Sputterpub's Blog

“You realize I lost the rest of my iced coffee in the course of that debacle,” she points out. “Let me say this. At Emotional Heights, iced caffeine will be readily available.”

“Yeah. Yeah. And we’ll be able to get all dressings on the side. Dream on. And tell me about, what did you call her?”

“Teeny. If I ever introduce you to her, you cannot let on that I call her that.” Janet puts her fork down and sits back. “Her name is Christine, she’s five feet tall, and she acts short. She’s a little obnoxious, so I fondly think of her as Teeny.”

“And she’s in love with you?”

“No. Just obsessed. With something. It’s not me. It’s love or sex or the need to have a relationship or desperation or mania. The thing about Teeny is,” Janet leans forward and speaks with whispered energy, “she’s one of those gay people who acts like her corny concept of the other gender. You know what I mean? I’ve met men who acted dippily, helplessly feminine, and I found that repellent. Well, Teeny acts like the classic short man. She smokes cigars. She has a foul mouth in the other sense of the word too. She’s rudely horny. She’s obnoxiously outgoing and positive. She drives a Porsche and she does it aggressively. It’s creepy behavior when a man engages in it, but it contains an element of dishonesty for a woman to act that way.”

Sherry nods her understanding. She’s done with her pasta and sees that Janet isn’t going to finish her fish. “You want dessert?” she asks.

“I’ll share something. I could really use some hot coffee.” Janet looks around again.

“How much coffee do you drink?”

“Oh, you don’t know about my caffeine jones? Shit, I do an eight cup pot before I leave the house in the morning, a double cap on my way to the office, regular refills there all morning, and coffee in whatever temperature at lunch. Then I usually stop for the day, although I sometimes need a little more around 3:30. I don’t drink it at night unless I go out for dinner. In the last five years or so, I notice it tends to keep me awake.” Janet sees the waiter and watches him avoid her eyes.

“I’ll have coffee now too. Tim’s coming home late tonight, and I plan to be awake when he arrives.”

“Where has he been?”

“Computer show in Las Vegas. He left Sunday. He’s driving all the way back today. He’s trying to do it on one tank of gas.”

“No way.”

“Way. He’ll probably make it. That old VW is really just a four-wheeled motorcycle. And he’ll coast every chance he gets. Tim has all these memories of fantastic road trips. You know: San Francisco to LA in a Corvair with no brakes; cross country on $23.75 for fuel and food…to make some tall stories short.”

The waiter comes to their table. They ask him for coffees and a dessert menu. He describes the desserts instead. They order one pumpkin bread pudding with two spoons. Janet picks at the stain on her shirt and excuses herself to visit the ladies’ room.

The coffees are served quickly. Dessert arrives just after Janet returns to the table. She’s a little excited.

“Look who’s over at the table by the far side of the bar,” she directs without pointing. “Can you see them?”

“Oh, God. Is that Sheila? It’s Sheila and Gwen! I haven’t seen them in at least a year! Should we go over and talk to them?”

“I don’t think so,” Janet advises. “I mean, it’s been so long since we spoke, and they’ve been through a lot in that time. I think we’d look like rubberneckers.”

“I can’t see too well. How big are they? How long has it been since Sheila’s awesome operation?” Sherry squirms a little with curiosity.

“I noticed them on my the way to the bathroom so I checked out what I could as I came back. I’d say they’ve both lost weight. They’re still big, but they’re both tall.”

“Sheila had like a two hundred pound cyst removed. Right?”

“Two hundred fifty seven pounds. I remember the numbers. She was near six hundred pounds and then dropped to around three hundred in one day.” Janet considers. “I’d say she’s about two fifty now. But she’s at least five foot ten, so she’s in an acceptable range. Gwen never got as big as Sheila; now they look like they’re around the same size.”

Sherry looks over as discreetly as she can. “There’s some man joining them. Can you see from there?”

Janet glances and then goggles. “That’s Solly!”

“The guy you spoke about earlier?”

“The same. Do you suppose Sheila and Gwen need tax help? Hmmmmm,” Janet spoons spiced whipped cream on pudding into her mouth. She looks again and shrugs.

“Janet, I think the man is flirting with Sheila. That’s how it looks from here.”

“Come on. She doesn’t meet any of his criteria. Except single. And Semitic. And maybe smart.”

“It looks like love from here. I think your afternoon just got easier. Now you simply have to avoid flirting with the big guy.”

