Authors: Gail McFarland
“The decision to become pregnant again after a pregnancy loss is a difficult one,” Chris said.
Rissa slumped in her upholstered seat and glared like a reluctant teen. “Not for me.”
Undeterred and apparently optimistic, the therapist plunged on. “Subsequent pregnancies can bring about a whole new set of emotions, and the decision should never be taken lightly. In your case, it’s understandable that a pregnancy would be compounded with even more emotions and medical details than normal.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Rissa pressed her lips into a tight line.
“Let me ask you this: Is it the pregnancy or the child-rearing that’s most important to you?”
“It’s…”
I never
thought about that before…
Rissa looked at Marlea, remembered her pregnancies, all of those stupid pictures her mother had taken of her belly, AJ’s face at the birth of his children.
I want that…for me and for Dench.
She thought of Nia’s pride in her potty training, of Jabari’s face when he took his first steps into Marlea’s arms.
I want that…Dench wants that…
Her mind flashed images of what it would be like to hold her own child.
“It’s both,” she finally said.
Chris nodded softly. Her voice was understanding and supportive. “What is your husband saying about your decision?”
Dench.
“He’s supportive.”
“Have you asked him what he thinks?”
“I…of course I have. Like I just told you, he wants a baby as much as I do.” Her quick glance stole Marlea’s thoughts and bound her to silence.
“In my experience, some couples choose to try again immediately, while others are left wondering if they ever want to try again. Others will choose adoption because of concerns due to fertility problems or the age of the parents.” Chris paused to consult her notes. Looking up, measuring her client, the therapist spent her next words like dollars. “At thirty-two, I can imagine you’re eager to try again.”
“As soon as possible,” Rissa said softly.
“Have you considered taking some time?”
“For what?” Rissa’s head jerked up, her eyes dark and sharp. “My eggs are not going to wait forever.”
“I’m not suggesting that you cease trying,” the therapist said quickly. “Perhaps you might benefit by taking at least a few months to heal a bit emotionally—think about it.”
“I have, thank you. At the rate I’m going, my emotions will be healed and my womb will still be empty.” Rissa reached for her purse as she stood. “Thank you for your time.”
Marlea caught her in the hall.
“Don’t say it.” Rissa walked faster. “Marlea, if I’m ever going to have a baby, I have to take control over my fertility, and I’m doing that right now.”
“Rissa, there are alternatives…”
“Sure, there are alternatives, but how many of them are really reasonable for me? Dench and I have already spent years and a truckload of money on fertility treatments that were useless and never guaranteed in the first place.”
“Wait, Rissa.”
Marlea’s fingers closed on her wrist and Rissa stopped to look at her. “You really don’t understand that my reality is totally different from yours, do you? You’re right, we could adopt, but then it’s not like any of the available children would be genetically linked to me or Dench. Foster care? No way can I see bringing a child into our lives, loving it, then giving it back like some kind of rent-a-baby. Don’t you think I’ve done my homework? Checked all this stuff out?”
Pushing through the heavy door, she rushed down the stairs to her car. Jamming her key in the lock, her hand shook, and she hoped Marlea hadn’t noticed.
“Have you thought about a surrogate?
“Yeah, right,” Rissa snorted, dropping into the driver’s seat. “Have you noticed? I’m a black woman living in America at the beginning of the twenty-first century. There is no huge demand for surrogates among African-Americans at this time. African-American women prefer to make their babies the old-fashioned way, Marlea, and you should know that. Even if I wanted one, acceptable surrogates aren’t growing on trees.”
Marlea crossed her arms and made a face. “AJ is right. You really do have a head like a rock.”
“Takes one to know one,” Rissa muttered. “What’s your point?”
“That was an offer, dummy.” On the other side of the car, Marlea dropped her arms open, into full display. “Would I be acceptable? I could be your surrogate.” Rissa’s mouth dropped and she started to protest, but Marlea cut her off. “We already know that I’m healthy, we share the same blood type—B positive—and I’ve had two perfectly healthy babies.”
“So you think that qualifies you to be a…a rest stop for…mine?”
“I could be. Rissa, I really could be.”
“No. Dench and I are going to try again.” Rissa turned the key and the car’s engine purred. She pressed her foot to the gas and eased out of the parking slot.
“And if things don’t work out? Would you consider adoption?”
“I already told you…” Rissa’s eyes snapped and her lips tightened.
