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Finally, it’s egg day. That’s what I’ve called it on the calendar, circled in orange. I know most people circle important dates in red, but to me red means something a little more drastic, like danger or stop. I look over my calendar at the array of colors. Yellow indicates the days Noah and I tried conceiving according to the ovulation chart. Sex was a chore then. It wasn’t passionate or filled with the love we have for one another. It was two people having sex with a purpose. Granted, the purpose was a child we desperately want, but I missed connecting with my husband. Purple is for our sexy time and ever since we decided IVF was our next step, I’ve happily marked a lot of days with some purple ink.
I stand on the patio, taking in the very early morning breeze. We have an hour drive to L.A. this morning, although it shouldn’t take us that long with no traffic. It’s too dark to see the ocean but I can hear the waves. The tide is in, pushing onto shore. In about thirty minutes, surfers will be out there, catching waves while the sun rises over the horizon. I love my time in California. But I miss Beaumont. I miss the comfort a small town brings. The feel of being in a tight-knit community. I never thought I’d miss it as much as I do, and I think most of those feelings stem from Elle and Ben moving back there. They kept their house here and are only here for their IVF sessions. Then they’ll go back, and Noah and I will eventually head to Portland.
I’m not sure how I feel about raising our baby in a city like Portland. While I love the outskirts, the traffic is just as bad as it is here, but it seems people have stopped caring about their city. Although, raising our child there gives me a support group of other mommies, as long as their husbands don’t get traded.
I groan at the thought, hating that Noah’s in limbo with the Pioneers. Their stalling has put me in a precarious situation. Not only with them, but Noah as well. While I’d like to think I’d keep my job, I don’t know if I would. Noah will support me in anything I do, and I mentioned sideline reporting, but I also wonder if staying home once I have a baby should be my thing. I don’t have to work, thanks to my dad and husband, and if I really wanted to, I could probably work for myself. Enough of Noah’s friends ask me for advice anyway. Maybe I can turn what I do into a freelance job.
Noah comes up behind me and wraps me in his arms. We sway slightly and then he kisses the top of my head. “Are you ready?”
“I am.”
“Let’s go do this,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me toward the front door.
The entire drive into the city, he holds my hand. As much as he does it for me, I know he’s doing it for himself as well. This process has been daunting but I know it’ll be rewarding.
Noah and I walk hand-in-hand to the clinic. I’m tired and didn’t sleep well last night. Once the anesthesiologist called to confirm my appointment time all I could do was pace. Noah begged me to come to bed with him so he could hold me. I know he wanted the comfort as much as I did. After a few hours, I relented but stared at the wall imagining how everything could go wrong.
Even now, as I sit and wait for my name to be called, I think the worse. What if Noah’s out of sperm or this process didn’t work? What if his sperm are shy and don’t want anything to do with my eggs? That’s possible, right?
Noah gives me a kiss before he follows the nurse to the porno room. Today, his donation will be used to help make our embryos. The door opens and I look over my shoulder at my reflection. My sister comes toward me, her arms outstretched. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to see her until now.
“What are you doing here?”
“Noah called,” she tells me. “Mom’s parking the car.”
“I have to go in alone.”
Elle holds my hand. “I know, but we’ll be here, waiting.”
“Okay.” A tear forms in the corner of my eye. I dab at it and then sniff. “What if I fail?”
My sister squeezes my hand. “We’re Powells,” she says. “We don’t fail. Sometimes there are obstacles in our way, but we figure out how to move them out of our way so we can forge on.”
The door opens again and my mom walks in. I go to her, and we hug. The week she gave me my shots was hard for her and me.
“I’m sorry for being a brat these past couple of weeks.”
“I didn’t even notice,” she says as she rubs her hand down my arm. Mom looks around the room and then at me. “Where’s Noah?”
“Jacking off,” Elle blurts out as she’s flipping through a magazine.
“I swear you are not my child,” our mom mutters.
I’m used to her outbursts. I think she does it for shock factor. Our mom on the other hand—I think she wants to smack her youngest daughter upside her head and I’m not sure I’d step in the way. Besides, Elle’s tougher than me. I’d never say something like that in a public place.
Sometimes I wonder if my sister pushed me out first so she could be the baby and the protector at the same time. I should be the one protecting her, but it’s never been that way. Our roles reversed when our father died. We definitely had our favorites with mine being Mason and Elle’s being Katelyn’s. Then everything changed and I leaned on Liam and mostly Noah. I became his shadow, and he let me, never pushing me away.
We sit down, with me in the middle. Mom keeps a hold of my hand. It’s comforting knowing she’s here. I do wish Noah, her, or my sister could come into the appointment room with me, but they won’t allow that. I wonder if I tell them I’m afraid of needles and have anxiety, they’ll make an exception. Or drop my dad’s name. Every now and again I want to say, “Don’t you know who I am?” Just to see their reaction. Elle’s done it and people cave to her.
I should try it.
When Noah comes out of his room looking pleased with himself—I really want to strangle him right now—he kisses my mom on her cheek and kicks Elle’s foot as he passes by her.
“Jerk,” she says to him.
Noah sits on my sister and then reaches for my hand. The sly grin on his face makes me laugh. Elle squirms under him. She pinches his sides and tries to push him off her. But Noah’s muscular. He’s used to being tackled, although far too much this past season for my liking. However, defense isn’t my responsibility and it’s not like I can show some two hundred pound plus line man how to block.
“Noah.” I say his name in that mom tone our mothers have used so many times throughout our lives. I suppose this is good practice for when our little one comes. Or if we have a second. One would think by now, between Noah and Elle’s antics, I have the “mom” voice down pat.