“Now I simply have to build that subdivision. Too bad I can’t buy an island in the bay for it. As it is, my residents will probably have a long commute. Like two hours each way.”

“Which is why they’ll need the counseling that comes with Emotional Heights.”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t know, Jan. Maybe you should rethink your attraction. This Mac is married, and I don’t care that he doesn’t talk about his wife to you. Solly’s single and, well, have you ever been with a small man?”

“No. I’ve always seen myself as large. I mean, look at these feet. And my hands match. Oh, I like my long fingers – don’t get me wrong – but I don’t want to be with a man whose hands are smaller than mine. And Sol’s: well, his fingers do look strong and blunt, but they’re shorter than my own.”

The waiter interrupts them with their entrees. Janet is annoyed to note the absence of her iced espresso. She waits through his presentation of her grilled salmon on basil-mashed potatoes with baby carrots and cherry tomatoes. She listens while he introduces Sherry to her housemade pasta with baby mussels. Then she begs, “Can I please have my iced espresso?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. My mistake. I completely forgot. I’ll get it right now.”

Sherry can tell that Janet won’t continue her conversation until she has the coffee. She waits the two minutes it takes for the man to bring the drink. During that time, Janet tells her that Emotional Heights will provide a fifteen minute a day verbal ventilation period; from 3:00 to 3:15 p.m. residents will be able to say anything. Then Janet gets her coffee, and Sherry resumes. “Pardon me if this is TMI, but a small-framed man can do a good job in bed. I mean, it’s been my experience that there’s a kind a gymnastic quality involved. A very nice, all-over hug? And, how can I say this? maybe it’s just a perspective thing, but the organ of generation looks more impressive…”

Janet is blushing and having a bit of trouble chewing. She drinks half her coffee and pauses. “Right,” she says. “And with a tall one, you have to choose between kissing him and another activity. How are things with Tim anyway?”

“The sex is still pretty good. He is a little gymnast. But his obsession with the cartoon characters is getting hard to take. It may even break us up. We’ve been together for eight years, and I never knew this about him.”

Janet pushes a piece of salmon around in her greenish potatoes. “I visited his Web site last night. I think the giraffe is cute.”

“Oh, it is. So’s the monkey. It’s adorable the way the giraffe wraps her neck around the screen. The monkey moves like a cursor. They are excellent ideas. He got them from some childhood book about a giraffe, a pelican, and a monkey, who went into the window washing business together. He likes to think of his characters as window washers, too; they save people’s screens and help users see through the new Windows. I’ve got no problem with all of that. It’s the man’s obsessive attitude that’s getting to me. He thinks about the giraffe and the monkey all the time. He leaves drawings of them everywhere. His life is turning into a one-joke movie. It’s a good joke, but there has to be more. If there isn’t, I think I’m going to be out of there.

“Speaking of obsession,” Sherry continues, “is that gay woman still pursuing you?”

“Teeny?”

“Come on. Is that what you call her? Uh-oh.” Sherry notices the short man with the pitcher before Janet does. He has the glass container tipped and the iced tea is about to flow from it into the espresso when Janet comprehends and places her hand across the top of her glass. The man reacts to her sudden move, but shouldn’t have. A splash of iced tea has already left the pitcher; it becomes a splat against the back of Janet’s hand, marking her shirt cuff and the table around it. The man’s reaction increases the mess because he jerks the pitcher back, sending a gout of the tea toward himself, which he tries to avoid, which movement sends his rear end into the tall waitress whom Janet had nudged earlier. The waitress is hit on the back of her thighs and almost loses control of the tray she’s about to set down. She manages to hold onto the tray but two loaded plates and three full glasses hit the floor. Two men at a neighboring table acquire sauce spatters on their pant cuffs. Busboys sweep glass, mop food, and blot at the pant cuffs and at Janet’s shirt.

“I’m gonna develop a subdivision and call it Emotional Heights. I’ll build on a hill somewhere with a nice view, and homeowner’s association dues will help defray the cost of required weekly counseling for all residents. I’ll people it with folks like you and me – I mean it.” Janet mops the salad dressing with a crust of walnut levain as she speaks. The plate sits between her and Sherry, and the gorgonzola has mixed with the vinaigrette, so she’s scooping white liquid onto the edge of bluish bread. Sherry watches her with a little fascination.

“Whoa! How did we get here from your law firm client? Slow down, girl.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I need to relax. Where’s our waiter? I want some iced coffee.”

