All That Matters By S X Meagher 1 page

sx_meagher@yahoo.com

Chapter 1

S X Meagher “Honey, this isn’t an orthopedist’s office.”

“What?”

“If you squeeze my hand any harder you’re going to break it, and I’m not sure these doctors know much about repairing broken bones.”

Her joking comment pulled David Spencer from his anxious state and made him chuckle mildly. “I bet they know plenty about boners,” he said just as the door opened, making him jump.

“Good morning.” A pleasant-looking, middle-aged man stuck his hand out towards David. “Jonathan Greene.” He snuck a very quick look at the chart in his hand and asked, “Mr. and Mrs. Spencer?”

“Yes,” David said. “I’m David and this is my wife, Blair.”

The doctor shook Blair’s offered hand and sat down behind his desk, now looking at the chart more carefully. “Let’s see now … you’ve been working with a Doctor Coughlin.”

"She's my gynecologist," Blair said.

He looked at the pair and commented, “Not to turn away a patient, but why are you here? You’re less than halfway through the usual screening tests for infertility.”

David started to speak, but Blair placed her hand on his arm and said, “My husband is the prototypical ‘A-type’ personality, Doctor Greene. When he learned that his sperm count was a little low, he couldn’t rest until we called out the big guns.”

“We don’t have any time to waste!” her husband said, eyes wide. “Her eggs are almost thirty-five!”

She indulgently patted him again, discretely rolling her eyes at the doctor, then speaking quietly, acting as if her husband couldn't hear her. “Sometimes I hate the Internet. David's been researching every infertility site imaginable, and he's learned that it’s much harder to conceive once the woman’s past thirty-five. He seems to think that on my thirty-fifth birthday my eggs are going to seize up and refuse to have anything to do with sperm again.”

The doctor smiled warmly, having heard every permutation of genuine and overblown fear over his many years of practice. “It's true that it becomes more difficult to conceive naturally as our bodies age. But there’s no firm cut-off date, David. Let’s not let other people’s experiences color our perceptions too much, okay?”

He nodded briefly. “All right. I just want to make sure that we don’t waste another minute. We really want to have a child, and I don’t want to look back in three years and feel like we let the chance pass us by.”

Doctor Greene nodded. “We'll do our best to not let that happen.” Looking at his notes he asked, “It says you’ve been trying to conceive for a year. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Blair said. “I stopped taking the pill last August. After we didn’t get pregnant right away we started being a little more deliberate about it. I started taking my basal body temperature to make sure we were having intercourse around the time that I ovulated.”

“So you’ve been having well-timed intercourse for how long?”

“About six months,” she said.

“Well …” He leaned back in his chair and said, “That’s not a very long time. Most doctors recommend waiting a year before you consider seeing an infertility specialist.”

“We’re not most people,” Blair said, casting a side-long look at her husband. “We’re results oriented.” She gave the doctor such a charming smile that he couldn’t help but mimic it.

“I can see that,” he said. “Well, in that case, let’s see if we can give you a little help.” Reading the specifics in their chart he commented, “Your sperm count is low, David, but not remarkably so. We generally consider twenty parts per million low, and you’re at twenty-one parts per million.” He smiled at him and said, “Remember, only one of them needs to meet its match.”

“I know that,” he said, “and I’d generally love those odds. But we’ve been trying for months now."

“Yes, I realize that,” Dr. Greene said. “But all we know at this point is that your count is borderline low. We don’t really know much about Blair’s reproductive capacity. I’d feel much more comfortable going forward if you have the routine tests done.”

“We had the post-coital test done, and the cervical mucus test,” she said. “But I was reticent to have the more invasive tests done quite yet. I think we’re jumping the gun since we’ve only been trying for six months.”

“But your eggs —" David said.

“If you call my eggs old one more time, I can assure you that your sperm won’t have the opportunity to visit them … ever.” Blair’s expression was just as calm and loving as it had been a minute earlier, but the doctor got the impression that she meant every word of her threat. David just nodded, properly chided.

