The Dog Year Page 15

  She powered it up and stuck the earphones into her ears. The first song was by Electric Light Orchestra, a band from the seventies. “Mr. Blue Sky.” “Sun is shinin’ in the sky. There ain’t a cloud in sight.” The song went on its cheerful way all the way to the final verse. Still on the floor, she hit Play and listened again, and then again.

  * * *

  When Lucy woke up, she heard what sounded like a birthday party of birds flitting, tweeting, and flirting outside the window. Mrs. Bobo, perched on her favorite windowsill, watched silently, her tail twitching wildly. It jerked like a broken live wire, that tail, promising any small animal, bird or otherwise, a quick death by cat if caught.

  Lucy pushed herself to a seated position. The brochure about the sperm bank was stuck to her cheek with sticky sleep drool. Shaking her head, she peeled it off and watched Little Dog yawn. “It’s a new day, girl. I’ve got you, music, and some potential sperm. What else could a girl want?” The earphones she’d had in her ears lay on her pillow, connected to the now-dead iPod. She glanced around the shambles of her room, plugged the iPod into the charging station, and scooted out of bed into the hall. Grabbing her phone, Lucy opened the brochure and read. Men commonly choose sperm-banking if about to undergo treatments or take medications that may affect sperm production.

  Lucy pressed a hand to her chest and skimmed the rest of the text, looking for the part where she could learn about defrosting Richard’s DNA, using it, and getting on with getting him back into her life. Near the bottom she read the words, When you are ready to use the sperm, you must notify the bank in writing. The bank then will release the specimen, shipping it to whatever physician you request.

  “Screw writing,” she said, and punched the number of the clinic into her phone. Almost immediately she heard a recorded voice in a surprising British accent.

  “Thank you for calling Cryobanking Conception Clinics. If this is an emergency, press One.”

  Lucy considered this option and decided that pushing the emergency button would be over the top. What would she say? Help, I need sperm. STAT. The British woman’s voice continued.

  “If this is not an emergency, please call back during regular business hours. CC Clinics is currently closed for the weekend.” She pronounced weekend with an emphasis on the second syllable—weekend—making Lucy feel as though she were in a movie with Hugh Grant, embarking on an English romance, and that this was a lovely lark of a call, likely to end in happily ever after. She grabbed her calendar. Saturday. She couldn’t go back to sleep now, and in vitro fertilization was pretty much out for the weekend.

  She threw herself back into her bedroom and grabbed the wrapping paper. Little Dog peeked in just as Lucy rushed through the bedroom door. “Maybe there’s another present,” she said out loud. “C’mon, Lucy. You got this. Systematic.” For the next hour and a half she searched every drawer, cubby, and cupboard in her cozy, if elderly house. When she found herself examining the space under the basement stairs with an otoscope she’d purchased for her pediatric rotation in med school, she came to her senses. “This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. She put down the otoscope and took another look at the loot she’d unearthed: sixty-seven cents she’d discovered in an old pair of jeans, and Richard’s pre-exercise inhaler. She took a puff from it, then another, shrugged, and said to Little Dog, “Just for fun.”

  And then, still dressed in the clothes she’d slept in, Lucy grabbed the iPod, clipped the leash onto the only friend that would have her lately, and walked out the door.

  * * *

  Listening to the music in her new-to-her iPod, Lucy smiled and shook her head, reflecting on Richard’s eclectic and almost uncanny music choices: “Everlasting Love” by Gloria Estefan and “Give Me Everything” by Pitbull. “Say Hey (I Love You)” by Michael Franti, and the classic Barry White song “You’re the First, the Last, My Everything.” Lucy did a little hop step. “My kind of wonderful, that’s what you are.” She skipped over a crack in the sidewalk. “Your love I’ll keep forever more.” Whenever Sidney popped into her mind, and Charles, and God forbid, Mark, she visualized their faces and gently pushed them away, actually using her hand to swat the air. Anyone looking out his window would have seen a well-dressed woman performing a kind of tai chi hip-hop. The golden late-morning sunshine felt like a spotlight, and the leaves applauded her enthusiasm.

  If “It’s Raining Men” seemed like an odd choice, Lucy ignored it and played it again for good measure. “Bad Day,” by that Canadian singer she liked but whose name she could never remember, started in her ear. “Where is the moment we needed the most?”

  “Jesus,” she said aloud, “I’m not loving this one.” She turned the iPod over to click past the song and didn’t notice the cruiser slowing down, or the open window, or the look on Mark’s face.

  “Lucy.”

  Lucy pulled up short, met Mark’s eyes, and automatically touched her hair. “Don’t you ever work?”

  “I am working. See the big car? Can I talk to you?”

  You’re falling to pieces every time. “No. Just forget it. I’m a big girl.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Lucy gave him an incredulous look and kept walking. He rolled the cruiser forward. “I don’t want to forget it.”

  Lucy refused to look at him. You say you don’t know.

  “I wish I’d done things differently. We could have had dinner.”

  “And maybe we could have used a condom.” Lucy planted her feet on the sidewalk and finally turned to face him. “I’m sure you’re not new to this, but I am. I am new to this, and I don’t like anything about it.”

