by Kennedy Ryan
“Weight gain?” Dr. Granden probes.
I release a shaky breath. “Yeah. I do seem to be putting on a few pounds. Again, I assumed stress.”
“What about insomnia? Mood swings? Vaginal dryness? Decreased sexual appetite?”
“Well, I’m a vampire, so I never sleep, but I guess? Maybe? As for mood swings, like I said, I’m coming off a campaign, so for a year and a half I basically fluctuate between Linda Blair and being a twelve-year-old rocking in the corner.” I shrug. “We’d have to ask my assistant if I’ve been more of a bitch than usual.”
Dr. Granden’s lips quirk a little, but her eyes remain serious. “And the sexual appetite?”
“I think my appetite has been consistent. I may as well sleep with my vibrator under my pillow.” I snort. “Satisfaction is another matter. Between you and me, doc, these fellas out here just ain’t doing it right.”
We chuckle, and I realize I needed that. Just something to lift this heavy weight from my chest. My whole adult life I’ve prided myself on the focus, the drive, the discipline required to reach my goals. The future was a plan I executed. Now the future, my future—at least one aspect of it—just spun out of focus.
Out of my control.
“Wait,” I say, assembling the implications of what she’s saying as the shock starts wearing off. “If I don’t have a period, does that mean I can’t have kids? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Not necessarily, but the FSH level is significantly higher in your blood than typical.”
“FSH?”
“Follicle-stimulating hormone. Your brain makes more of it as your ovaries produce fewer eggs.”
“Follicle, huh?” I laugh humorlessly. “My ovaries have hair?”
She smiles, the tight line of her mouth easing some. “Not exactly. An increase in FSH alone wouldn’t be enough, but coupled with the missed periods and other symptoms you report, and the tests we’ve done to eliminate what it isn’t, the picture begins to become more clear.”
Ovaries. Eggs. Hormones. Babies.
These are not the things that dominated my internal news cycle when I woke up this morning. Besides seeing Lennix and discussing a candidate’s pro-life stance on a call before this meeting, I haven’t given kids much thought today. Life, though, in its infinite wisdom, has shoved all of this front and center.
“Mind you,” Dr. Granden says, “I’m general practice. I’m just telling you what all the signs indicate. Your test results are consistent with a woman in perimenopause, but I would like you to consult with a specialist, too.”
“A sp-sp-specialist?” I ask, suppressing a groan of frustration that my damn stutter hits me as unexpectedly as my grief does sometimes. “This is going fast. What does this all mean?”
“If a woman is in perimenopause and wants to have kids naturally,” Dr. Granden says, her voice softening into compassion, “she better move fast. You could have a year, maybe a little more if we’re aggressive about re-starting your period. It’s hard to say. There are things you can do. Hormone replacement therapy, which does have some risks, but you can talk those through with the specialist. Several of my patients have also had success with homeopathic remedies. Once we get your period back up and running, we can chart when you’re most fertile and you can—”
“But I don’t want a baby,” I blurt. “I mean, I do someday, but not now. I’m not dating anyone. I’m not involved or interested. I have a gubernatorial campaign to run.” If the candidate chooses me. “I…you’re saying I have to have a baby now?”
“I’m saying if you don’t get pregnant relatively soon, then odds are you never will.”
I’m a rug Dr. Granden’s beating, every word coming out of her mouth a whack, sending air and dust flying from me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I manage, though my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. “I’m not sure what to do. I—”
“If you want to keep even the possibility of children, of a child, then we should at least talk about trying to get your cycle back online. That’s first.”
“Uh, yeah. My cycle. Of course,” I say automatically, trusting that the words coming from my mouth are the right ones. “Do you have water? I need some water.”
Dr. Granden nods behind me. “There’s a water cooler there. I can get it if—”
“No.” I stand and turn toward the cooler. “I can.”
