A Perfect Love (20 page)

Dr. Marc nodded. “Ayuh, Russell and I talked earlier— as I'm sure you know. I imagine you're now concerned there's something physical preventing you from achieving a pregnancy.”

Relieved that he knew all the right words, she nodded.

“Well, let's do an exam, then we'll talk again. All right?”

Barbara nodded, more weakly this time.

Dr. Marc stood. “Your first time here, right?”

“Ayuh.”

He laughed. “Well, it's nothing fancy, but we get the job done. We only have one exam room, and it's not very imposing. Follow me.”

She got up and trailed him back into the hallway, then into another small room with a padded table, sink, mirror, and a chair. Pausing, he lifted a green gown from a shelf and handed it to her. “What a pretty haircut.”

“Thank you.”

“Put this on, then crack the door when you're ready. I'll be in and we'll see if we can find the problem.”

As her hand moved to undo the buttons at her throat, Barbara suddenly wished Cleta were with her. Her mother had always gone with her to the pediatrician, even the time they went to have a splinter removed.

Barbara caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror above the sink. She was as white as the porcelain bowl.

She undressed quickly, wondering if she had done the right thing. Maybe coming here was idiotic. Maybe if she and Russell were patient only a little longer she'd conceive naturally—

No, they had waited long enough. She was doing the right thing.

She slipped on the gown, struggling with the armholes and ties, then modestly pulled the gown closed in front. Holding the edges with one hand, she cracked the door, then perched on the edge of the padded table. She was feeling like a sitting duck when the doctor opened the door again.

“All ready?”

Barbara nodded.

“Okay, let's see what is going on.” He smiled as he took Barbara's hand. “Just lean back and relax, everything is going to be fine.”

Relax? How could she relax? She was scared of what he might find, and what he might not find. What if there was nothing to be done? What if she couldn't have babies because God didn't want her to have babies? Russell would be so disappointed. But if God didn't want them to have babies, maybe they weren't supposed to have any. Maybe God knew she'd be a terrible mother, so he had done this to spare the kids she might have had if she'd had her own selfish way . . .

From the end of the table, Dr. Marc examined her. In between questions about her health and her cycle, he talked about the weather, Russell's boat, and Tallulah's fondness for sweets. As he worked, he quietly explained what he was doing, then asked about Russell's work. Was it another banner year for lobstermen?

Barbara smiled, understanding. The doctor knew how well the lobster industry was doing. Everyone did. But she appreciated his efforts to put her at ease. His conversation kept her mind off the examination. Somewhat.

He pushed back and snapped off his rubber gloves. “OK, Barbara, we're all finished. After you're dressed, come out to the office and we'll talk a bit.”

All of her anxieties came flooding back as she dressed. There was something wrong; she knew it. The doctor would have told her everything was OK if she was fine. He was probably in his office now, looking through medical books for the right word to describe the horrible malformation he'd found inside her.

She closed her eyes, wishing Cleta were with her. Her mother would know the right questions to ask.

Barbara took several deep, cleansing breaths.

No, she didn't need her mother. This was her decision, her life, and she needed to live it. She was acting independently for the second time in her life, and it felt good. At almost twenty-three, it was high time she visited a doctor by herself. Still . . . her mouth went dry at the thought of what Dr. Marc might say.

Though her hands were trembling, she finally managed to get her clothes on straight. Dr. Marc had a file open on his desk when she entered his office.

“Sit down, Barbara.”

She sat, her fingers wrapped tightly around her purse.

The doctor's gaze focused on her white-knuckle grip, then he smiled. “First, relax. You're in excellent health. Normal blood pressure, your weight is good, and that's a miracle. If I ate Cleta's cooking every day I'd be thirty pounds overweight.”

He chuckled, and Barbara tried to smile.

“So—” He clasped his hands. “How do you feel?”

“I feel fine. It's just that—”

“You and Russell want to have children.”

“Ayuh.”

Dr. Marc leaned forward. “There is a problem.”

Barbara's heart stopped. “How—how serious is it?”