  Mark braked. Looked away. “I’m not gonna lie. That hurt.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “What did I do that was so wrong, Lucy? Want you? Is that it? How did your husband ever get past your defenses? That’s what I want to know.”

  Lucy stared at him. Opened her mouth and shut it. The song continued in her ear, like a good musical friend who was just trying to help. She pulled an ear bud out and took a deep breath. “I know I’m doing some things wrong, a lot of things wrong. It’s kind of a cliché, you know, that surgeons are not good with people.”

  “Help me out, Lucy. I don’t know what we’re talking about. I didn’t think I was pushing you.”

  Lucy spoke in a near whisper. “Did it look like I was being pushed?” Before he could respond, she said, “That’s why I’m done with people for a while. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Mark shook his head. “So you’re going back into hiding then?”

  “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

  “I know me, and you and I aren’t that different. I know all about hiding.”

  “I’m not hiding. I’ve got a dog. My music.” She said my music like she was Michael Jackson or Elton John, talking about the songs she’d written. “And I’ve got the potential, finally, for something bigger.” She touched the pocket where she’d put the brochure, and imagined the microscopic sperm waiting for her, waiting to bring Richard back.

  “Could you just stop walking?” Mark asked. “Could we go someplace to talk?”

  “Nope, and I’ll go to AA on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just so it isn’t awkward.”

  He shook his head. “You are a piece of work. You know that?”

  She pointed to her earphones like they were an important telephone call and turned the corner.

  17

  Dear Baby . . .

  Lucy put her hand on her chest and felt the beat of her heart through her white T-shirt. It had taken her forty minutes to drive to the Cryobanking Conception Clinics and her heart hadn’t slowed in the least. She chose the closest parking space in front of a rambling, brown-shingled ranch that resembled a dentist’s office or maybe a senior center. Before she even got out of the car, she checked the worn pamphlet a third time to confirm that th
is was the right address.

  Inside, it smelled like new carpet and vanilla. The lights were bright, and there were big bottles of hand sanitizer on the counter blocking the view of the receptionist. Lucy found this a little obvious. We know where your hands have been, pal, she imagined the staff thinking. Gel up!

  “Excuse me.” Lucy smiled and stood with her very best posture.

  The receptionist pulled her nose from her computer. “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “My husband is here. I mean, his genetic material is here.” Lucy had not prepared a speech. She’d only pictured herself arriving and leaving with tubes in a nitrogen flask of some sort. That was her fantasy anyway, although she knew that wasn’t how it worked. Pulling her doctor-self together, she tried to sound authoritative. “I’m Lucy Peterman; my husband, Richard Lubers, made a deposit about a year ago. I’d like to collect that, if I may.”

  “Are you the designee?”

  “I should hope so. He didn’t say. I mean, he died without saying.” She swallowed. “He died.”

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, as if she couldn’t care less, and tapped on her keyboard. “Did you bring identification?”

  Lucy fumbled in her purse. “I have my driver’s license, my birth and marriage certificates, and my passport.” Always good to be prepared. She spread these on the desk and continued, “And here is my husband’s driver’s license, his birth certificate, and his social security card. I have our joint MasterCard and Pier 1 cards if you need something with both our names on it.”

  The receptionist scratched her eyebrow with a dark, manicured nail and said, “Marriage license and photo ID should do it. You can put the rest of that away.” She tapped again and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t see a Richard Lugers in the system.”

  “Lubers,” Lucy said so forcefully that the receptionist blinked.

  “Pardon me.”

  To Lucy, it seemed near impossible that all this keystroking was necessary for such a short name. R-i-c-h-a-r-d-L-u-b-e-r-s Enter. What else could she possibly be writing? A telephone rang somewhere.

  “Yes, here it is. I found it. It was under Lubers.”

  “Yes.” Lucy blinked. “Can I have it?”

  “Well, if you are who you say you are. Yes. But you can’t take it with you today. You have to go see a reproductive endocrinologist, and get the appropriate tests. There are fees involved.”

  “But it’s here. He was here. My husband was here.”

  “It appears so. Yes.” The receptionist focused on Lucy. Straightened her glasses. “Now you need to get a doctor’s appointment and follow procedure.”

  “Can I see him? It?”

  “No, Mrs. Lubers. There’s really very little to see.”

  “It’s here, though. You’re one hundred percent certain.”

  “Get a doctor’s appointment,” the woman said more gently now. “We’ll be here when you’re ready.” It was the only defrosting Lucy was likely to see at the clinic, and for the moment, that would have to be enough.

  * * *

  Outside the laboratory, with the fall breeze on her face, she dialed her brother’s number. “Charles. Please stop being mad. Everything is going to change. You’ll see. I’m at the sperm bank. Richard really did come here. From here on out, Charlie. You could be an uncle soon.”

  She dialed Phong’s number. “Tell Charles to call me. Tell him I don’t need him. I want him. There’s a difference. It’s a good difference.” Finally she called her health clinic. That’s when she learned that, like most things, nothing was as easy as it seemed. If you want a dimmer switch in your house, an electrician has to replace all your knob and tube wiring and upgrade you to the twenty-first century. If you need a new roof, pretty soon you also will have to replace the gutters, soffits, and struts. If you want your husband’s sperm, your personal plumbing has to be mined and your entire infrastructure spelunked.