“Rissa, there are millions of unwanted children of color out there. Children of all ages—I’m sure you and Dench could adopt an infant if you wanted to. You could have all the sleepless nights and diaper changes that would occur if you gave birth to the baby yourself.”
“But they wouldn’t be blood, Marlea. That whole ‘bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh’ thing? It’s deep, and it’s what I want for Dench and me. He doesn’t have anyone else, no other blood relatives, and I want to give him that connection.”
“You’re all the connection that man needs.”
“I don’t expect you to understand, but I hoped you would. My hardheaded stubbornness cost him everything. When you touch Nia and Jabari, every cell in your body connects to them. When they turn to you or AJ, there is no other human who can and will give them what you do—and that’s what I want for us, Marlea. I know that means being blessed with a second chance, but if I had one, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make this real for us.”
“Then think about my offer, that’s all I’m saying. Flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. You could have it, Rissa.” The hand that Marlea laid on Rissa’s arm trembled faintly. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister, and as frustrating as you can be sometimes, AJ and I love you. Dench loves you and we both know that this is hurting him. Give it some thought, Rissa—for you and Dench. Just think about it.”
Rissa steered into traffic. “Why does everyone think that I’m so frustrating?”
“Because you are, and personally, I fault AJ. If he’d been a good little boy, he would have been an only child.” Marlea laughed when Rissa slapped at her shoulder. “Just promise to think about it.”
“Right.” Rissa slipped a hand from the steering wheel and crossed her fingers. “I promise.”
Chapter 10
Rissa was hoping for an early start, normalcy, and a little privacy—even if she was starting her week on Thursday.
But taking the time was the right thing to do,
’cause
I was a little stressed. I needed to take a minute,
she told herself when she pushed through the door of MYT, Unlimited, with a full cup from Starbucks in one hand and the Atlanta
Journal-Constitution
under her arm.
But the door was unlocked and the lights were on—proof that fate had conspired against her, and that she was not alone.
Yvette’s head lifted and her eyes met Rissa’s, almost daring her to speak.
Damn
, Rissa realized,
this sister is loaded for bear!
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
That’s it?
Rissa took a deep breath and walked closer. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine.” Yvette’s lips thinned when she lifted a stack of folders from Karee’s desk and pushed them toward Rissa, but she never mentioned Rissa’s extended weekend. “Those are yours. Karee has already finished them.” She lifted a second group of folders and held them close to her chest.
Rissa fingered the folder tabs. “Oh, good. She got to the Jimmy Clarence information.” She looked up and tried a smile, then nearly shivered from the frost Yvette sent her way. “They, uh, had their baby. It’s a boy—James Jr.”
“How nice.” Yvette opened the file on top of her stack. She found an error and scowled down at it.
Walking closer, Rissa set her purse on the edge of Karee’s desk. “Look, Yvette…” Her throat closed when Yvette’s eyes nailed hers. “Yvette, I’m sorry. There’s no good way to say it. I was a bitch the other day and I had no right, absolutely no right, to speak to you the way I did. I don’t know how to make it better and I don’t even know if I can forgive myself, but I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
“Yes, you were a bitch.” Yvette bit her lip. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but everybody in this office knows what you’ve gone through recently, and, whether you believe it or not, we’re all pulling for you.”
Humiliated, Rissa’s breast rose and fell, but her gaze did not waver.
“I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that you were a bitch, with a capital ‘B,’ and that I was pissed with you.” Yvette laid her palms flat against the folders. “Want to tell me what happened with the cake?”
Rissa gasped and shook her head. “No.”
The corners of Yvette’s mouth turned down, but she nodded. “Okay—for now.”
“But can you forgive me for just being nasty?”
“Yeah, I can. I’ve had a few days to think it over, so I suppose I will.” Yvette’s hand was warm and comforting on Rissa’s arm. “I’ve never been through the kind of stuff you and Dench are going through, but I meant it when I said that you could talk to me. I’m not just your partner, I’m your friend.”
“That’s what Dench said you would say.”
“Smart man, you should hold onto him.” Yvette winked as she picked up her folders and walked to her office.
In her own office, Rissa shuffled through the folders and smiled when she thought of Yvette’s words.
I have every intention of holding on to him, and I’m so glad he holds onto me.
Thinking of him made her look around her office. She looked at the wall and the floor, trying to see evidence of the cake she’d thrown—that nothing was visible was evidence of his hand. She sniffed the air and smelled only the vague clean scent of vanilla instead of chocolate and rancid butter from the red velvet cake.
Dench,
she thought again, knowing that he’d made sure she could work in her office.