“Well, I can't say for sure now. But given your answers to my questions, I suspect you've been suffering from endometriosis, which can cause scarring of the fallopian tubes.”

“Is that . . . permanent?” Her voice sounded strange even to her.

“Not necessarily. But I can't make a definitive diagnosis without a laparoscopy, which could be done as an outpatient or in the hospital. I'm going to recommend that we do it in York Hospital. I don't have privileges there, but one of my colleagues, Dr. Phyllis Comeaux, does, and she's a superb surgeon. If endometriosis is confirmed, Dr. Comeaux can go ahead and use microsurgical techniques to remove the adhesions that are blocking your fallopian tubes. After the surgery, you will remain in the hospital four or five days.”

Barbara felt her eyes fill with water. “You'll be there with me?

“Every step of the way.”

“And after the surgery? Will I have
babies?”

His eyes gentled. “I don't want to give you false hope, Barbara. Although you'll feel fine within a few weeks, it may take your pelvic tissues up to a year to become normal enough to produce a pregnancy. If the adhesions are severe, you'll have a 30 percent chance of pregnancy. If they are not severe, your chances will improve.”

She looked down as her eyes burned. Thirty percent? The number seemed so small . . .

“Do not despair,” he said, with quiet emphasis. “God works miracles every day, and he may work one for you. We may get in there and discover that the scarring is minimal. Given your young age, I suspect we'll find very few adhesions.”

The knot of nerves in her stomach loosed and she suddenly felt very weak.

“It's a simple procedure?”

“I promise.” He smiled. “It's done every day. And the sooner we do it, the sooner your body will have a chance to heal and prepare for a child.”

The idea of surgery, even a simple procedure, scared her spitless. But wasn't knowing something better than worrying about an infinite army of possible problems? And a 30 percent chance was better than 0 percent. Zero percent was what they'd have if she did nothing . . . or chickened out.

She drew a deep breath.

“If you want, I'll schedule the surgery . . . unless you need to talk to Russell first.”

Her fright came back in a rush. “Well, OK—no. Maybe I should think about it, talk to Russell. Could I let you know in a few days?”

“Of course. When you feel comfortable with the arrangements, give me a call and I'll schedule the procedure in York.”

“All right,” she managed to mutter, her tongue feeling oddly detached.

Dr. Marc walked her to the door, then squeezed her shoulder. She barely felt the pressure of his hands, so preoccupied was she with new and whirling thoughts.

An hour later, Barbara paced the dock, walking up and down with her hands behind her back. In the hour since she'd left the doctor's office she had vacillated from wanting to have the surgery to swearing off hospitals forever and urging Russell to think about adoption. After all, what did it matter, really, if a baby came from your own cells? Every baby deserved a happy home, yet thousands of children around the world would never know the love of a mother and father. She and Russell could be parents without having to think about surgery and scars and general anesthesia.

Still . . . the miracle of childbirth was a precious thing. How must it feel to have a life stirring within your womb? To know that the coming child was a combination of you and the man you loved more than life itself . . .

Her heart leaped when the
Barbara Jean
appeared on the horizon. She waited until the boat drew closer, then lifted her hand high over her head and waved, hoping Russell would look out the cabin window and see her. He would be alone now, having dropped his mates at Perkins Cove, and he'd be anxious to hear her report.

Russell steered the boat to the dock, then tossed her a mooring line. She slipped it over a post, then shyly walked forward until he jumped from the deck and wrapped her in his arms.

“Hi, daddy,” she whispered in his ear.

He pulled back, his eyes searching her face. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, gulping, “that we might be able to have babies if I have surgery. I went to see Dr. Marc.”

He hugged her close. “I'm proud of you, honey.”

Though he was hugging her so tightly Barbara felt a little strangled, she pressed on. “But something's wrong with me. Endometriosis. That means I'll have to have surgery, and after that it'll take time to recover, and after that there's a possibility we still won't be able to have kids—”

“But there's a chance we will, right?”