  The appointment receptionist at Excel Health Co-op spoke with nasal clarity into the phone. “First you must see your general practitioner for a basic assessment and referral to an OB/GYN or fertility expert. They will schedule a pre-conception exam, which will include several blood tests, a PAP smear, and possibly a mammogram.”

  “My God. How long will all of this take?”

  “We can book you for your first appointment in three weeks. December first. The rest depends on you, their schedule, and luck.”

  Lucy scrambled to regain footing on her dream bubble. “Jeez, if I were still in high school I could go under the bleachers and get pregnant without a single appointment.” She added a thready laugh to make sure the receptionist got the joke. “I’ll take that December appointment,” she added.

  “That would be my advice.”

  “But,” Lucy said, “if there is a pep rally there’s no telling what I might do.”

  * * *

  Appointment made, Lucy walked back into her house with new eyes. She went in search of the file folder she kept of general decorating ideas: paint colors, upholstery, furniture. Tucked deep into her old wooden file cabinet she spotted something she had purchased after finding she was pregnant that first time: a hardcover artist’s sketch book, a set of calligraphy pens, and a roll of double-sided tape. She’d intended to use the book to chronicle her pregnancy: monthly changes, details about the delivery, gifts. Ultimately, she’d hoped to use it to write notes to her baby that she could read as he grew up. Notes about his graduation, his wedding, the birth of a grandchild.

  “Perfect,” she said. Spreading out the magazine clippings from her file, with crib styles and paint samples, she began sketching ideas for the perfect baby’s room. With Little Dog curled at her hip, she turned the page and began a letter. Dear Baby, she wrote. I can’t wait to meet you.

  * * *

  With the prospect of a baby back on the agenda, Lucy felt euphoric. She wanted to move on with her life. Get back to work. With her iPod in place, she marched into the Maplewood Serenity Center. She consulted her watch. Right on time. Inside the usual dingy room, Kimmy, Claire, and Sara stood in a triangle. Tig was on the phone, standing in the corner. When Lucy entered, Sara rolled her eyes in tiresome disgust.

  “What’s up? Where is everybody?”

  “You tell us,” said Sara. “Mark says he’s got some new shift schedule and he can’t make it on Wednesdays any more, which we all know is bullshit. He’s had the same schedule, for like, ever.”

  Claire, looking as usual like a pale confection of spun sugar said, “Mark’s fine, Sara. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

  By now Tig had finished her call. “It’s Ron,” she said.

  Kimmy put her arm on Claire’s shoulder. The bruise on her chin was the color of a jaundiced liver. “Ron went on a bender. Drove his wheelchair off an embankment. Spent the night in a ditch.”

  “My God.” Lucy shoved her iPod into her pocket. “Is he all right?”

  Tig said, “He’s stable. We can’t get any more information on the phone. It’s good to see you, Lucy. Does this mean you’re working on the goals we set?”

  Lucy ignored Tig. “Ron seemed like the most stable of all of us. Pissy but stable,” she said.

  Claire, Kimmy, and Sara traded glances. “Sometimes he is. Sometimes he’s not. We were just going to visit him. Do you want to come along?”

  * * *

  At the veteran’s hospital, as Tig spoke with the nursing staff, Lucy and the other three women formed a mismatched quartet just outside Ron’s room. When the nursing assistant finished helping him brush his teeth, they entered.

  “I should have known you birds would show up,” said Ron.

  Lucy moved to his side, checked his IV drip, and hefted the water pitcher for fullness. “Are they treating you well here, Ron? I can talk to someone if there’s something you need.”

  “At ease, Super Girl.” Sara walked to
the opposite side of the bed. In a voice Lucy had never heard, she said, “Ronnie? What happened?”

  His large black hand covered her pale white one. “A bad night. Nobody’s perfect. Claire, you’re looking tired. Take a seat.” He nodded at Kimmy. “On the other hand, you’re looking well.”

  “Stop taking care of us for a second, Ron, and tell us what happened,” Claire said.

  Ron exhaled. “My son, Eric, took the baby. Nothing I could do. He’s irrational. Police say I’ve got no rights. The boy’s grandpa, but no rights. He’ll keep that baby until he doesn’t want him anymore and then I’ll get him back. No telling what shape he’ll be in. Hoping he’s too young to remember any of this.”

  Kimmy said, “What were you doing out rolling around after dark? You know you can’t do that.”

  “I wasn’t drinking, if that’s what you think. When Eric put my grandson into the car, I saw his stuffed bunny go flying into the weeds. Heard that baby howl. I thought I could get it, but the embankment by my apartment was steeper than I thought. Lost my damn traction and spent the night on my back. Opened that old scar in my leg and now I’m back in this old barn. Goddammit.”

  Claire laughed. “It was just your crazy driving that got you in here? Don’t that beat all hell.”

  Sara grabbed his hand. “Idiot.”

  “I am still your elder, Miss Sara. You will speak to me with respect.”