Turning to the doctor, she said, “I know it’s premature to see you. But my gynecologist hasn’t been able to convince David that there are some simple things he could do to increase his fertility. I thought that a reproductive endocrinologist might be able to convince him that some lifestyle changes might be all we have to do.”

“I assume you have some changes in mind?” the doctor asked, having a feeling that Blair had an agenda.

“Well, I’ve done a fair amount of Internet searching myself,” she said, “and I think that David could win the ‘How to lower your sperm count’ competition. He smokes, he drinks, he wears briefs, he sits in a hot tub, he’s under a tremendous amount of stress, and he drinks more caffeine than any man on earth.” Patting her husband’s thigh she smiled and said, “I know caffeine is more of a fertility inhibitor for women than men — I just want him to quit caffeine so he’s not so crazy!”

“You make me sound like a chain-smoking, drunken, head case,” David mumbled.

Tilting her chin, she regarded him with deep affection clearly visible in her green eyes. Her shoulders shrugged slightly as her smile grew wider. “I still love you, sweetie.”

The doctor couldn’t help but chuckle at the look on Blair’s face. David was obviously unable to resist her charms, since he smiled back at her and took her hand. Looking back at the doctor he nodded and said, “I don’t think I drink to excess, but my beloved wife doesn’t agree with me. I do, however, chain-smoke, and I suppose all of her other claims are valid, too. But I read on the Internet that lifestyle factors don’t really have that big of an impact.”

“I disagree,” Doctor Greene said. “In a case like yours, where your count is marginally low, stopping smoking and cutting down on your drinking could really have an effect.”

“Look doc,” David said. “I work in a very stressful job. The only way I can sleep at night is to have a few Scotches when I get home. I sit in the hot tub and relax every night, and I just don’t think I can stop that.”

“That’s up to you, David,” Doctor Greene said, “but if having a baby means a lot to you, you might want to consider doing whatever you can to increase your odds.”

David turned to his wife and offered, “I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll have the other tests I’ll start wearing boxers, and I’ll stay out of the hot tub.”

Blair narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. “No dice. I’ll only do it if you cut down to one drink a night. You’re up to three, David, and it’s starting to worry me.”

He gave the doctor a helpless shrug and said, “Five years and I haven’t won an argument yet.” Extending his hand, he and Blair shook on the deal.

Blair looked at the doctor and said, “I suppose I should just go back to my gynecologist for the remaining tests?”

“That makes sense,” he agreed. “You already have a relationship with her. Once we see how your tests come out we can chat again and determine if it makes sense for you to return here, or continue on with Doctor Coughlin.”

“Sounds good to me,” Blair said. “If we come back, will we see you again? Doctor Coughlin said that all of the doctors here work together.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Each of us has an area we specialize in, so before we come up with a treatment plan we all meet and discuss the details of a case. That lets everyone have a voice — so you get four specialists for the price of one. As long as you’re here, why don’t I see if the other doctors can pop in to meet you.”

“Great,” Blair said, but David looked decidedly uncomfortable. Blair leaned over and whispered something to him, and he eventually nodded his head and took her hand, looking like he was waiting for the firing squad.

Doctor Greene pressed the intercom button and asked, “Marcella? See if you can round up Doctors Martini, Novachek and Mackenzie and have them pop into my office to meet some new patients, okay?” He released the button and said, “I think they’re all in the office this morning. We usually consult about new cases over lunch on Mondays. Just for background, I specialize in male infertility, Peter Martini specializes in all forms of in-vitro fertilization, Thad Novachek works primarily with artificial insemination cases, and Doctor Mackenzie is a reproductive surgeon.”

“I hope we don’t have to work with him,” Blair said, her eyes growing wide.

A gentle knock on the door accompanied Doctor Greene’s reply. He stopped mid-sentence to say, “Well, here she is now.”