I must have scared the bejoogers out of him, and he still found a way to make sure that my office was clean.
Pleased and grateful, she was tempted to call him, but he was out on the field today—preseason training, she knew.
But there’s no reason I can’t text him.
Her fingers were quick on the keys as she worked to say what she wanted him to know.
I love you like a flower loves the rain,
she began, then spent five minutes revising. Finally satisfied with her message, she sat at her desk and sipped her coffee, wishing she could have said more, somehow reassured him of more.
At least I was able to tell him about my time with Chris Gordon.
It didn’t take a lot of imagination to recall the look on his face when she’d walked in from the appointment. Coming in through the kitchen door, she’d caught him standing at the dark granite counter, building a massive and manly structure of turkey, a couple kinds of cheeses, and assorted vegetables. He called it a sandwich. She strolled close enough to stand next to him and steal his potato chips.
Slicing the sandwich, he levered half of it onto a second plate and pushed it toward her. “See, that’s proof that I love you,” he grinned.
Snagging more chips, she pushed the sandwich back. “No, baby, you eat it. I don’t want to take food out of your mouth.” No argument from him as he poured two tall glasses of milk. She took one and sipped, before running her tongue over her upper lip. “Can I tell you what I did today?”
“What did you do?” He moved both plates to the other side of the granite counter and she followed him. When he sat on one of the tall stools, Rissa pressed herself between his legs and leaned against him.
“I kind of took your advice. I got Marlea to go with me…I…” She stuttered when he raised a brow. “I went to see a therapist.”
And I don’t know what I expected him to do or say, but when he rubbed my arms and held me…when he listened…promised me that everything was going to be all right…
She sipped more coffee, looked out over her clean office, and felt cherished.
I told my mother that I loved him, that those three words were my life, and I ain’t never lied about where my feelings are for him. Dench is my life, whether we ever have a baby or not.
Lifting the first of the folders she’d brought from the front, Rissa started to read over the details of a new commercial contract, and was interrupted by the ring of her phone. She was slightly disappointed that it wasn’t her private line.
Joyce Ashton sounded wide awake. “You’ve been on my mind and I thought I would give you a call.”
“That’s nice, but…why?” Anxiety skittered across her skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Joyce, is something wrong with me?”
“Calm down, you’re fine, as far as I know. I just wanted to chat a little.”
Chat? I’ve never chatted with Joyce before. “
What did you want to chat about? Is it something legal?”
“No, and it’s nothing big.” The doctor’s smile edged her voice. “I had a chance to speak with Dench.”
Rissa’s mouth opened and closed on her shock. “I can’t believe he went behind my back and called you.”
“How do you know I didn’t call him? Besides Rissa, he was worried and he wanted to understand what was going on with you.”
“Joyce, you’re
my
doctor, not
our
doctor. He should have at least said something to me first.” Rissa turned her desk chair to look out of her window. In the distance, she could see the haze of early summer heat rising over the Buckhead skyline and was thankful for air conditioning. “Ethically, if I didn’t come to you, no one should have.”
“You’re one of those people who only thinks about ethics when she gets caught in them, aren’t you?” Joyce’s light chuckle crossed the line between them, smoothing some of Rissa’s irritation. “How ethical is it for you to keep details from Dench and then make him an accomplice to a loss he had no control over?”
Rissa groaned and propped her chin in her hand. “It never crossed my mind.”
“He told me that you saw a counselor.”
“Yes, I did, and I think it helped.”
“When are you going back?”
Rissa lifted the lid on her coffee cup and sighed.
Empty. Just my luck.
“What else did he tell you? Or maybe a better question is, what else did you tell him about me?”
“He says you’re going to try again.”
“We are.”
Rissa could almost hear Joyce toying with her glasses, maybe tapping one of the temple pieces against her lips as she framed her words. “I’m sure the sex is enjoyable, but is it fair?”
“Oh, you wait until I talk to Dench…”
“And what will you say to him? ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again?’ Rissa, even if you are successful in getting pregnant again, and remember it took four years this time, is it fair to tell him that you’ll just keep on trying until you get it right?”
“That’s mean.”
“No, Rissa, that’s real. If you don’t find a way to accept and respond to your cervical insufficiency, you will more than likely repeat your loss. Could either of you stand that? Could your marriage survive it?”
Chris Gordon said I was entitled to my grief. She never said it would haunt me like this.
“What do you recommend?”
“There are alternatives…”
“I know, I know. Anything else?”