“Like that’s going to help.” Sherry laughs quietly and sits back in her chair.

A busboy pauses at their table. Janet signals with her eyes that he can take the salad plate. She swallows and tosses her chin-length hair before continuing to speak. “The firm needs some tax consulting, and I have the perfect specialist to introduce this afternoon. But I’m kind of involved with the two individuals, so things may get emotional.”

“It sounds to me like they already are, Janet. You’ve been on a roller coaster for nearly a year; what is going on now?”

“Okay. Both men are Michaels, but neither uses his first name. Mike MacDougal is the law firm administrator, and Michael Solomon is the tax lawyer he needs to consult. MacDougal goes by ‘Mac,’ and that fits him; he’s six and a half feet tall, not fat but big, and calm as a slow river. His long bones turn me on. And he seems to like me too. He’s married, but he never talks about his wife. He’s real good at eye contact. There are possibilities there.

“Mike Solomon couldn’t be more different. He’s maybe five foot five, small but fit, fastidious, nervous like a bird. He answers to ‘Solly,’ and that fits his Jewishness. He dyes his thinning red hair, wears his clothes too snug, appreciates cosmetics on women, resents his orthodox parents for refusing to let him get growth hormone shots. I’d swear he’s gay, except there’s no indication of it beyond habits of speech, posture, and attitude; he’s always dating and forever talking about finding the woman to marry.”

“Has he ever been married?” Sherry swallows the last of her mineral water after this question; she refills her glass from the big bottle they’ve opened.

“No. And he’s now past fifty, so I’m always surprised when he talks about fatherhood and his biological clock. Where’s that waiter?” Janet stretches her head up to the full extent of her neck and looks around the large room with an expression of annoyance. She’s momentarily too distracted to continue speaking. “Excuse me,” she taps the upper arm of the tall waitress at the adjacent table, “but can you send our waiter over? Tha-a-a-nks,” she gushes as she turns her attention back to Sherry.

“He’s been looking so long that he’s developed criteria that this woman must have. Let me see if I can remember ‘em…” Janet hums the last syllable as she breaks off another piece of bread and begins scraping its edge along the top of the butter pot. “The perfect woman must be: smart, small, sexy, single, successful and Semitic. Senior too, I think, cause Solly doesn’t want a young chick any more. Though how he reconciles the senior part with the childbearing idea is completely beyond me. And this is a man who got a Ph.D. in physics before he went to law school; rumor has it he’s smart.”

“You meet his criteria.”

“Yup. At first I thought I wasn’t small enough; I’m at least an inch and a half taller than him. But I asked him about ‘small’ when he first recited the list to me (I was still married to Jack then; it wasn’t a loaded question), and he said he had no problem with a woman of any height; he just figured the woman might have a problem with it, and he might as well be realistic. Anyway, he says ‘small’ means under five foot eight, so I do qualify. Aaah,” Janet pauses to talk to the wayward waiter. “Can I have an iced coffee?”

“We don’t really have any, ma’am. I mean, I can pour regular coffee over ice, but it will be pretty weak.”

“Can you bring me a triple espresso, served over ice?”

“We can do that,” the waiter drawls. “Would you like cream and sugar with it?”

“No. Black is fine.” Janet looks at Sherry. “And now I’ll have to watch the iced tea boys. They cruise around looking to top glasses and they’ll think my iced coffee is fair game for their pitchers.

“Back to the subject. I’m kind of looking forward to introducing these two. The visuals alone will be worth it. But there’s bound to be some emotional issues. I’ll want to flirt with Mac, and Solly will be watching me.”

The day of the party dawned gorgeous. In fact, everything went perfectly until Anne saw the baby. Melissa hadn’t allowed anyone to meet Suzanne before the reception, and then she introduced her child by placing the bundle in her best friend’s arms and asking Lindy to say some words over her little goddaughter.

“Oh, but you’re a lovely one,” Lindy murmured at the tiny face. “May you be as good as you are beautiful.” She passed the baby to Melissa’s other close friend. “I pray that you’ll always love yourself as much as we all love you now,” Sarah breathed over Suzanne. “You are born under the sign of Aries, on the cusp of the Bull,” began Elizabeth as she took the bundle from Sarah. “Your rising sign is Scorpio and your moon is Aquarius. You are destined for great deeds and interesting passions.” Valerie next held the baby. “I did a reading on the day of your birth, and I dealt the cards again this morning. I see wealth in your future, and more than one great love.” She handed the infant to a puzzled-looking Anne.

