a raised brow.
I clenched my jaw and darted my stare at our mother. “Yeah, I'm sure.”
He pouted his lip and turned to wash his hands. Michael knew about everything. And even though he sympathized, he told me the same thing he always did when I was sad about my life: “Keep it in perspective, Marin. At least you don't have cancer.” Though it was true, I wondered what he would say if I did end up with cancer one day—“Keep it in perspective, Marin. At least you’re still alive.”
The five of us sat outside on his shaded patio, each of us holding a glass of white wine and enjoying the warmer weather. After five minutes of small talk, the conversation stalled. I was fine with the silence. The less Mom talked, or rather forced me to defend myself, the better.
“Where’re the kids?” James asked, throwing a wrench in the peace and quiet.
Michael let out a disappointed sigh. “On their smartphones probably.”
“They have cell phones already?” James asked.
“Oh yeah. Once we let Jillian have one, Miles was right there begging for his own. It's not all bad. We can reach him anytime and track his GPS. One time he fibbed about being at a friend's house when he was really skateboarding at the park after dark. He was pretty pissed when I showed up to take him home.”
“My kids never needed some microchip. Marin was always at Holly's house,” my mom said. It was true. The Jensens almost considered building an extra room on their house for me. Jennifer and Michael said nothing, and I could tell they were a little annoyed at her comment. “Speaking of kids, Marin, I hear you’re seeing a fertility doctor now.”
I slid a side-glance at Michael. Why did he always have to open his big mouth? “Yes, we are.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I couldn’t tell if she was upset or unnecessarily hurt. Maybe both.
“Sorry, Mom. I just didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, maybe I should be worried. Why haven’t you gotten pregnant yet?” Her words were impatient, as if I had somehow purposefully delayed conception. It was exactly why I never told her in the first place.
I flared my nostrils at my brother, then flashed a phony smile at my mom. “We're not sure why, but we're doing everything we can.”
James took my hand. “We're confident that we'll get pregnant this year.”
“Well, I hope so. Marin's not getting any younger.”
I rolled my eyes, thinking about the time whe
n James' grandma told me that I was no spring chicken two years ago.
“I wish you two could've met a long time ago. Why didn't you meet? Aren't you best friend's with Rachel's husband?” mom asked.
I glanced at James, feeling his hand tense against mine, and his polite expression fell. “Yeah,” he answered and I wasn’t sure that was true anymore. David and James hadn’t talked in almost three months. Then he looked at me and smiled in his sweet, loving way. “I guess it just wasn't our time yet.” He squeezed my hand. We had often talked about how great it would’ve been if we had met sooner, but we also knew that we might not’ve been ready for each other then. Admittedly, we had a very odd start, but so far all the wrong turns had led us on the right path.
Mom nodded with a decisive look in her eyes. “I think I'm going to come stay with you at the end of the week.”
My eyes flew open and I clutched the wrought iron armrests. “What?” Soon my heart was pounding in my ears. Mom? In my house? I’d need more wine. Lots more.
“Yes, I think we need to spend some time together. It will be good for you. Plus I'll get to see my favorite son-in-law.” He was her only son-in-law.
“For how long?” I asked, trying not to sound panicked, though it was a total fail.
Mom furrowed her brow and shot me a bulldog stare. “As long as I want. Isn't that why you bought that big house? Your dad isn't coming back for another two weeks and I can't stand being home all by myself.”
I tilted my head, loosening my grip of the chair. Was Mom lonely? My dad had never traveled much without her. But he grew bored of retirement after a while and decided to volunteer. He’d been visiting third-world countries, offering medical care pro bono. Mom hadn't been up for that kind of travel since she wouldn't have had anything better to do than hang out in a sweltering dwelling, swatting mosquitos every other second. I told her she should go and nurse the patients but she argued that she'd spent her whole life taking care of patients, and us, and Dad, that she was using the rest of her life to take care of herself. She'd been doing tai chi in the park along with yoga and meditation, which was so not the mom I knew growing up.
“Okay, Mom. You can stay as long as you want.” Since my dad was supposed to come home in two weeks, I knew she’d be at my place no longer than a week. I could handle her for a week, right? I swallowed hard.
She arrived at my house late that Friday evening. James picked her up from BART and they both seemed to be in high spirits, enjoying each other's company as they walked through the door. Marvin let out a loud bark and trotted over to her. She gave him a sort of sour look and patted his head like a half-ass handshake. Needless to say, we never had dogs growing up.
I stepped between her and Marvin. “Hi, Mom!”
“Hello!” She stretched out her arms and I leaned into her; she smelled like Holly. James maneuvered around us, carrying her bags, and quickly disappeared upstairs.
I pulled away, giving her a strange look. “Mom, are you wearing lavender oil?”
“Yes, I am. It helps me relax. I didn’t know you had a good sense of smell.”
My jaw shifted in irritation. She would often say things like that—I didn’t know you could run a marathon—I didn’t know you could make spaghetti—I didn’t know you read War and Peace. I couldn’t ever tell if she was trying to make me feel dumb or if she liked being surprised by my modest accomplishments. She’d been there less than five minutes and already I wanted to send her home. “Are you tired? Do you want to go to bed?” I asked.
She pursed her mouth. “It's eight o'clock. How old do you think I am?”
“Some tea then?” If only I could slip a sleeping pill in it.
