Remembering that he’d set his phone on silent mode before
visiting Stacy, he scooped it up from the coffee table and checked for messages.
Since the number was private, he didn’t expect any calls from the press, and
there weren’t any. Only a message from Jennifer Martin.
“If you haven’t seen the news yet, I’m sure you will,” said her
recorded voice. “Don’t let it bother you. The media love to blow things out of
proportion, and Saturdays are notoriously slow news days. By Monday they’ll move
on to something else.” During a short pause, he thought he heard her mutter, “I
hope.” In a louder voice, she said, “Keep a low profile. Call me if you have any
questions, and enjoy your evening.”
Keep a low profile? How, exactly?
Despite his rising frustration, Cole reminded himself that
there was nothing he could do about this. Anyway, compared to his concerns about
Stacy and her pregnancy, this fuss struck him as the proverbial tempest in a
teapot.
Mankind’s ability to reproduce was not even close to being in
danger. And he was the living proof.
Chapter Nine
Stacy fell deeply asleep at eight o’clock and awoke in
the middle of the night with ideas buzzing in her brain. Pulling a pad from
beside the bed, she began writing a notice for the bulletin board.
“Surgical nurse seeks roommate. Must be quiet, reliable, kind,
funny, sweet, good in a crisis and empathetic.”
She tapped the paper with her pencil. What kind of list was
that? It sounded like a description of Cole, except for the empathetic part.
She wished she hadn’t been so angry with him last night. Her
snappishness about the tiramisu had obviously caught him off guard. True, Andrew
would have plied her with dessert until he’d talked her into eating it, which
was what she really wanted. But that had been in their early days.
Yet these
were
her early days with
Cole. And most likely these were all the days they were going to have. No way on
earth would she let him move in with her, although she appreciated his offer to
pay rent.
Stacy crossed out the adjectives, jotted down the price of rent
and the convenient location two miles from work, and set down the pad. She must
have gone to sleep again, because the next thing she knew, morning light was
filtering through the blinds.
From the living room came the blare of an animated video. High,
squeaky cartoon voices didn’t usually bother her, but today they set her nerves
on edge.
There was a tap on the door, and Harper came in with a tray of
toast and tea. “We’ll be leaving for church soon. I thought you might need
this.”
“Thanks,” Stacy said, nearly adding, “I’ll miss you when you
move.” But she didn’t want to pile any more guilt on her friend.
After positioning the tray on Stacy’s lap, Harper picked up the
notepad. “I’ll print this up for you and do that fringe thing so they can pull
off your email address.”
Her mouth full of rye toast—her favorite—Stacy mumbled, “You
don’t have to...”
“It’s no trouble. I’m glad to help.” Tearing off the sheet,
Harper scooted out.
“I meant...” What? That she felt reluctant to post the notice?
It was the quickest way to find a roommate. Besides, she didn’t
have
to accept someone just because he or she
responded.
When she got out of bed half an hour later, Stacy found
sections of the Sunday newspaper scattered between the living room and the
kitchen. As she collected the ones that interested her, she wished she had
someone there to rub her feet. Did Cole do that sort of thing?
During their courtship, Andrew had given her wonderful
massages.... Why did she keep thinking about him?
Because I still don’t understand why he
fell out of love with me.
Figuring it out might help Stacy prevent the same thing from
happening again with a new man. Except, of course, she had yet to meet someone
who’d cherish and adore her forever, and she wasn’t likely to in her
condition.
It seemed like a million years ago, instead of nine or ten,
that she’d first seen Andrew—at a student rally at Cal State University, Long
Beach. He was an impressively built guy, and he’d been surrounded by friends.
Stacy had felt his gaze flick over her, but didn’t believe he’d noticed her
particularly.
A while later, when the crowd grew rambunctious—to this day,
she couldn’t remember the cause they’d been protesting—she’d lost her footing. A
strong hand had grasped her arm and pulled her to safety.
When she looked up into Andrew’s green eyes, she’d felt a jolt
of electricity. The spark had been instantaneous and intense. The man had bowled
her over, taking her to dinner, asking about her life and dreams, sharing his
past as a high school football star and the difficulties of adjusting to a less
exalted role as a college student in business administration.
Soon they were spending all their spare time together.