“Hello, Sweetheart,” Anne crooned to the baby. She glanced up at Melissa, over to Keith, back to Melissa. “I’m so surprised at her coloring; was she tested for PKU?” The parents gave her blank looks. “Keith, you must have followed them to the nursery; did they do any tests on her diaper?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I don’t know about a diaper test, but they were pretty concerned about the lack of testing during the pregnancy. I know they took blood from Suzanne, and they told us some of the test results will take another week.” Melissa moved closer to her husband while he spoke; she followed his words with, “What tests, Keith?” and then a shriller: “Annie, what are you talking about?”

“You know me and my medical studies; a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and I may not get it myself.” Melissa’s distress was extreme enough for Anne to begin temporizing. But she added, “PKU is Phenylketonuria, and it’s an inherited inability to metabolize an amino acid of a similarly unpronounceable name. I learned about it not long ago, and saw my first cases in the last year. There’s a simple chemical indicator that can be used on a wet diaper; in fact, I think I have a few of the test swabs with me. Let’s go into your bedroom; I left my bag there. It feels like Suzanne could use a diaper change anyway.”

Keith and Melissa went with her of course.  They watched Anne touch a Q-tip to their baby’s used diaper and they saw the swab turn as bright a green as Suzanne’s outfit. “This isn’t what I wanted to see,” Anne reported. “It indicates elevated levels of phenylalanine in Suzanne’s urine and if I’m remembering correctly, that means she has about a two-thirds chance of PKU.”

“But if it’s this easy to find, how come the hospital…?” Melissa began, and Anne spoke over the end of her question with “If you’d gone in regularly during pregnancy, the doctor would have had a better idea about what was going on, and probably would have done the simple test. As it was, they needed so much information about this baby that they took blood and sent it out for much fuller results. I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon.”

“But in the meantime,” started Keith, and Anne added, “nothing has to happen today. The first behavioral signs don’t appear until the child is at least four months old.”

“How did you…oh, I don’t know what to ask first,” Keith was shaking his head as he backed up to the bed and sat weakly.

“I’m sorry, you guys. I’m not going about this well. Let’s all sit down.” She waited for Melissa to finish changing Suzanne and to take a seat with her daughter in her arms. “The retention of phenylalanine in the patient’s body tissues inhibits the metabolism of an enzyme called tyrosine, and that leads specifically to a decrease in the formation of melanin. Most phenylketonurics are fair-skinned and have blue eyes regardless of their parents’ coloring. That’s what put PKU in my mind.

“If I’m remembering correctly, PKU is based on a recessive gene. You both must carry it. Any baby of yours would have a 25% chance of having PKU and a 50% chance of being an unaffected carrier like you two.”

Melissa began, “If I’d only…”

“No, Melissa. Don’t even start that. You need much more information that I can give, but this isn’t a terminal diagnosis. Suzanne can be fine. If you do nothing, she’s at high risk for central nervous system problems: retardation, epileptic seizures, abnormal brain wave patterns. But I think this can be controlled by diet; it won’t be an easy life, but I think if she avoids meats, all dairy, high proteins in general… Let me introduce you to your vegan daughter! I think there’s some special drink for people with PKU…Wait. You must have a diet soda around. Bring me a can.” Keith fetched a Fresca and Anne examined it. “Here,” she pointed. Sideways and next to the Nutrition Facts was the phrase PHENYLKETONURICS: CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE. “You’ll find those words on a lot of beverages.”

Anne didn’t have any more information to give them then. She forgot the esoterica about the isolation of phenylalanine from lupine seeds in 1881, but Melissa wouldn’t have been interested in that anyway. In fact, Melissa was only interested in protecting Suzanne. She was determined that her baby would never even see a diet soda. She was prepared to extend the ban to any other substances of danger to her daughter.

Keith’s thoughts went to business. He immediately began to envision the PKU-designed beverages he would produce. After that, he considered Melissa’s proposed ban; he couldn’t see that lasting if he wanted to make a fortune in the field. Then again, he couldn’t see going against his determined, emotional wife.

The party paled. Guests left the new family to their privacy as soon as they could, expressing ignorant sympathy and amorphous offers of help as they went out the door. Lindy and Sarah and Elizabeth and Valerie went with the rest. Even Anne departed. The parental debate began.

