Page 8 of Both Sides Now

“Work, Megan. Like I am every day. What’s up?”

“Gold or black?”

What the fuck is this woman blathering on about? “In regard to?”

“My dress for the dinner next week.”

“What dinner?”

“Keegey, you know what dinner.”

What I know is that I detest her nickname for me. “Megan, I’m too busy for this nonsense today. If you can’t come out and tell me what you want, it will have to wait until I’m finished seeing patients.”

I realize I’ve adopted the same tone with Megan that my mother used on me—when I was eight.

Megan, for her part, is undeterred by my stern voice. Like I said, not the brightest bulb in the pack. “The medical dinner next week. You said I could come with you.”

“Right. I did say that.” She’s referring to the upcoming medical shindig at one of the premier restaurants in the Hudson Valley. Honestly, I never intended on her going as my date, but she found the invitation on my counter and hounded me until I relented.

Okay, fine. There was some oral involved in the negotiations. Sue me. She got her wish.

“The black dress is shorter, but the gold one is so sparkly. I want to look pretty for you. Impress all your friends.”

I rub my brow, a headache brewing behind my eyes. The woman means well, and I know she wants to please me, but I couldn’t give two craps what color dress she wears. To be fair,neither will the myriad of men ogling her at the dinner. “Go with the black.”

Her high-pitched giggle echoes through the receiver, cutting through my brain like a scythe. “That was my choice, too. Okay, Keegey, get back to work. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”

“Can’t wait,” I mumble, disconnecting the call.

Why, seriously why, wouldanyonewant to be attached to one person for the rest of their lives? I spend two or three nights a week with Megan, and I’m tempted to slice my own throat.

All I can say is thank God for blow jobs.

I glanceover the paperwork before visiting with my newest patient. Callista Webster. That’s not a name you hear every day. Thirty-seven years old, no children. Fairly standard in this field.

I push open the door, my gaze focused on the paperwork. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Webster.”

“Callista is fine.”

Her voice stops me in my tracks. It’s like warmed honey oozing over me. Low and throaty, with a killer English accent to boot.

Glancing up, I realize she looks as good as she sounds. Not that she’s actually trying to impress me—or anyone, for that matter. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her auburn hair pulled into a braid, and not a speck of makeup covering her ivory complexion.

A natural beauty. I’d forgotten there was such a thing.

I extend my hand in greeting, offering a smile. “I’m Dr. Russo.”

I shoot a quick glance around the consultation room,looking for her partner. None to be found. Then again, it’s not that odd these days, and I don’t judge my patients. Or their decisions.

That detached perspective took years to acquire, and I still often slip from my seat of neutrality, despite my best intentions.

Here’s the thing: People decide to have a child for a myriad of reasons—desire and obligation among them. But in the world of infertility, there is another pervading emotion—desperation. These people often feel less than and are desperate to prove their worth. Sometimes they don’t even know why they want a baby, or their reasons make my head spin—to rekindle a romance, rebuild trust, repair a relationship—all equally terrible ideas.

No matter how cute a baby may be, they are not band-aids. They’re stressors, and they won’t fix anything that was broken before their arrival.

A sad but true fact—saddest for the child.

In the beginning, I would voice my opinion, hoping to trigger a lightbulb moment before patients careened further down a path of expensive self-loathing. I learned involvement in their affairs was not inmybest interest. Emotions ranged from a dismissal of my concern to downright fury at my insinuations.

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