I walk on shaky legs to the little stand at the back of her office. The colorful pattern of the carpet swims through a glaze of sudden tears, and the floor tilts beneath me. The whole world just slid to one side, and I’m holding on to an invisible beam, trying not to fall. My hands tremble around the little plastic cup as I fill it with cold water. Mere minutes ago, I was begging not to be pregnant, and now I may never be? My mother was just reassuring me she would still love her grandchild out of wedlock, and now I may never have one to give her…at all?
I gulp the water down along with these hard truths, immediately filling the cup again and draining it before making my way back to my seat.
“So you said restarting my period is the first thing. Can we do that for sure?”
The answer is scribbled across her face like one of her prescriptions, impossible to read. She confirms what I fear, though, with a shake of her head. “There are no guarantees. I’ll leave it to the specialist to discuss likely outcomes, but I would think your chances are good. I’d prefer not to speculate, though.”
My phone dings in my purse. I’m tempted to ignore it, but I don’t have that kind of life. A ding could be a small fire, and if I delay responding, in no time it could be a conflagration, trending on Twitter and ticker taping on every major news outlet.
“Excuse me one second, Dr. Granden.” I fish the phone from my bag to read the text message.
Carla: Hey. Just reminding you to leave the doctor’s office soon or you’ll miss your two o’clock with Senator Billingsley.
Me: Cancel Billingsley.
Dr. Granden places a plastic model on the desk between us. I vaguely note a vagina, uterus and fallopian tubes.
Me: Cancel everything.
Chapter Eleven
Ezra
“Son, slow down. Your food’s not running from you. Stop chasing it.”
Noah looks up, the expression on his small face abashed, but still eager, as if I spiked his oatmeal with Mexican jumping beans. He deliberately takes his time lifting the spoon from his bowl, opens his mouth exaggeratedly, and stretches his eyes really wide, sliding the spoon between his teeth in extra slow-mo.
Smart ass.
“And don’t scrape that spoon over your teeth,” I add, grinning and mussing the dark wavy hair that spills into his eyes. He begged us to let him grow it out after visiting his cousin Tao in LA, whose hair hangs past his shoulders in a pin-straight curtain. Noah’s won’t be quite that straight or silky, thanks to my genes. He’ll grow up like I did, with hair finer than my father’s and not quite as fine as my mom’s.
“It’s the first day of summer break,” he reminds me unnecessarily and for maybe the tenth time since he woke up.
“I know.” I take a few gulps of the strawberry smoothie I prepared for breakfast, sliding a small cup of it to him. “Drink up so we can take your mom to the airport.”
“Yuck.” He scrunches his face and turns up his nose.
“It doesn’t taste bad, and it’s good for you.” I glance at my Apple watch to see if we’re on schedule. The name Joseph S. Allen in the subject line of an email captures my attention.
I click the message open and lean against the counter to read from my wrist.
Reminder! The Joseph S. Allen Community Service Award for your outstanding leadership in education is coming up soon. Details below.
I was surprised when I received the email. Does Mrs. Allen know? Our parents were adamant about putting distance between the two families. Seeing Mr. Allen a few years ago when I first moved back to Atlanta was by chance, and I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me, much less c
ross the street to shake my hand. He invited me to coffee and spent an hour listening to my plans to start a private school, Young Leaders Academy of Atlanta, serving low-income and at-risk middle school students. He was an important man. I’m sure he’d had better things to do than spend time with me, the kid of a family he had fallen out with.
He’d asked about my family, and I’d found creative ways to ask about Kimba without being too obvious or pathetic. When he died, I’d risked the censure of Mrs. Allen by going to the funeral, but I had to pay my respects.
And I’d hoped to see Kimba.
“I’m ready,” Aiko says, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing a banana from the bowl on the counter.
Things have been weird between us. Not hostile, just uncertain in this limbo where we know our relationship is over, but Noah doesn’t yet. I’ve been sleeping in the guest bedroom. After we decided to end it, it felt wrong to sleep in the same bed. Actually, it felt right not to, further confirmation that we’re doing the right thing. Noah goes to sleep before we do and I’m up before he is, so he hasn’t noticed the change.
