The Fertility Specialist Suggested “Natural Methods” – Then Made An Offer – Part 2

But she was smiling. The lines around her mouth were softening. The tightness in her shoulders was easing. Oxygen, I said. Good for the cells. Good for the baby. We spent the nights talking. Not about the procedure, about us. She told me about medical school, about the crushing pressure to be perfect, about the loneliness of being the boss who fires people but never gets invited to happy hour.

 I told her about the soil, about the patience of trees, about why I preferred plants to people because plants never lied to you. You’re leaving, she said one night. We were on her balcony, watching the city lights flicker like distant neurons. In 10 days, I’m going to miss you, she said. It slipped out. She looked horrified, clamping her hand over her mouth.

 I’m going to miss you, too, Jane. This wasn’t part of the protocol, she said, turning away, gripping the railing. Attachment wasn’t a variable. This was supposed to be a clinical transaction. Variables change, I said. I stepped behind her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her back against me. She fit perfectly.

 That’s the beauty of nature. It adapts. It grows around the obstacles. I turned her to face me. I kissed her. This time it wasn’t for a baby. It wasn’t for a goal. It was just for us. Part V. The frost. The test day arrived. Tuesday, 5 days before my flight. I was at my shop packing crates for the shipment. My phone rang. River.

Her voice was flat. Dead. It sounded like the voice of the doctor in the white coat. Not the woman in the silk robe. Jane, it’s negative. My heart sank. It felt physical, like a stone dropping in a pond. Are you sure? It’s a blood test. River quantitative beta hCG is less than five. Not pregnant. The cycle failed.

 The golden egg wasn’t golden. I’m coming over. No, she said sharply. Don’t, Jane. You shouldn’t be alone. The contract is fulfilled. She said, “You provided the material. It didn’t take. That’s the science. I knew the odds. 5%. We gambled. We lost. It was a stupid romantic idea. It’s not a gamble. It’s It’s over.” She cut me off.

“You leave in 3 days. Go to Brazil. Save the rainforest. Forget about the crazy old doctor who tried to buy a baby. You’re not crazy.” I said fiercely. and I wasn’t selling. We were building, “Please,” she whispered. Her voice broke, the clinical mask shattering. “Just go. I can’t. I can’t look at you and know that it didn’t work.

 I can’t have you here being perfect and kind and leaving. It hurts too much. I can handle the failure, River, but I can’t handle the hope anymore.” Jane let me. Goodbye, River. She hung up. I drove to her building. I tried the code. It didn’t work. The doorman wouldn’t let me up. She had put me on the blocked list.

 She had engaged the security protocols. I stood on the sidewalk looking up at her balcony. I saw the fiddle leaf fig in the window. A silhouette against the light. I felt like I had failed. I was a gardener who couldn’t make anything grow. I had tilled the soil. I had watered. I had waited. And nothing. I left for Brazil 3 days later.

 I felt hollowed out. Part Vi. The Amazon was loud. Birds, insects, rain, chainsaws. It was life turned up to maximum volume. Aggressive and relentless. I worked. I planted thousands of saplings. I dug irrigation trenches in the mud. I sweated until I couldn’t think. I tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the work, but I dreamed of a white room in Boston.

 I dreamed of obsidian hair and gray eyes. I dreamed of the smell of ozone and expensive soap. I tried to email her. Undeliverable. She had blocked me. I tried to call the clinic. They said Dr. Castillo was on administrative leave. I respected her boundary. I gave her space. I assumed she had moved on, found a new donor, or maybe given up.

 I assumed I was just a variable that had been eliminated from the equation. 6 months passed, then 8. The project hit a snag funding issues and political unrest. We were sent home early. I landed in Logan Airport on a Tuesday in November. It was raining, the same cold, gray rain. I didn’t go to my apartment. I didn’t go to my shop.

 I didn’t even drop off my bags. I took a cab to Castillo Reproductive Health. I walked into the waiting room. It was the same, sterile, quiet. The receptionist, was new, but the zezy plant I had given her. It was gone from the front desk. Mr. Davis, it was nurse Jen. She was walking through the lobby.

 She stopped when she saw me. She looked shocked. Her hand went to her mouth. Where is she? I asked. Is she seeing patients? She She’s in her office, but River, you shouldn’t. I need to see her just for a minute. I walked past her. I walked down the tunnel of light. I didn’t knock. I pushed the door open.

 Jane was sitting at her desk, but she wasn’t looking at a screen. She wasn’t reviewing data. She was looking at a bassinet placed in the corner of the room near the window, bathed in the gray light. She looked up. Her face was pale, tired, but radiantly beautiful. She saw me. She dropped her pen. I froze. I looked at the bassinet.

Jane. I breathed. She stood up. She was wearing a loose dress, not her lab coat. Her body was different. Softer. The sharp angles were gone. “Your back,” she whispered. “You have a baby?” I said, my brain trying to catch up, trying to process the timeline. “Did you did you use a donor? Did you adopt? Did you try again? She looked at me with tears in her eyes.

 You really are just a gardener, aren’t you? You don’t know how to count. Count? It’s been 8 months, River. Premature. I did the math. 8 months. But the test, you said it was negative. You said it failed. It was, she said, walking around the desk. The blood test was negative because I drew it too early. I was neurotic.

 I tested before the blastoyst had fully implanted, before the hormone levels had risen enough to detect, and then I bled. You bled implantation bleeding, she said. But I assumed it was my period. I assumed the cycle failed. I stopped testing. I grieved. It wasn’t until 3 weeks later when the bleeding stopped and I started feeling sick.

 I ran the panel again. You were pregnant when I left? Yes, she said, stopping a few feet from me. I found out right after your plane took off. I was going to call you. I picked up the phone a hundred times. I wrote you letters I never sent. Why didn’t you? Because of the contract. She said you were in the jungle. It was dangerous.

 You were chasing your dream. I didn’t want to trap you. I didn’t want you to come back for duty. I didn’t want you to be a father because a piece of paper said you had to be duty. I laughed a raw broken sound. Jane, I came back early. I came back because I couldn’t breathe without you. I didn’t care about the contract.

 I cared about the woman in the greenhouse. I crossed the room in two strides. I grabbed her. I kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweetness of relief. She melted against me. Familiar and perfect. He’s yours, she sobbed into my chest. He’s ours. He has your hands. I let her go and walked to the bassinet.

Inside, wrapped in a white blanket, was a tiny, sleeping human. He had dark fuzz on his head and a chin that looked stubborn. He looked like life. I reached out. I touched his hand with my rough, calloused finger. His tiny hand curled around mine. It was a grip of surprising strength.

 “Hey,” I whispered, my voice thick. “I’m your dad,” I looked back at Jane. She was leaning against the desk, watching us. The zezy plant I had given her was in the corner. Huge now. Thriving. You kept the plant. I said, “You didn’t kill it.” She smiled, wiping her eyes. I learned how to tend it. I gave it what it needed, not what I thought it should have.

 Good, I said, picking up the baby. He felt warm. He felt heavy. He felt like the most important thing I had ever held because I’m going to plant a whole garden for him. I walked back to her, the baby in one arm. and pulled her in with the other. “Is that a new offer?” she asked. “No contract this time,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Just roots.” The end.