Page 1 of Mile High Coach

Chapter 1

Lovie

Iclamp myself into the world’s stiffest airport chair, avoiding my email like it’s radioactive, and wonder who thought “Jetport Way” sounded like a good name for an airport.

Around me, passengers roll their suitcases, check gates, and wait in a growing line to talk to the attendant. Apparently, there have been some re-routed flights because of the storms in the area today. Across from me, a mother settles down with her baby, and I can’t stop myself from looking, even with the deep ache it causes in my chest.

The baby is in a soft yellow dress with a little daisy pattern, wearing a matching hat with soft white ruffles. She’s crying, her mouth open and gummy, her hands reaching for her mother. There is only a sparse little patch of hair on her head.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman says, trying to reach into her bag with one hand while bouncing the little girl with her other arm. When her eyes flick up to mine, they’re tired, ringed with exhaustion. “Do you mind?”

I smile, shake my head, and jostle the earbuds on my keychain. “I’ve always got these if I need them. Don’t worry about it at all.”

She laughs and finally pulls out what she’s looking for—a blanket to cover her chest while she nurses. I force myself to look away, force myself to ignore the turning in my stomach, the jealousy and want that pound through me to the point of nausea.

Searching for a distraction, I check for the fourth time that my boarding pass is still snug in the front pocket of my purse. Then I return to my phone and read through an article about the Portland jetport. I’ve flown out here in the past, every few years, for a family vacation when I was a kid, but never wondered about the name’s distinction before.

Apparently, there’s no real purpose behind the name.

Feeling unsatisfied, I do the unthinkable and tap over to my email app, the plain white inbox loading for an unreasonable amount of time, before finally popping up with my most recent inbox.

At the top of the list there's a new email from the clinic.

I tap on it immediately, then have to wait another minute for the email itself to load. When it won’t, I bite my tongue and dial the number for the clinic, needing to know.

“Portland Premiere Fertility Clinic, this is Betty. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Betty,” I use my most professional voice, glance around at the other travelers, and hope nobody is listening in on the conversation. “I’m calling because I got an email update, but can’t read the message.”

“Oh,” she says, pausing for a moment. “Who’s your fertility coach?”

“Dr. Cohen.”

“Let me just transfer you over.”

I open my mouth to tell her no—that talking directly to Dr. Cohen might not be the best for my anxiety levels, but it’s too late. The phone is already dialing.

“Hello, this is Dr. Cohen speaking.”

“Hi, this is Lovie Waters, I just got an email update from the clinic, but I’m at the airport right now and can’t load it.”

Maybe I should say more, ask a specific question, but my brain feels smooth. The moment ticks on, Dr. Cohen clearly waiting for me to say something else, and I flounder for a second before she finally speaks, saving me from the discomfort.

“Oh, sure, of course,” Dr. Cohen says, in that soothing, straightforward way she has. “Just give me one moment…”

As I listen to the sound of her mouse and keyboard on the other end of the line, I picture her in her office, that smooth, straight auburn hair that reflects in the light, the settling way her brown eyes focus in. She seemed competent, and the way she spoke about the process was matter of fact.

“Alright, Lovie, it looks like your results came in. You should be able to review those once you have a better connection, but essentially, we’re looking at a pretty decent playing field, considering your age. Hormone levels look adequate. Your blood work came back with good markers.”

“That’s great.” Even as I say it, I can sense the “but” lurking on the other end of the line.

“However,” she says, clearing her throat, “you are approaching the age for what we would consider a geriatric pregnancy, like we discussed during your consultation. With age, those eggs have a harder and harder time producing a viable embryo, so it’s important that we get started as soon as possible. The first step is the fertility treatment itself—you’ll do a few rounds of that before we move on to egg retrieval and more aggressive prescriptions.”

“Okay.” I clear my throat, and resist the urge to tap my foot and instead cross my legs, keeping myself still. “I’ll need to give you a new pharmacy. I’m actually moving to Baltimore for work, but I’m planning to fly home for our appointments.”

Never mind the fact that the fertility clinic is expensive enough itself, even without the added flights home. It took me months to get on the waitlist for an appointment, and I’m not risking setting this whole thing back to change clinics now.

“Alright,” Dr. Cohen says, her voice optimistically cautious. “But keep in mind what we talked about—trying to keep your stress levels as low as possible. Chemically, your body responds to stress hormones negatively, which can degrade the quality of your eggs. But on a more macro level, we care about you as a person, and it’s important to remember that you’re more than an incubator. You have to take care of yourself if you expect your body to grow a baby for you, right?”

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