“Mona promised to make sure you boys don’t eat junk the whole time I’m gone,” Aiko says, kissing Noah’s forehead.
Mona and I reconnected by chance at a teacher’s job fair. I was recruiting for YLA’s first year. Once we got past the shock of seeing each other again, I realized she was exactly the kind of educator I wanted to build with.
Fast forward three years, and her backyard adjoins ours, separated only by a fence. She’s not only the school director, but has become like a part of our family.
“Aunt Mona can cook vegetables from our garden,” Noah says, oatmeal flying past his lips.
“Son,” I chide. “That’s disgusting. Don’t talk with food in your mouth.”
He rolls his eyes. I lift one brow. Shamefacedly, he mutters an apology. We have a system in this house, Noah and I, and there is never any doubt who is the boss of it.
“Vitamins.” I point to the little dish of gels and gummies I laid out.
He eyes the pile of pills, mouth twisted up.
“Remember Pop?” Aiko asks. “How big he was? And see how big Daddy is? Take your vitamins, and you’ll be big like them. Your dad used to be little, too.”
“You were?” he asks.
“I was one of the smallest kids in my class.” I raise my right hand. “Promise. Then around tenth grade, everything changed.”
“And you got big like Pop?”
“Not quite,” I say dryly. “Pop was six feet, six inches. Two inches taller than me, but I made up a lot of ground in a couple of years.”
“And that was from taking vitamins?” he asks hopefully.
Honestly, no. That was just genetics. “Absolutely it was the vitamins.”
In ten minutes, we’re out the door and headed for the airport. When we arrive, I unload Aiko’s small battalion of color-coordinated luggage.
“I’ll miss you so much,” Aiko says, holding Noah’s face between her hands. “You’ll be good for Daddy, right?”
“Yeah.” He bites his lip, and I recognize his “I’m supposed to be a big boy and big boys don’t cry” face. “A month is a long time, though.”
“It’ll fly by,” she tells him, her voice falsely bright. They’ve never been apart this long before. None of us have. “And we’ll FaceTime, okay?”
“Aiko!” a tall, sandy-haired man calls from the curb. “Perfect timing.”
Surrounded by his own collection of bags, he eyes my ex-girlfriend like she’s his favorite dessert.
“Um, yeah.” She glances up at me, blinking fast and licking her lips. “Chaz, this is, um…he’s…”
“Ezra,” I say, stepping forward with an extended hand. “Nice to meet you, Chaz.”
“Uh, hi.” He shakes my hand, and his hazel eyes flick between Aiko, Noah and me.
Noah’s taking in everything with his sharp eyes and quick mind. I don’t give a damn if Aiko screws Chaz. We’re done, but Noah doesn’t understand that yet. In his mind, we’re his parents. We live together. He doesn’t see us any differently from his classmates’ mommies and daddies who are married, and how we handle this transition into this next phase of life could affect him for years to come. It should be thoughtful and careful and measured and put his needs at the center, not our own.
I look to Chaz and Aiko, a hard set to my mouth, a warning in my eyes.
“Noah, Chaz works with Mommy,” I say pointedly. “He’s going on safari, too. Isn’t that cool?”
“Wow,” Noah says. “You’ll take lots of pictures, right?”
“Of course,” Chaz says, his smile uncertain. “So many pictures that we have to get started right away, buddy.”
Noah hates being called “buddy.” He thinks it’s infantile. His word. Not mine. He looks up at me and scowls, and I give a subtle shake of my head, silently reminding him to be respectful. I grab a cart for all Aiko’s bags, getting them loaded. Once that’s done, it’s time for Noah and me to go. There’s such a mix of things in her expression.
Excitement. Hope. Anticipation.
Sadness. Guilt. Uncertainty.
“I won’t,” she says softly. “I mean… I don’t have to if you don’t want me on this trip. If you want to think about it, I can—”
“Ko.” I squeeze her hand and look at her directly to emphasize my sincerity. “Enjoy your trip.”
