Possibilities - Part Three
Here I am with the third part of this story. As usual, it's taken me longer than anticipated although I actually wrote the whole thing this afternoon! It's the finding the chunks of time to write that seems to be the issue.

ANYWAY, here it is. I hope that you enjoy it. Feedback warmly welcomed :)




III.

Unlike the movies or soap operas, Allison does not immediately become pregnant. Two months pass but you are unconcerned. The statistics for a thirty-seven year old woman aren’t great but you aren’t about to suggest any extra doctor’s visits. Technically speaking, while your little soldiers aren’t as old as her eggs, the barracks they come from are pushing (okay pushed past) fifty but the idea of doing anything to help things along just doesn’t occur to you. The fact that the situation has been discussed and decided upon is enough. For the moment.

Two more months pass and honestly thoughts of your virility and Allison’s fertility rarely pass through your mind. The two of you are back in your comfortable routine. You wonder if Allison is happy about not being pregnant. You think about telling her to start taking a daily vitamin.

Wilson brings in an ultrasound picture of the new baby. It’s a boy and he grins like an idiot while giving you a rundown of his vital statistics and pointing out his barely developed dangly bits. You never used to have to try to distance yourself from emotion. It was a knee-jerk reaction for years. Now when you hold a grainy black and white image of something that more closely resembles an alien than a human, you have to fight from spilling your guts to Wilson.

When you get home you find a copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility on Allison’s nightstand. That answers your question about whether or not she’s happy with the status quo. You don’t plan on mentioning anything to her, but naturally your mouth outruns your brain later that night.

She’s just coming out of the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and looking much too young for you (as usual) when you mention her new book.

“Looks like you picked up a little light reading.”

Five years of dealing with you has her prepared, and she doesn’t even blink before answering.

“I decided it wouldn’t hurt to find out if all the sex we’ve been having is just a waste of our time,” she says with a smirk.

Actually, your sex life has been the same as always… which is to say, you’ve been keeping busy. You smirk back at her.

“Right. Wouldn’t want to be giving up extra hours of sleep for nothing.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly hours. More like minutes.”

She finds that much funnier than you do and proceeds to laugh while you roll your eyes.

You’ve lost interest in the conversation by the time she’s ready to be serious, but she draws you back in quickly.

“I always thought I’d have children,” she says in a very matter of fact voice, causing you to glance at her face for some indication of what her emotions are doing. Surprisingly, her expression gives nothing away.

“Well, that makes one of us,” you say, unsure if you’re really supposed to be saying anything.

“Yeah, I figured they weren’t high on your list as a kid, but they were always pretty high on mine. It just seemed natural. I’d grow up, go to college, go to med school. get married, have kids. Didn’t quite work out that way.”

Her tone has turned melancholic and you know not to interrupt.

“I was happy with my husband. Really happy. And then I lost him. Then, when I found out I was pregnant, of course I was upset but then I was happy. For the first time since the funeral I had something to look forward to. But that didn’t last either. After that, I don’t think I was ever really happy again until you.”

She looks over at you then and she’s looking a little ashamed or nervous or maybe scared that she has said too much. It’s sickens you that even now, when you’re husband and wife, your past behavior still causes her fleeting moments of doubt. Yes, if some patient had told you that story, you’d have ripped it to shreds saying that some antidepressants were in order and denying the existence of anything approaching “true love”. The thing of it is, it is easy to be a bastard when it’s not personal. When the person telling the story is Allison, and you know damn well that she’s not overplaying her feelings or angling for sympathy, every word seems profound.

You tell her that you think you spent about thirty years not thinking that “happy” existed. Naturally you leave unspoken what changed your mind about that.

She huffs out a little sigh and smiles lightly before continuing her train of thought.

“So, now here I am. Happy. Content. Then you go and bring up babies and it was all I could do not to scream at you to stop pushing our luck. I don’t want you to think you’ve pushed me into anything. I’m the one who decided it’s worth the risk, but for the last two months I’ve still had a voice telling me to quit while I’m ahead and stop wishing for perfection.”

“And how does that explain your new book?” you ask her.

“I bought it because I woke up and realized that I didn’t want to just be along for the ride. I want to be excited about having a baby. I deserve that, and so do you, and I’m tired of being afraid to hope for more than what I have.”

It’s frightening how she has just summed up the better part of your adult life.

You kiss her and tell her you don’t need the book tonight.

Forty-seven days later, she walks into your office with a patient folder in her outstretched hand. You take it with an exasperated sigh, wondering what hard-luck case she’s trying to thrust upon you. When you open the folder you discover that you are going to be a father.

Later, Wilson asks you why you were sucking face with Allison with all the blinds open. Usually you’re more discreet. You just smile smugly and say you were in the mood.