A woman poked her head in the door, gave Doctor Greene a wide smile and asked, “Does somebody need a doctor?”

“Come on in,” he said, “Mrs. Spencer was just saying that she hopes she never has to meet you.”

“Well!” The woman perched on the edge of Doctor Greene’s desk and looked at Blair for a moment. “People generally don’t start disliking me until we’ve met. Is it the name? Are you anti-Scottish? Were you frightened by plaid at a young age?”

“No,” Blair said, laughing. “I just don’t want to have to go under the knife. Anybody’s knife.” She reached out and offered her hand. “I’m Blair Spencer — knife phobic.”

“I don’t blame you, Blair.” Doctor Mackenzie smiled warmly. “I only like the blunt end of the scalpel myself.”

“Well, we’re a long way from discussing a surgical option,” Doctor Greene said. “The Spencer’s haven’t even completed all of the standard screening tests.”

“Impatient sorts, eh?” Doctor Mackenzie said. “Me too. I can play a minute waltz in fifty-two seconds.”

Blair regarded the woman, taking in her long, lean frame, the black, slightly wavy chin-length hair, and the incredibly warm smile that settled onto her face as though it were her most natural expression. But what really set the woman off was the easy, relaxed self-confidence that seemed to exude from her very pores. There’s something vaguely familiar about her, she thought. I wonder if I’ve ever seen her at an open house.

In short order, Doctors Martini and Novachek entered and the four doctors chatted with the Spencers for a few minutes. Doctor Greene stood and shook both of their hands, then the other doctors did the same. “Make those few changes we talked about, and I think there’s a good chance we won’t have to meet again,” Doctor Greene said. “But if we do work together, I’m confident that we can help you two have the baby you want.”

Blair took David’s hand and said, “The baby I want is delivered to the house with my dry-cleaning. But I’m willing to do it the hard way for David.” Once again, her warm smile and teasing tone belied the fact that her words were, in fact, deadly serious, and Doctor Greene wondered if the Spencer’s were equally committed to the long process that likely awaited them.

„G

The next afternoon, Blair came dashing into the house, shopping bag in hand. “I just have a moment, sweetie,” she said. “I’m meeting a client at my office at 5:00, and then I’m going to a play in NoHo.”

“North Hollywood will always be North Hollywood — no matter how artsy you try to make it sound,” he said, chuckling softly. “What have you got in the bag?”

“Your new underwear,” she said, dumping the contents of the bag onto his lap. She dug into her large black leather carryall and produced a few pieces of paper. “This is your membership to Clank — the only gym on the Westside that doesn’t have a hot tub, and this is a certificate that entitles you to a dozen massages at that cool spa on San Vicente … the one that supermodel you like goes to.”

“I don’t like her,” he said. “I just mentioned that a guy at the office saw her being wrapped in seaweed there.”

“Yes, dear,” she said. “And there was no other reason for your wanting to go there that weekend for your very own seaweed wrap.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “By the way — straight guys don’t get wrapped — in anything.”

He gave her a wry smirk and looked at the cards she’d handed him. “So, is it gay to get a massage? I don’t want to give the supermodels the wrong idea.”

“It’s massively straight,” she said. “And I just know your little guys will thank you for finding an new way to calm down in the evening. I don’t want to see you and the fellas in the tub until we get pregnant.”

Looking down at his lap, now covered with packages of boxer shorts, he commented, “Hear that guys? No more hot tubs.” He snaked his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her onto his lap, causing her to let out a little yelp when she slid over the arm of his chair. “The guys were just thinking they’d like to visit. Spare a half hour?” He started to nuzzle his face into her shoulder-length, strawberry blonde hair, sniffing delicately to take in the scent. “How do you manage to still smell so great at the end of the day?”

“Well, selling real estate isn’t akin to tarring roofs, sweetie,” she said. “And since I didn’t get out of my jammies until noon, it’s hardly the end of a long day.”

“I envy you,” he said. “It must be nice to stay up like an adult and get to watch David Letterman.”