Starstruck, she’d encouraged and admired him, and he’d been enthusiastic about
her plans to become a surgical nurse. Andrew had a gift for making romantic
gestures, for anticipating her needs and for saying the right things. Stacy had
found it hard to believe she’d discovered such an ideal guy, and that he’d
fallen for her.
He’d graduated a year ahead of her. Although she’d feared they
might drift apart once he began working, he’d proposed. Right after her
graduation, they’d had a storybook wedding.
Over the next few years, his heavy schedule of traveling for
his employer and her long hours as a nurse had made it difficult to maintain
their closeness. Yet just when Stacy would start to feel concerned, Andrew would
surprise her with a romantic getaway or a thoughtful gift that restored her
confidence. He had exquisite taste in jewelry....
She’d worried that he might meet other women when he was out of
town. Her mother had advised her to trust him, warning that nothing drove a man
away faster than a nagging, suspicious wife. Ironically, it wasn’t some
glamorous businesswoman who stole him but a former high school girlfriend who
worked in town as an ultrasound technician.
Stacy had been putting in extra shifts at the hospital, since
they’d agreed to start a family once their savings reached a certain level. So
she hadn’t realized he was seeing someone else until the evening Andrew
presented her with the divorce papers. He told her he’d fallen back in love with
Zora. She made him happy in a way that Stacy no longer did.
He hadn’t left any room for discussion. No counseling, no
attempt to save their marriage. He wanted out.
Numb with shock and pain, Stacy had agreed. She still couldn’t
figure out where she’d gone wrong. She missed those early years, that uplifting
sense of being deeply loved and cherished. How could their bond have dissolved
so completely without her realizing it?
She tried to picture Cole madly in love. All she could
visualize was him crouching in the parking garage retrieving her lipstick from
behind a tire. Even a casual stranger would do that.
In the kitchen, Stacy put the kettle on to boil. Closing her
eyes, she inhaled the lingering scents of pesto sauce and garlic. What a
delicious dinner he’d brought last night. She wished she hadn’t been so rude
about the dessert.
What was Cole doing this morning? she wondered.
When the tea was ready, she settled in to read the paper. On
the bottom half of page one, folded so she hadn’t seen it before, was a picture
of Cole, his eyes keen and his lips parted as he spoke into a microphone.
Pride surged through Stacy. Then she read the headline, “Man’s
future in doubt? M.D. cites low sperm counts.” While he’d mentioned speaking on
the subject, she doubted he’d done so in such an inflammatory fashion.
The article began with the same provocative angle as the
headline, but the rest sounded more like Cole: calmly informative. Stacy
considered clipping it to give to him, until it occurred to her that the public
relations office would no doubt secure plenty of copies.
Moving to the sports section, she saw that an Orange County
gymnast was in an international competition to be aired in about ten minutes.
She switched on the TV in the living room.
A newscaster was droning on about a bill scheduled to come
before Congress that week. Then she heard the anchorwoman say, “If you’re
worried about our budget problems, here’s even scarier news. In another
generation or two, there might not be enough young people to pay taxes,
according to a California fertility expert.”
Cole appeared, broad-shouldered in his white coat as he faced
the camera. “We hear reports from around the globe that sperm counts are
dropping.” An almost imperceptible blip was followed by: “We could be in
trouble.”
Back to the anchorwoman. “That’s the word from Dr. Cole
Rattigan at Safe Harbor Medical Center. He cites statistics that show...”
The words blurred as Stacy realized that this was no longer a
local story. It had made the network news.
Whether Cole liked it or not—and he probably hated it—anything
he did was likely to be broadcast. Such as revealing that he’d impregnated his
surgical nurse. That was all Stacy needed, for her parents to see her
embarrassing situation played up like some cheesy reality show. Her father would
be horrified. Both her reputation and Cole’s would be dragged through the gossip
mill.
Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d been
hoping that somehow, despite her protests, Cole would wind up as her new
roommate. Glumly, she faced the fact that, for both their sakes, she couldn’t
let that happen.
* * *
“R
EFUSE
ALL
INTERVIEWS
and don’t post any
comments online unless Jennifer or I approve them first,” Owen Tartikoff warned
Cole on Monday afternoon. The fertility chief, fresh from surgery judging by the
strong smell of antiseptic, had stopped by Cole’s office in the medical
building.
