“Then we’ll go to another doctor. And I thought your doctor’s name was Anderson.”
“It is,” she said. Her head hurt. Her face hurt. Her whole body hurt. “I went to a woman’s clinic in Tucson today.”
Still frowning, immobile, Will asked, “Why’d you do that?”
As if it really mattered.
“I wanted the anonymity.”
“Why?”
She didn’t know why. She’d just somehow felt that if she’d gone to her own doctor in Phoenix, a doctor who knew her, the answer could have been even harder to take. Not that going somewhere else had done any good on that score.
Or had it?
Becca didn’t know where the thought had come from, but was there another reason she’d chosen to go to Tucson, a place where no one knew her? Had she maybe, in the back of her mind, chosen the clinic because she knew they did abortions?
Sick to her stomach, Becca sank to the couch.
She didn’t want to terminate her pregnancy. She honestly, soul-deep, didn’t want to do that.
But she didn’t want to be pregnant, either. Not at forty-two. Not with all the risks. To her. To the baby.
Pregnancy at twenty-two or at thirty-two was wonderful. At forty-two it was petrifying. She was middle-aged. Fighting high blood pressure.
People her age didn’t have babies. They had grand-babies.
Will joined her on the couch. Took her hands again. “Talk to me, Becca,” he pleaded softly.
His eyes, when she met them, glowed with the love she’d taken for granted since she’d been in junior high. It gave her the strength to be honest with him.
“I don’t want to have a baby,” she whispered.
Giving her hands a little squeeze, Will smiled gently. “Of course you do. You love babies. This is our dream come true, Bec.”
“No, Will, not anymore.” She stopped briefly when she saw the remoteness that came over his face. But she had to continue. “I’m too old. I’m scared to death, afraid of the risks.”
Understanding, love, lit his eyes again. “I’ll be right here with you every step of the way,” he tried again earnestly. “Together we can do anything.”
“No, we can’t.” She shook her head. “We couldn’t make a baby twenty years ago, and we can’t make one now. The chances of Down Syndrome, of other defects…” Her voice trailed off.
He sat back, stared at her almost as if he’d never seen her before. “You aren’t actually suggesting that we do what that quack doctor recommended, are you?”
Dr. Hall was not a quack. But Will knew that. He knew Becca would never have gone to a doctor who wasn’t completely and properly certified.
“She didn’t recommend an abortion, Will, she just assumed it was the only course to take. And—” Becca paused “—I’m thinking about it.” The last words were whispered, and ended in tears. She hated herself. Hated her body and its aging. Hated a fate that was so cruel it granted her life’s wish when it was too late to let the seed bear fruit. This was far worse than never having been pregnant at all.
Will didn’t say a word. He wouldn’t look at her, either. His face was that of a stranger. Because she’d known him all her life, he’d never been a stranger to her. She got scared all over again.
“I don’t know what else to do.” She sniffled, thought about getting up to find a tissue.
“I can’t stop you, of course,” Will said, his voice devoid not only of warmth but of any familiarity at all. “But I would at least ask that, before you do anything, you get another opinion. Preferably from your own doctor, because she knows you, knows your history.”
“Okay.” She nodded through her tears. And then said, “Thanks,” when Will handed her the box of tissues from the end table.
Heading toward the door, he turned back. “You’ll call tomorrow?”
Beyond speech, Becca nodded—watched as her husband walked out of the room. And felt as if he’d just walked out of her life.