“I don’t watch David Letterman,” she reminded him, “but I have to agree with you. I could never switch schedules with you. Going to bed at 9:00 and getting up at 4:30 would make me lose my mind.”

“It just makes it hard to get to perform my stud service,” he said. “I’ve gotta catch you when you’re in heat.”

“Well, I’m not in heat today, so you and the boys rest up.” She clambered off his lap and adjusted her clothing. “Maybe we’ll get lucky this month and I’ll be ovulating on the weekend.”

“We can dream.” David smiled wistfully. “Of course, we can still only have sex every other day. Damn, this scheduling crap takes all the spontaneity out of it!”

“True,” she agreed. “But we can always adopt, David, and never have to worry about any of this stuff again.” She leaned over and slipped her hand behind his head, drawing it forward until his face met her breasts. Shaking her shoulders, she nuzzled his face into her chest. “These would stay perky a lot longer, too, sweetie.”

He pulled back just a few inches and placed his hands on the sides of her breasts, compressing them slightly. “I do love them just like they are now. But I don’t mind sharing them with David junior.”

“Have it your way,” she said, patting his hands. “But don’t fall in love with that David junior thing. Not gonna happen.” She kissed him gently and said, “I’ll do my best not to wake you tonight. Your boys need their rest to build their ranks.”

He reached behind her and palmed her ass. “Feel free to wake us if you’re in the mood to …” He gave her a sexy look and twitched an eyebrow.

“Will do,” she said. “It’s always cute to see how quickly I can make you go from sound asleep to ready for action.”

“I’m putty in your hands, baby. And I’d give up sleep any night of the week for you.”

„G

Blair stood close to a stone wall, her view that of the entire west side of Los Angeles. A strong, moist breeze ruffled her hair in the warm evening, and the hint of ocean breeze that snaked up to the top of the Santa Monica Mountains near the Sepulveda Pass was very welcome. A handsome blond man appeared next to her, nodding his head towards the sea, clearly visible as the sun sank into it. “Can you imagine how horrible a place this would be without the ocean?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve been to Phoenix,” she said, not taking her eyes from the magnificent vista.

“There you are.”

Blair heard a woman’s voice from over her shoulder. Turning, she cocked her head and thought for a moment, finally deciding that she did recognize both the voice and the woman. “Uhm … Doctor …?”

The warm smiled bloomed on the woman’s face, and she handed one of the drinks she carried to the man, so that she could shake Blair’s hand. “Mackenzie. I remember meeting you, but names are just not my forte.”

“Blair Spencer,” she said. Suddenly, the man was gone, Blair not having seen him depart. She looked around and asked, “Where did —?"

“Oh, Nick makes himself scarce whenever I run into a patient. He’s a psychologist, and is more paranoid than I am about revealing confidential information.”

“Well, I’m not really a patient,” she reminded her. “And luckily, I won’t ever be your patient.”

“I really do good work,” the doctor insisted. “You might want to have me take something out or move something around just for kicks.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Blair said, smiling at the doctor's easy familiarity.

“I take it that there’s some reason behind your determination not to let me see your internal organs?”

“Well, many reasons, actually. But there’s one overriding one. I don’t know how much of our situation you’re aware of —”

“I don't normally admit to this, but I don't know a thing,” the doctor said, adding a wink. “I didn’t even glance at your chart.”

“Oh. Well, my husband’s sperm count is a little low, and the concentration is on the low side, as well. I just finished all of my tests, and it looks like I check out fine.” She gave her a wry smile and added, “I had that perfectly delightful endometrial biopsy and the equally pleasant hystero-bla-bla-bla.”

“Hysterosalpingogram,” the doctor corrected.

“Gesundheit,” Blair said. “Anyway, all systems are go for me, so we’re going to keep trying.”

“Excellent,” Doctor Mackenzie said, her smile nearly blinding. “I hope it works for you.”