“Too bad. And here I was planning to write a blog about the
imminent end of the human race,” Cole deadpanned.
“You may think this is funny, but the media will twist anything
you say.”
“They already have,” Cole pointed out. He had no intention of
writing or saying anything about the Daddy Crisis, as some hyperventilating
reporter had called it. Somehow, even on a Sunday, the fearmongers had dredged
up a few experts to comment pro and con. Each time, the TV stations reran clips
of Cole’s remarks.
He clung to the hope, as Jennifer’s email had suggested, that
today would bring fresh news to fill their gossip-casts. Never before had Cole
wished so hard for a senator to commit some deadly sin or a celebrity to get
caught shoplifting.
“I’m just offering friendly advice.” Owen tried his most
intimidating stare on Cole. “Keep it low-key.”
“You sure you don’t want me to give any more lectures?” Cole
asked. “How about one called ‘Teach Your Sperm to Do the Conga’?”
“You’re enjoying this,” Owen growled.
Only the part where I’m having fun at your
expense.
“If you light a fire, don’t complain when it gets too hot.”
“Point taken.”
Nurse Luke Mendez, who went by the nickname Lucky, glanced
meaningfully through the partly open door. They had a waiting room full of
patients, with several prepped in examining rooms.
“I’ll let you get to work.” With that, Dr. T. departed, his
aura of power fraying around the edges.
That day and the next, Cole arrived early and stayed late,
treating more patients than usual. The publicity had inspired a flood of calls.
Lucky referred many of the men to other urologists for preliminary workups.
However, they tried to squeeze in those patients whose infertility had defied
diagnosis.
Cole had nearly forgotten about Peter Gladstone, until Tuesday
around 6:00 p.m., when he picked up the day’s final chart and recognized the
name of the biology teacher who’d fended off the reporters. A check of the man’s
records and medical history showed that his previous doctor had ruled out the
usual problems. Neither his age—thirty-one—nor his medical history waved any red
flags.
In the examining room, Cole shook hands with the blond teacher,
exchanged pleasantries and conducted a physical exam. Normal protocol. He could
double-check the other doctor’s findings, but he didn’t like to subject a
patient to costly duplicate tests.
He also wanted to assess how Gladstone was dealing with
infertility. For many men, difficulties with becoming a father delivered a
serious blow to their sense of worth. Some became depressed and angry and
avoided friends and relatives with children. Others tried to compensate by going
overboard in their work, sports or other activities. If a patient had trouble
coping, Cole referred him to counseling and to support groups such as
Resolve.org.
Peter, however, seemed clear-headed and focused. Becoming a
father had been important to him all his life, he explained. “My dad’s been a
great role model. We played sports together while I was growing up, and he’s the
person I turn to for advice. I always planned to have that kind of experience
with my own children.”
“What about adopting?” Cole asked.
“Not much chance for a single guy.” The man folded his arms,
emphasizing his well-developed muscles. “Also, my mother’s hooked on genealogy.
She’s traced our family history back a couple of centuries. We’ve been an
interesting bunch, including an inventor, a Revolutionary War hero and a
buccaneer, which I guess is a pirate. My sister doesn’t want kids. I hate to
think the line would end with me.”
“Family history can be important.” Not that Cole had any
personal experience with that. His mother had been adopted by a narrow-minded
couple against whom she’d rebelled. As far as he knew, she’d never tried to find
her biological family. He hadn’t been close enough to his father for discussions
about ancestry.
Irrelevant.
“You mentioned sports,” he said. “Is that in your medical
history?” He could only recall a reference to regular exercise.
Peter shrugged. “I’m an assistant wrestling coach, if that
makes any difference.”
“It might.” Cole jotted a note. “You’re a wrestler
yourself?”
“All through high school and college,” Peter confirmed.
“Ever get injured?” he asked.
The teacher chuckled. “I never met a wrestler who didn’t.
Bruises and strains come with the territory. Nothing severe, though. My dad
insisted on proper equipment and training techniques.”
“He was your wrestling coach?”
“For a while.”
Cole disallowed his twinge of envy at this father-son bond. He
was here to help the patient, not indulge in regrets over matters beyond his
control. “Ever take a blow to the balls?”
This time, Peter laughed outright. “Is that medical
terminology?”
“Sometimes it’s best to be direct,” Cole replied with a
smile.