She walked through the dining area into the kitchen. “Do you have herbal? If not, I won't be able to sleep.” Something we had in common. People would say that the older you got the more you became like your parents. I prayed that caffeine sensitivity would be the only similarity we’d have.
I moved past her, opening the cabinet where I kept the tea bags. The last thing I wanted was for her to be rustling around my kitchen asking all kinds of questions about our gadgets, which I’d bought thinking they would motivate me to cook, but I was still no chef. And Mom only ever used one pan and one knife to cook pretty much everything.
In the moments we waited for the kettle to whistle, mom and I did the small talk thing. I poured her a steaming cup of chamomile tea, and she immediately bid me goodnight and went upstairs to the guest room. Was she over visiting me too?
“Please make sure the dog doesn't get into my room,” she called as she walked up the steps.
When I heard the guestroom door shut, my shoulders relaxed. I turned off the downstairs lights and went into our bedroom, where James was already in bed watching TV.
“Where's your mom?” he asked, the remote resting on his chin.
I shut the door and whispered, “She’s in her room. I think she's done for the night. So I'm gonna hide in here so she thinks I'm sleeping in case she changes her mind."
He lifted his arm and I curled into him. “Slick.”
The next morning, James left early to do his monthly shift at the children's hospital. As much as I loved spending time with my husband, I enjoyed having the house all to myself. I could blast chick rock, wear mud masks, and binge-watch rom-coms with no one around to judge me. Sometimes I would serve myself mimosas for lunch, and if I didn't have any orange juice, I'd just drink the champagne. I called it a fruitless mimosa. I couldn't wait to spend the day relaxing, especially after the week I'd had at work. After another couple of hours in bed, of course. Sleep more, right? I rolled over, pulling the sheets up to my chin, a satisfied grin sprawled across my face.
“There you are!” Mom came bellowing into my bedroom.
My eyes flew open and my chest tightened. How did I forget she was visiting? I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to be fast asleep.
She nagged at my shoulder. “Marin! Wake up. It's getting late.”
It was eight a.m.
“Mom, I'm sleeping. I need more sleep. I'll come get you in a couple hours,” I said, playing up my groggy whine just like I did to get out of going to school.
She was already dressed for the day, with full-on makeup and a little spritz of her floral perfume. “A couple of hours? Why are you so lazy?”
Lazy? I wasn't lazy. I worked my ass off all week. Did the grocery shopping and made sure the bathroom in the hall was spotless for her. But even if I told her all of that she’d still call me lazy.
I rolled on my back, covering my eyes with my hands. “You should try being lazy sometime, Mom. You might like it.”
“Life is too short to be laying around all day,” she said in a threatening tone and I remembered that I was thirty-five going on forty. Did she even remember being thirty-five? I let out a long sigh and threw the covers off my legs. Sitting upright in my bed, I scowled at her. Just because she was right didn’t mean I had to like it.
“I'll make you coffee,” she said and stomped out of the room. Marvin cowered away as she passed by. It was gonna be a long week.
I made my way to the couch downstairs and draped the throw blanket over my legs. Mom brought me a cup of black coffee with a splash of snide. She knew I didn’t drink black coffee.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, throwing the covers off once more. I went to the kitchen and found my favorite creamer in the fridge, pouring it until the coffee turned a medium-caramel color. I took a sip. Mmm, now that was good coffee. “So what do you want to do today?” I asked, yawning.
Her face was stern, serious, and my stomach clenched. “I think we should go shopping for the baby.”
I crinkled my chin in an angry frown. “But, Mom, I'm not pregnant.”
“You're not pregnant yet. But you will be soon. We should get prepared for when your son is born.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “My son?”
She had a day-dreamy look in her eyes. “Well, you could only hope for one, right?”<
br />
I knew she wanted me to be a boy! Maybe if I had a boy she’d stop saying things like—I didn’t know you could breastfeed your baby.
“Sure, but I feel a little weird shopping for a baby that's not even conceived yet,” I said. I’d spent enough on fertility treatments, supplements, and heartbreak.
“Haven't you ever heard of the law of attraction!” she yelled. Unintentionally, I thought.
I soothed my ear. I never could get used to her raised voice. “Law of attraction?”
“Yes, you know, like attracts like.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know what it means, Mom. How do you know what it means?”
“My friend from yoga class gave me a book about it. It's really fascinating.”
I scoffed. “So what? You're making vision boards now?”
“You don't have a vision board? How can you expect to have a healthy baby if you don't have a vision board?” All growing up my mother was nothing but practical, a no-nonsense woman. And there she was spouting off metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. Who was this woman?
I wanted to yell back at her, “From having sex with my husband!” But that clearly wouldn’t work, as it had been almost seventeen months of trying. “You didn't have a vision board when you had Michael and me.”
“No, but I did buy things for you two before I was pregnant because I had no doubt you two were coming.” That explained why some of my baby outfits were blue. “I looked around the house, Marin. The baby's room is just a storage area with a few swipes of teal and pink paint on the wall. You might as well stop trying with an attitude like that.”
Oh, my God. How could I get her out of my house? “What are you talking about?”
“If you build it, the baby will come.”
I shook my head, wishing I could shake her off too. “Are you Field of Dreams-ing me right now?”
Mom folded her arms, shaking her head slightly. “They don't make movies like that anymore. Don't you think I have just a little wisdom to offer you?”