“So do I,” Blair said, sighing a little. “I’m dreading going any further than this.” She twitched her head towards the shining white buildings of the Getty Museum and asked, “What brings you here tonight?”

“The chamber music recital,” the doctor replied. “How about you?”

“The same. I’m up here every Thursday evening during the summer. I love the variety of the programs.”

“Are you a big fan of the arts? I ask because you seem very familiar to me. I thought so when we met at the office.”

“I thought the same thing,” Blair said. “I assumed I’d shown you a house. I’m a real estate broker.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” the doctor said. “I haven’t been in the market for a house for a very long time. Do you go to many plays?”

“Constantly,” Blair said, rolling her eyes. “My husband says I’m a thespian wanna-be.”

“Were you by any chance at a Bertholt Brecht play at the Odyssey Theatre not long ago?”

Blair’s eyes widened. “I was! That’s why I recognized you! I think the play was just a day or two before we met at your office.” She started to laugh and said, “How many people were there? Ten?”

“Yeah, about ten before the curtain went up, but only six managed to hang in there until the bitter end. Nick was ready to leave, and he likes everything!”

“I envy you,” Blair said. “I have to go to most plays alone. My husband would rather walk on hot coals.”

Seeing her companion lurking about, Doctor Mackenzie twitched her head, asking him to come over to them. “Nick, this is Blair Spencer. She’s happily not a patient so you can meet her,” she said, laughing a little. “Blair, this is Nick Scott, normally a big Brecht fan, but even he has his limits.”

“That’s why you looked familiar,” Nick said. “You were at that water torture at the Odyssey. But the end of the play I was studying the other patrons, trying to figure out why they were still there. I assumed they were homeless!”

“It was like watching a car wreck,” Blair said. “You knew you shouldn’t look, but you couldn’t turn away!”

“Apt … very apt,” Nick agreed. He checked his watch and said, “The concert should be starting soon. We should go find seats.”

“Blair’s here for the concert, too,” the doctor said. Looking at Blair, she asked, “Would you like to sit with us?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind. I usually spend the intermission calling clients. It might be nice to chat with people I can see.” She looked at Nick and said, “I just mentioned to Doctor Mackenzie that I sell real estate. My cell phone is my lifeline.”

“Kylie,” the doctor said, giving her that warm smile. “You can only join us if you call me Kylie.”

“I think I can manage,” Blair said. “Kylie it is.”

„G

“So, Blair, does your husband really not mind your hanging out with the artistic set?” Nick asked during the intermission.

“No, he doesn’t mind. He knew all of my quirks before he married me. Besides, he goes to bed by nine every night. If I followed his schedule the only cultural event we’d go to is the Easter Sunrise service at the Hollywood Bowl.”

Nick's brows furrowed and he said, “Nine o’clock? What is he, a dairy farmer?”

“No,” she said, chuckling. “He’s an industry analyst for Fortune Funds. He’s the guy who decides what banking and financial services stocks the fund should buy.”

“And he lives in California?” Kylie asked. “Has he noticed that there aren't any major banks headquartered in the entire state?”

“He has,” Blair said. “He travels quite a bit, but his firm is headquartered in L.A., so this is where they prefer he work.”

“Could be worse,” Nick reminded her. “Your accent suggests you’re not a native, so I assume you’re a transplant?”

“I am,” she said. “I’m from Chicago.”

His pager went off as she spoke, and he reached for his waistband to grasp it. “I'll go return my call. I have a feeling the litany of Chicago wonders is about to begin.”

Looking to Kylie, Blair cocked her head. “Northern suburbs,” the doctor said. “You?”

“Near North. Close to Lincoln Park.”

“You grew up in the city?” Kylie asked, rather wide eyed. “I’ve never met anyone who said they were from Chicago who actually was!”

“I’ve never spent a night in a Chicago suburb,” Blair said. “But I know most of them. Which one spawned you?”

“Lake Forest,” she said, and rolled her eyes when Blair made a face. “We lived in a perfectly modest home,” Kylie insisted. “We were practically on food stamps.”

