Робин Кук - Vital Signs

Marissa shifted her feet. She was still embarrassed by her behavior at the biopsy. Gathering her courage, she apologized again.

“Hey, don’t give it another thought,” Dr. Carpenter said. “But after your experience I’ve decided I don’t like that ketamine stuff. I told anesthesia not to use it on any more of my cases. I know the drug has some good points, but I’ve had a couple of other patients with bad trips like yours. So please don’t apologize. But tell me, have you had any other problems since the biopsy?”

“Not really,” Marissa said. “The worst part of the whole experience was the drug-induced nightmare. I’ve even had the same dream a couple more times since the biopsy.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Dr. Carpenter said. “Anyway, next time we won’t give you ketamine. How’s that for a promise?”

“I think I’ll be steering clear of doctors for a while,” Marissa said.

“That’s a healthy attitude,” Dr. Carpenter said with a laugh. “But as I said before, let’s see you back in four months or so.”

Hanging up the phone, Marissa rushed from her office. She waved hastily to her secretary, Mindy Valdanus, then repeatedly hit the Down elevator button. She had fifteen minutes to get to the Sheraton, an impossible feat given Boston traffic. Yet she was pleased with her conversation with Dr. Carpenter. She had a good feeling about the man. She had to chuckle when she thought about the sinister creature he had been transformed into in her nightmare. It amazed her what drugs could do.

At last the elevator arrived. Of course the best thing about the phone conversation was learning that the cervical biopsy was normal. But then a stray thought cropped up as the elevator descended to the garage. What would she do if the next Pap smear proved to be abnormal?

“Damn!” she said aloud, dismissing the gloomy thought. There was always something!

Marissa stopped in her tracks in the middle of the elegant Oriental carpet that dominated the master bedroom. She was on her way to her walk-in closet to retrieve the dress that she had chosen the night before. The TV was on in the massive French armoire set against the wall opposite the king-sized bed; its doors were propped open by books. The television was tuned to Good Morning America. Charlie Gibson was joking about baseball spring training with Spencer Christian. Weak winter sunlight spilled into the room through half-open curtains. Taffy Two, Marissa and Robert’s cocker spaniel, was whining to be let out.

“What did you say?” Marissa called to her husband, who was out of sight in the master bath. She could hear the shower running.

“I said I don’t want to go to that damn Women’s Clinic this morning,” he shouted. His face appeared at the partially opened doorway, half covered with shaving cream. Then he lowered his voice, keeping it loud enough to compete with the television: “I’m not up to providing a sperm sample this morning. I’m just not. Not today.” He shrugged, then disappeared back into the bathroom.

For a minute, Marissa didn’t move. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to control herself. Blood pounded in her ears as she replayed Robert’s casual refusal to go to the clinic. How could he back out at the last minute like this?

Spotting the clock radio which had awakened them half an hour ago, she felt an almost irresistible desire to step over to the night table, yank its plug from its socket, and dash the whole thing against the fireplace; she was that furious. But she held herself in check.

Inside the bathroom she heard the shower door open and then close. The sound of the water changed; Robert had gotten into the shower.

“I don’t believe this,” Marissa muttered. She marched to the bathroom and pounded the door fully open with a bang. The dog followed her to the threshold. Steam was already billowing out over the top of the shower stall. Robert liked his showers piping hot. Marissa could see her husband’s athletic nude body through the stall’s smoked glass.

“Run that by me once more,” Marissa called to him. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“It’s simple,” he said. “I’m not going to the clinic this morning. I’m not up to it today. I’m not some kind of sperm dispenser.”

Of all the ups and downs of the infertility treatments, this was something Marissa had not anticipated. It was all she could do to keep from kicking in the shower door while Robert finished. The dog, sensing her state of mind, ducked under the bed.

Finally Robert turned off the water and stepped from the stall. Drops of water cascaded down his muscular frame. Despite his heavy work schedule, he still managed to exercise three or four times a week. Even his trimness irritated Marissa at the moment. She was unpleasantly cognizant of the extra ten pounds she’d put on through the course of her treatment.

When he saw her standing there, Robert seemed surprised.

“You’re telling me that you won’t come with me this morning to give a sperm sample?” she asked, once she knew she had his attention.

“That’s right,” Robert said. “I was going to tell you last night, but you had a headache. No surprise, lately you always have a headache or a stomachache or some other kind of ache. So I thought I’d spare you. But I’m telling you now. They can unfreeze some sperm from the last time. They told me they froze part of it. Let them use that.”

“After all I’ve gone through, you won’t even come in to the clinic and give up five minutes of your precious time?”

“Come on, Marissa,” Robert said as he toweled off, “you and I both know we’re talking about more than five minutes.”

Marissa was beginning to feel more frustrated by Robert than she was by her infertility. “I’m the one who’s had to put in all the serious time,” she said, exploding. “And I’m the one who has been pumped full of all these hormones. Sure I’ve had headaches. I’ve been in a constant state of PMS to produce eggs. And look at all these needle marks on my arms and legs.” Marissa pointed to the multiple bruises she had covering her extremities.

“I’ve seen them,” Robert said without looking.

“I’m the one who has had to have general anesthesia and laparoscopy and biopsy of my fallopian tubes,” Marissa shouted. “I’m the one who has had to endure all the physical and mental traumas, all the indignities.”

“Most of the indignities,” Robert reminded her, “but not all.”

“I’ve had to take my temperature every morning for months on end and plot it on that graph before I even get out of bed to pee.”

Robert was in his closet, selecting a suit and an appropriate tie. He turned his head toward Marissa, who was blocking the light from the bedroom. “You were also the one who doctored the graph with the extra Xs,” he said flippantly.

Marissa fumed. “I had to cheat a little so that the doctors at the clinic wouldn’t think we weren’t trying by not making love often enough. But I never cheated around ovulation time.”

“Making love! Ha!” Robert laughed. “We haven’t made love since this whole thing started. We don’t make love. We don’t even have sex. What we do is rut.”

Marissa tried to respond but Robert interrupted her.

“I can’t even remember what lovemaking is like!” he shouted. “What used to be pleasurable has been reduced to sex on cue, rutting by rote.”

“Well you haven’t been ‘rutting’ very often,” Marissa lashed back. “As a performer you’ve been less than the greatest.”

“Careful,” Robert warned, feeling Marissa was getting nasty. “Just keep in mind that this rutting is easy for you. All you have to do is play dead while I do all the work.”