The procedure took place at the reproductive clinic. Melissa had continued with her thermometer and medication; they pinpointed her ovulation to occur that day. They had thought Keith would be on the table next to hers. But he had to make his contribution before they even started on Melissa. Then eggs were taken from her, to spend time in a petri dish. The resulting mixture was reimplanted in Melissa, and she was released within hours. They were warned that the procedure often failed the first time.

Melissa prepared herself for her next period. The expected day came, and she felt pre-menstrual, but nothing flowed. By the time she was three days late, her breasts were as tender as a twelve-year-old’s. She started to get excited. She also started to get superstitious.

Her astrologer had predicted that she’d conceive, and had warned her that medical intervention should be avoided after the conception. Her Tarot reader had a less severe recommendation; she cautioned against permitting any uterine intrusion, but saw nothing wrong with other medical vigilances. Her closest friends thought amniocentesis could be dangerous to the baby. Anne was alone in advising prenatal tests, and Anne was disregarded. Melissa refused amniocentesis, avoided blood tests, and ducked several examinations. She watched her diet, eliminated alcohol and coffee, walked daily, and she tried to keep the doctors out of her pregnancy.

Keith couldn’t prevail on her to go for any tests. As far as he was concerned, Melissa’s hormones were rocketing out of control, and every attempt to reason with her only made her more adamant. He worried about multiple births. He thought daily about risks. He had to console himself with the fact that Melissa seemed flushed with health, her belly looked the right size, and the baby’s activity seemed normal. He distracted himself with business. He was careful to compliment Melissa on her maternity wardrobe. She was completely unreceptive to sex or even romance during the pregnancy; he could only please her by noticing her clothes and by not interfering with her anti-examination decisions.

Their daughter was born 268 days after the IVF procedure. Labor and delivery were both relatively straightforward, and Melissa was exhausted and ecstatic when her nine pound baby girl was placed in her arms. Keith felt racked by powerful protective feelings; a surge of masculine mastery mixed with weak-kneed love in him for mother and daughter.

The baby was beautiful, but her coloring was a surprise. Keith and Melissa both came from dark-haired stock; they’d chosen the name Melanie for a girl because they liked the sound and they knew it meant “black.” They marveled at their blonde, blue-eyed daughter. “Who’d have thought we both carried recessive genes?” Keith wondered. “I think one of my mother’s brothers was blonde when he had hair,” Melissa replied, and then added, “I can get into it.  I can dress her in all the colors I could never wear.” The nurses reminded them that most white babies are born blue-eyed. They added that many babies lose their birth hair and grow a new crop in a different color. But Keith and Melissa knew they had a blonde and figured they’d better come up with another name. They agreed on Suzanne.

The new family left the hospital two days after the birth. The nurses took blood from the baby before releasing her, but all preliminary test results were good. Keith and Melissa decided to welcome their daughter home with a small reception.

“Let’s give her twelve godparents,” Melissa suggested. “She’s too special for just one. I’m sure I have a friend for each sign. Then Suzanne will be protected throughout the year.”

“Whoa, Mom,” Keith rebutted. “I know you have a lot of odd friends from your artsy industry, but that plan is too far out. How about just your four advisors?” He paused at Melissa’s frown and then added, “That way, she can have one godmother for each season of the year.” Melissa liked that reasoning and they issued invitations.

Their caterer arranged the food, but Melissa supervised décor and wardrobes. She avoided the traditional baby pastels in favor of black, white and spots of pure primary colors. She dressed Suzanne is bright green, which showed off the baby’s surprising coloring, and she clad her recovering body in basic black. It wasn’t until the day before the party, as Melissa was reviewing the RSVPs and the seating arrangements, that she realized they hadn’t invited Anne.

“What were we thinking about when we talked four advisors?” she blurted stridently. “How could we have forgotten Anne?”

Keith suggested that their omission was natural. “After all,” he reasoned, “she stopped being ‘an advisor’ once you stopped listening to her. You refused her counsel after conception…” Keith’s voice faded as he saw the unreceptive expression on his wife’s face. He tried: “Anyway, it’s not too late to invite her.”

“But she’ll change our symbolism! Remember that we settled on four godmothers for the four seasons? Well, that’s wrecked when we add a fifth.” She started to walk out of the room in frustration, and whipped around at the doorway to add, “It’s like we’ve changed the shape of things into a pentagram, and that’s a symbol for black magic!”

There was no reasoning with her then. In a few hours, she came to her own conclusion: Anne must be invited and must be treated with the same honor as the other four. But Melissa was less excited about the reception from that moment forward.