She pulled back this time, and looked him evenly in the eye. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it's gonna take time.”

He reached out and touched her hair, her cheek. “Babs, we've got time. And we've got love to share. I'll do whatever you want to do about the surgery, but why don't we think about adoption too? Why not raise a family both ways, through adoption and biology?”

Unexpected laughter bubbled up from her throat. “You mean it?”

“Ayuh.” His brown eyes caressed her. “I do. I think you'd be a great mom to a dozen kids.”

Wordlessly, Barbara reached out and hugged him tight. With a man like this beside her, she could face anything . . . but maybe two or three kids would be more manageable than a dozen.

His hand fell upon her head. “Have you told your mother any of this?”

Barbara shook her head. “I wanted to tell you first.”

His smile told her how pleased he was that she'd taken another step toward independence. “Then we'll tell your folks together.”

Russell slipped his arm around her shoulder and began to lead her toward the B&B. She matched his stride, step for step. “Mom made meat loaf for dinner.”

“Good. Has your dad recovered from his stomach bug?”

“I don't know. He and Pastor Winslow and Stanley were at Dr. Marc's when I came in. I hope their stomachs have settled down.”

Russell laughed, and as they climbed the hill Barbara thought she'd never heard a more beautiful sound.

Barbara took her seat at the table, then squeezed her husband's hand. Her mother blinked at the sign of tenderness, then her gaze swept the steaming dishes. Apparently convinced all was in order, she took her seat next to Floyd.

“Grace,” she reminded him.

Thankfully, Floyd's prayer was short. Cleta looked a little perturbed at her husband's brief blessing, but Barbara sighed in gratitude. The sooner she got this announcement over with, the sooner she could get on with her life.

“How's your stomach, Pop Lansdown?” Russell asked, passing the potatoes.

“Still a mite queasy,” Floyd answered. He took a healthy portion of the mashed potatoes, but shook his head when Cleta offered him the meat loaf.

Russell glanced at Barbara, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. She nervously pleated the napkin in her lap.

Floyd looked at Russell. “How was the catch today?” he asked, gingerly tasting the potatoes.

“All the traps were full. It's been a good week.”

“Put some money back against the hard times,” Cleta advised, not for the first time.

Russell winked at Barbara. “We are.”

Barbara took a deep breath. “Mom, Dad—I went to see Dr. Marc today.”

“I knew it! I knew you didn't feel well,” Cleta burst out. “You should have told me!”

Barbara lowered her head. “Mom, I went to talk to him about why Russell and I haven't been able to have a baby.”

Cleta locked her lower jaw. “Babies will come along in due time.”

Taking Barbara's hand, Russell nodded his reassurance. “Tell 'em, honey.”

Barbara turned to her mother. “I have a problem.”

Cleta paled. “A problem?”

Russell leaped to the rescue. “It can be repaired with surgery. It's nothing dangerous to her health, just to her fertility.”

Cleta turned on him, her eyes snapping fire. “And who made you the expert?”

“Nobody. Dr. Marc said so.”

She snapped her mouth shut. “Oh.”

Floyd set his fork down and looked at Barbara. “You're sure it's nothing dangerous?”

“It's endometriosis, Daddy. A female problem. Dr. Marc said there's a procedure that should take care of it. It's done all the time.”

“Surgery? On my baby? And you didn't say a word about it?” Springing up, Cleta grabbed a dishtowel and held it to her face.

Barbara cast a quick glance at Russell, then reached toward her mother. “It's OK, Mom. It's going to be all right. Once I have the surgery, Russell and I will greatly improve our chances of pregnancy. But we've decided we're going to give you a grandchild any way we can. We're going to look into adoption, too.”

“Grandchildren would be nice,” Floyd said. “Real nice.”

Cleta lowered the dishtowel and met Barbara's eyes. “You—you went to see the doctor without me? Something as important as this, and you went alone?”

Barbara lowered her gaze. The hurt and accusation in her mother's eyes cut deeply.

“I felt it was something I needed to do on my own, Mom.”