He walks over and holds out his hand. He never even had the chance to sit down. I take it and rise to my feet, my stomach tightening once more. We leave the clinic, get into our car, and start to drive home. The whole journey is spent in silence; my hope and terror twist within. Every red light feels like an omen.
My phone springing to life after thirty minutes causes me to jump out of my skin. The nameFertility Clinicis displayed on the screen.
“Answer it,” Terry prompts as he pulls to the side of the road and cuts the ignition.
“Hello,” I say after hitting the green button.
“Mrs. Trodden?” the kindly male voice says. “This is Dr. Hughes.”
“Yes, it’s Amy speaking,” I confirm. Terry signals at the speaker button on the handset, and I switch it on.
“Could you confirm your date of birth, please?” he asks, and I do. He takes a breath. “Mrs. Trodden, I’m sorry to call with bad news, but the treatment cycle has not been successful. According to your blood results, at this point in time, you’re not pregnant. I expect your monthly cycle to commence in the next few days.”
I glance to my husband, who has turned away and is looking out of the window, staring at the cars whizzing past. “I’m sorry once again. Please call the center if you wish to book a follow-up appointment or discuss your options moving forward.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I mumble and hang up.
The grief I should feel doesn’t arrive as expected. I feel numb. Nothing. In my heart, I knew this wouldn’t happen for us. I was proven right. The calm inside is almost a relief.
“Can we go home, Terry, please?” I say, emotionless. He turns the key, releases the handbrake, and pulls out into the traffic.
We arrive home, and I head straight to the bathroom. As I slide down my panties, the tell-tale signs of womanhood markthe crotch. The dream of having a child of my own is officially over. Verdict delivered.
I press my palm to my belly and wait for the pain. Instead, there’s only the familiar monthly ache. A hollow peace that signals I’ve given up.
Chapter fourteen
Terry
The colossal sign hangs across the back of the stage again.Welcome to Starsky’s Amateur Body Building Competition 2019.The only change is the date. Everything else is identical to the previous year.
The gym is packed with spandex-clad competitors. Muscles pop in all directions, and most of them look as if they’re wearing outfits a size too small. The air still tastes like hairspray and fake tan.
Amy skips off in the direction of the changing rooms, and I disappear to the same seating area I hid in last year. This year I’ve only brought water, snacks, and five beers, not wanting a repeat of last year’s escapades. I crack the first can and tell myself five is restraint as the music starts. I settle back in my chair for three hours of hell.
Since the IVF failed, Amy has buried herself in training. This is the sixth competition we’ve attended since September, each one further proof she’s found something outside of me.
With every event, her confidence increases, along with her results. Last week, she stood second in the strongest class yet. The smile on her face said it all?she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Me? I thumb the same TV remote grooves each night and pry fryer oil from under my nails every morning. The days blur, each one no different to the last. The shine’s gone. I’m existing.
The announcer’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Next up, we have Amy,” he calls. “Doesn’t she look incredible in her silver bikini? Not much left to the imagination.” He grins at the audience, who laugh in reply.
The hilarity grates. They only see skin and shine. Not Amy. Not my wife. They don’t know us.
She parades around the stage with a spring in her step. She finishes at the front, directly opposite the judges, and holds her final pose. Her quads look carved, each muscle sharp like cut glass. Confidence oozes from every pore, and her bright eyes sparkle as she takes in her audience. Then she turns and struts off stage. The crowd goes wild.
“Can you believe it?” Amy squeals as she runs toward me, holding her huge trophy. It’s about a meter tall, with garish silver columns and a woman wearing barely anything posing on top. “My first win!”
She holds it above her head and jumps up and down on the spot. I smile at her as genuinely as I can and lean in to place a kiss on her cheek. She throws her arms around my neck, and the trophy hits me squarely on the back. “Shall we go home and celebrate?” she whispers in my ear. “In bed?”
“I’m proud of you, Amz,” I reply and drop a kiss on her nose. “Let’s get some food first, then you can plan all thenaughty things you want to do to me.” My tone is warm, but the words hollow. In her excitement, she doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. She releases me and starts helping me clear the remaining beer cans and chip packets surrounding my seat. After throwing the final piece in the trash, she grabs my hand and leads me from the auditorium.
“Amy Trodden,” a booming voice calls from behind us.
We turn in unison. A broad man dressed in a fitted navy suit is marching toward us. “Congratulations,” he says, flashing my wife a smile before turning to me and holding out his hand. “Ivan Harley.” The name rings bells in my head. I’m sure he’s someone important. Pretty sure he owns one of the big gyms.
“Terry,” I reply, taking his hand and shaking it. His iron grip makes my bones flex beneath his fingers. “Amy’s husband.” He nods, then turns back to focus on Amy.