She searches my face, like she has to make sure she won’t be damaging something irreparably if she takes this step with Chaz, but we’ve been broken a long time. We’ve held this relationship together with Gorilla Glue, masking tape and sheer force of will. But there are too many gaps and holes and tears. What we had will never be whole again, but we can be something new.
Noah and I watch his mother walk into the airport with another man, and I don’t feel anything but hope that this can be the start.
I glance down at the watch on my wrist, at the email that might mean seeing Kimba again. There’s a stirring in my chest at the thought, like hope shaking awake parts of me that have been asleep for years. I don’t have time to think about it now, but take a second to reply that I’m honored to be recognized and looking forward to the banquet.
“Dad,” Noah says, not patiently. “Can we please go now? It’s the first day of summer break.”
“I did hear that somewhere.” I chuckle and muss his hair. “Let’s go…buddy.”
Chapter Twelve
Kimba
“So I’ll be in Atlanta for a few weeks,” I say, looking down the conference room table at my team. “I’m spending some time with my family between campaigns.”
“Oh, I’m so glad, boss,” Carla says. “We’ve all been worried about you.”
“You’ve all been worried?” I narrow my eyes and stare at them one by one. “Been talking about me behind my back?”
They exchange furtive glances and start stuttering and stammering.
“I’m kidding!” I laugh, leaning back in my chair at the head of the long mahogany table and swiveling back and forth. “God, am I that bad?”
The newest team member, Felita, lifts both brows and casts a look to the side that says weeeeeellll.
“I see you, Felita,” I say, pointing to her with a grin.
She chuckles. “You’ve just seemed tired and a little…” She tips her head back and forth like she isn’t sure of the right word, or rather, isn’t sure she should say it.
“A little bit of a bitch?” I offer, laughing at them and at myself. “Yeah. I know.”
If we weren’t in mixed company, two of my team members being men, I might have told them my ovaries have rebelled and deployed weapons of mass hormones. A trip to the specialist confirmed that I am indeed in perimenopause, but I’ll save that for a girls’ chat. Men practically dissolve into puddles at the mere mention of a tampon, much less menopause. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth or spare nerves for that today.
“This would be a good time for you all to consider
a little time off, too, before we swing into high gear for the next round of campaigns.” I nod toward Piers, who’s been with the firm for years, one of our earliest hires. “You’re doing some recon on Mateo Ruiz, right?”
“Yeah, but has he actually hired us yet?” Piers asks, his gray eyes sharp.
“He will.” I keep my expression implacable. “We just had a great conversation. Only a matter of time. Now what’d you find?”
He runs a hand through his thinning brown hair. “So far he’s clean as a whistle.”
“Don’t believe the hype,” I say. “I wanna sniff his dirty laundry before we’re out on the trail or in front of a camera. Everyone has skeletons, but I mean, are we talking Bone Collector shit?”
The team laughs, and so do I. I need this. I need work that I enjoy and that feels meaningful. This mission to put people in power who champion the marginalized—it’s been the epicenter of my life since I graduated college to the neglect of everything else. With the very real possibility of never having my own children now, I feel the imbalance more than ever, but I can’t say I would have changed a thing. Kayla carries out Daddy’s legacy by overseeing our family’s foundation. This is how I perpetuate the principles by which he lived. As for how our brother does it…who the hell knows?
My phone vibrates on the conference room table.
Keith.
Well, speak of the player and he shall appear.
“I need to take this call.” I glance at the lunch we ordered spread out on the conference room table. “Go on and dig in. Carla, could you update everyone on our schedule for the next few days? I’ll be right back.”
I step into the hall and stride toward my office, phone pressed to my ear.
“Keith,” I say, closing the door behind me. “To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”
“Can’t a man just call to check on his little sister sometimes?” he asks, that liquid voice all the men of our family inherit pouring over the line. My grandfather and father put that compelling voice to use championing others’ needs. Keith wastes his on simple charm.