“Well,” Joyce drawled. “You could call Alexis Stanton, the specialist I told you about. And keep having sex. If you get pregnant, talk to Alexis about cervical cerclage. If you truly want to carry your own child, the procedure might give you a chance. Other than that, just enjoy sex with your husband, stay open to the alternatives, and don’t discount the option of a surrogate.”
There’s that word was again—surrogate.
“Have you been talking to Marlea?”
“No, not lately, why?”
“No reason. Maybe I should talk to her.”
Ending the call with Joyce, Rissa considered calling Marlea—and it seemed like a good idea until she looked at the time. Not even ten in the morning. She realized that Marlea would be in class at the Runyon School right about now.
And there’s no way to call her and work through this.
Pacing did next to nothing for her nerves and getting Dench’s sexy text message didn’t help, either. Rissa looked at the door and debated going to Yvette’s office.
She said I could talk to her…but this is too much, and way too personal…Connie and Jeannette talk too much, and they talk to each other…
Her phone rang and she paced close enough to pick up the receiver.
“Hey, Rissa. I’ve got pictures.”
Oh, goody. Just what I need.
“I emailed them to you this morning. You’ll see them as soon as you open your email,” Jimmy Clarence enthused. “I sent a set to Dench, too.”
“That was really nice, Jimmy. Thanks.”
“My mama called this morning, and I thought I’d better give you a heads up—before she tracks you down. She bought a video camera and she’s trying to make a film about JJ’s first days. That’s what she calls him, JJ, for James Junior. He ain’t been here but a minute and she’s already got a nickname for him.” The boxer’s voice thickened and slowed. “You know, I owe you a lot. If you and Dench hadn’t been there to point me in the right direction…man…I would be missing out on all of this. So, you know…thanks.”
“You’re welcome, and I’m going to look at those pictures.”
Hanging up the phone, she congratulated herself
. I just had a whole
five minute conversation about a baby and I didn’t have a meltdown. That’s progress.
Determined to make more progress, she opened the files on her desk and tried to prioritize. Marcus Sawyer’s file seemed to rise to the top and she flipped through it, shaking her head as she read. Twenty-one years old, fast feet, balance to die for, and the kind of hands that could become NFL legend, the receiver had a drinking problem that could condemn him to a career of regret—
if he doesn’t kill himself or someone else in the process.
Reading deeper into the file, Rissa found herself shaking her head.
I knew from the beginning that this boy had problems.
Her first meeting with him was at a high school football game, at the invitation of his mother. Sawyer’s mother was not so different from her own and when Rissa decided to go to the game, she hauled Dench along for backup.
Sawyer was a dream on the field and hell at home. He was a smart, arrogant kid, being raised without a father, and maybe that was part of the problem, because it took the promise of a man with passion for the game they both loved to grab his attention and get him through school. Dench promised him a chance and Rissa used AJ’s contacts to get Sawyer into Tech. She’d hoped the rest would be up to him and his talent. Now there was a place on the Falcons for him—if he could ever develop the discipline to hold on to it.
Dropping her head into her palms, Rissa read more. Every problem on Marcus’s list seemed based in alcohol. The alcohol issue never showed up in the time he played for Tech. His grades were decent, better than decent, actually.
Addiction,
she thought,
and addiction is not about discipline
. She saw the sticky yellow note Yvette had attached to the file.
José Christopher and Ben Thomas had already called and were waiting to hear something from her. Christopher and Thomas were reporters. Worse, they were damned good reporters and, like sharks, they could already smell blood in the water surrounding Sawyer.
This can’t be ignored or left alone in the hope that people will forget about it—memory is just too convenient.
Crushing the note into a ball, she turned her computer on and did a search of the Fulton County Jail records. When she found Sawyer’s name the first time, a blunt burst of acid shot through Rissa’s stomach, and she knew she would have to dig deeper. Her fast fingers moved the mouse and typed in more data, hoping she wouldn’t find him.
Hope all you want, there he is.
She tapped the screen with her finger and wished she wasn’t seeing what she was seeing.
This was the part of her job that she hated, having to confront a client and issue an ultimatum. Marcus Sawyer was going to have to decide to embrace his life and the career he craved, or take a dive into a bottle and figure out how to live with what he found at the bottom. It wasn’t about getting a break. It was about making a choice.
But it’s never really that simple, is it?
Massaging her temples, Rissa could hear Chris Gordon’s voice and knew the truth of her words. It wasn’t simple, but Rissa knew that she would connect the player with the therapist, and pray for the best.