“Uh-huh,” Blair nodded agreeably. “The wealthiest suburb in all of Lake County. What did your father do, only run a Fortune 1000 company?”

“He's a doctor,” Kylie said. “A pediatrician. But I don’t think he made his first million until he was 50!”

“Oh, my God! Did the town run a food drive for you? Were you on the free lunch program?”

“No, but I really was pitied in high school. I was the only kid in my social circle who didn’t have her own car. My dad obviously made a good salary, but I was the baby of seven, and we didn’t have the money to live very luxuriously. Education was where our money went.”

“Wow, seven kids! Your parents obviously didn’t have a problem with fertility.”

“No, I’d guess not. Although, who knows? Maybe they wanted to have ten kids,” she said, chuckling. “How about you? Any siblings?”

Blair shook her head. “No, I’m an only child. Actually, my parents were infertile. I’m adopted.”

“Oh.” Kylie waited for a minute, looking to see if Blair would provide further information.

“My birth mother didn’t have any trouble popping ‘em out, though. She had four.”

“So, you’ve met?”

“Uh-huh. I was her second child, and she had me when she was barely seventeen.” She rolled her eyes and said, “She was obviously very much in favor of sex, and very much opposed to birth control. My biological grandmother agreed to raise the first child, my older brother, but she put her foot down when I arrived and I was put up for adoption. Lucky for me,” she said with a smile. “My birth mother had two more kids by the time she was twenty, and not long after that her mother died, leaving her to raise three kids. She didn’t do very well, and they were all eventually taken away by the state.”

“Wow,” Kylie said, wide eyed. “Have you met them?”

“No, they were eventually adopted by three different families, and my birth mother is only in contact with my older brother, Morrison."

"Morrison? That's a unique name."

Blair rolled her eyes. "She named him after Jim Morrison. I get the impression that mom was more than fond of sex, drugs and rock and roll. It's amazing I don't have three legs or fins."

Kylie looked at her and felt a wave of compassion for this self-confident woman who was obviously still deeply wounded from being rejected by her birth mother.

"What about your other two sibs. Have you met?"

"No. I don’t really care to,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “My bio-mom doesn't know where they are, and I'm not interested enough to spend the money to find them. I grew up as an only child, and I’m happy to keep it that way. Actually, I didn’t want to meet my birth mother, but my mom really encouraged me to do so. I guess I’m glad that I met her, just so I could get some medical information and things like that. But I think of her as egg donor. She’s not my mom.”

Kylie was nodding enthusiastically. “Your mom is the woman who loved you and changed your diapers. That has nothing to do with genetics.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling a certain someone,” she said. Nick came back just as Kylie was going to ask her to elaborate, so she chose not to pursue her question.

„G

After the concert, Kylie asked, “You mentioned the Hollywood Bowl earlier. How would you like to go to the closing concert next week? Nick can’t make it, and I’m really a sucker for the fireworks. It’s not as much fun to "ooo" and "ahh" all alone.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Blair drawled. “Tchaikovsky, maybe a little Irving Berlin, John Phillip Sousa?”

“Ditch the Sousa, and you hit it,” Kylie agreed. “Too low-brow for you?”

“No, I’d like to go,” she said. “I’ve always said that a symphony is missing something if there aren’t a few Roman candles thrown in.”

„G

On the following Wednesday afternoon, Blair was driving down San Vicente Boulevard, going to visit a new client. The broad, six-lane road was one of the few in Santa Monica that was bisected by a wide greensward, making it the most popular jogging venue in the area — despite the steady stream of cars that zipped past, spewing pollutants. Since the 45 mile per hour speed limit was blatantly ignored, it seemed as though everyone was in a terrific hurry to get somewhere, either by foot or car. Her cell phone rang as she pulled up to one of the infrequent stoplights. "Blair Spencer," she announced through the phone mike clipped to her blouse.

Date: 2015-01-29; view: 915