Once upon a time a captain of industry met a queen of fashion. This was in the early post-industrial age, in north central California, in the county of Marin. The captain, a bit of a pirate named Keith, was actually an attorney by education but a businessman by instinct. He made his fortune developing and distributing the beverage idea of a bankrupt client. The idea was iced tea brewed from various flowers and tastefully spiked with vitamins; the client had paid Keith’s invoice with the transfer of recipes, and Keith’s marketing acumen had taken it from there.

Keith was forty-eight and never-married when he met Melissa at a gathering in Tiburon. She was forty-two and recently delivered from her second childless union. Their realtor Paul introduced them; they stood facing each other in Paul’s showcase living room, where they were expected to begin admiring Paul’s lover’s artwork, with an eye toward purchase. Instead they admired each other. Keith was tall, fit, with good teeth, brown eyes, and a full head of dark hair. Melissa looked Greek or Italian: olive-skinned with almost black hair, thick and wavy, dark eyes, a solid but graceful figure. She dressed well – she was a fashion consultant/personal shopper after all – and she silently approved of Keith’s cashmere and denim.

They were married within three months. Friends counseled each of them to wait, he to protect his assets and she to consider her earlier attempts at marriage. “What’s the rush?” each was asked, and “If the relationship is worth pursuing, then it can stand a little test of time,” each was advised. But the fact was, the couple wanted to start a family, and they heard their biological clocks loudly ticking.

The wedding was as magnificent as two hundred thousand dollars. They pitched the party in Sausalito and had almost five hundred guests. Melissa looked exquisite in antique lace and seed pearls. Keith was imposing in cream angora. The guests moved to three different bands and the fountains flowed with good champagne. Even though the party went long and well, the couple had the energy to consummate their union on their wedding night. That was the advantage to such a short acquaintance before marriage; they’d by no means burned out yet. “Rrrr,” Keith rumbled as he climbed on Melissa that night. “I can’t seem to get enough of you.” And “Mmmm” she murmured as she curled around him the next morning: “time to get up.”

Melissa was disappointed when her period started two weeks after the wedding, but she didn’t get concerned until two cycles later. At first, she figured they were making love so often that Keith wasn’t getting the time to build up a good sperm count. But after a month of marital bliss, the couple’s activity decreased. They weren’t intimate every night. That ought to be enough of a break for Keith, Melissa reasoned. So she consulted her gynecologist.

For the next half year, Melissa took her temperature each morning before she got out of bed, charted her ovulatory pattern, and made sure they did it when she was likely to be fertile. To say the act lacked spontaneity is a bald understatement, especially when Melissa spent her post-coital minutes with her feet up against the wall, maintaining her pelvis in the position most encouraging to the little swimmers. Keith and Melissa tried to have a good attitude about their efforts, but each missed the good old few months of their courtship.

Melissa became more depressed with each period. She saw her doctor again, who prescribed an ovulation enhancer and ordered tests for each of them, but she also consulted an astrologer, a Tarot interpreter, her two closest friends, and a bisexual midwife acquaintance named Anne. Keith directed his attention to business; he was in the process of taking TechTonics from a West Coast concern to a national venture.

The medical test results were discouraging. It turned out that Melissa’s uterus was positioned at a difficult angle for conception. In addition, she was peri-menopausal and not ovulating regularly.  Keith had a subnormal sperm count coupled with low motility. It was unlikely they’d conceive without intervention.

“Women over forty shouldn’t try to have babies,” Dr. Winterscheidt commented to his wife that night, after he’d given the news to Melissa and Keith. “I know that’s a weird thing for a reproductive clinic director to say, but older women are just asking for trouble.” Natasha disagreed. “You’re looking at it with blinders on, Bill. You only treat women who have problems – the others aren’t referred to you – and you shouldn’t generalize from your medical practice to all of womankind.”

Melissa’s counselors advised her to do whatever was necessary to have a baby. The stars and the cards were auspicious. Her friends were familiar with the in vitro fertilization (IVF) process. Anne told her to move quickly, while she still had some viable eggs left, or she’d find herself carrying a fetus made of Keith’s sperm and some other woman’s ovum. Keith approached the question analytically. Their relative infertility seemed entirely age-based, but they were fit for their ages and stood to outlive the statistics. It was expensive science, but they had the money. He saw no reason why they shouldn’t take advantage of the available technology. They agreed to go for it.