Читать книгу The Lies We Told - Diane Chamberlain - Страница 13

TWO DAYS LATER, ADAM AND I SAT ACROSS THE DESK from my obstetrician, Elaine, in her office. I much preferred being on the other side of that desk, talking to my patients. Educating them. Reassuring them. But my fight for a baby had put me on this uncomfortable side of the desk now more times than I could count.

Elaine thumbed through my chart where it rested on the desk in front of her. She settled on a page, running her finger down it, stopping at the midway point.

“I noticed something during the D and C that made me curious,” she said, “and I see that you didn’t answer this question on your health sheet when you filled it out a couple of years ago.”

“What question?” I asked.

“Did you ever have an abortion?” Elaine looked at me over her reading glasses.

I hesitated. I hadn’t been asked that question before, at least not in front of Adam.

“No,” Adam answered for me, and for a moment, I let the answer hang in the room between the three of us.

“Why?” I asked Elaine.

“Well, there’s some scarring in your uterus that looks like what we might see, on a very rare occasion, from an abortion. Scarring can cause difficulty with conception and especially with holding on to a pregnancy. But since you’ve never had an abortion, that’s clearly not the prob—”

“I have.” I cut her off. “I had an abortion.”

“What?” Adam leaned away from me in his chair as though I’d burned him. “When?”

“When I was a teenager.” I looked at Elaine, but could feel Adam’s startled gaze resting squarely on my face.

“Were there any complications?” she asked. “An infection?”

I remembered pain that went on and on. Pain I’d ignored. I’d had more pressing things on my mind. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I had what might have been excessive pain, but I was too young to question any symptoms.” I would never tell them how young. Fourteen years old. My father had taken me to the clinic, and I remembered the drive home, even though I’d done my best to block all memories of that day from my mind. Daddy had been so quiet in the car. So quiet that I was afraid he no longer loved me. Finally, when we neared our street, our driveway, when we neared the moment that would end his life and tear mine apart, he said, “This is between you and me, Maya, honey. It’ll be our secret.”

Oh, God. My lost babies. They were my fault. I’d certainly thought about that abortion as I struggled to get pregnant, and I’d never forgotten that first baby, taken from my body only after I’d begun to show.

“Does this mean.” I cleared my throat, unable to ask the question burning in my mind. Next to me, Adam still sat stiffly in his chair, but he reached over to cover my hand with his. I felt so grateful for him, and so undeserving. “Does this mean there’s no hope?” I finally managed to say. “That even if I’m able to conceive again, another miscarriage is inevitable?”

“Not necessarily,” Elaine said, “but it probably does explain why you’ve lost three pregnancies. The in vitro took this time, and you’ll have to talk to Dr. Gallagher about trying again. I’ll send him my report from the

D and C and you can talk with him about the pros and cons of giving it another go.”

I thought of the months of hormone shots. The always-iffy implantation. The waiting to know if I’d conceived. The hopes raised. Dashed. Raised again. All of that would be nothing compared to the anxiety of once more being pregnant, then waiting for that fist to tighten around my uterus. I didn’t know if I could go through it again.

I felt sick to my stomach by the time we got to the car. Neither of us said a word until we’d pulled out of the parking lot into the street.

“I’m sorry,” I said then.

He didn’t take his eyes from the road. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

I hesitated. “It’s something I don’t like to remember. And abortion’s not supposed to have anything to do with fertility, but … I think I was afraid it … that it did have something to do with it. I mean, I got pregnant then, and now, as an adult, I have so much trouble conceiving, so I’ve always had this niggling fear that it was somehow related. Now it looks like it is.” My voice broke. I’d already felt responsible for our not having a child, worried that Adam blamed me, subconsciously or not. Now he had a concrete reason to do so. “I’m sorry, Adam,” I said again.

“Please stop apologizing, Maya.” The muscles in his jaw contracted. “I’m just pissed off you didn’t tell me. We’ve been trying to have a baby for three years—without much luck—and now I discover that you’ve kept a pretty damn significant piece of the puzzle from me.”

“I know.” I started to apologize again, but caught myself. “I wasn’t intentionally keeping it from you,” I said. “It’s something I’ve tried to forget. I …” My voice trailed off, and I turned my head to look blindly through the window. There was no excuse I could give him that was good enough.

He didn’t ask me how old I’d been when I had the abortion or who the baby’s father was, and I was relieved. I didn’t want to think about it. The damage done back then had harmed far more than my fertility.

Was Adam now wondering if there were other things I’d kept from him? Other secrets? Worse secrets?

If so, he would be right.