“It’s going to work this time.”
She looked at me then, her eyes searching my face for something I wasn’t sure I could give her. “You don’t know that.”
“I know.” I pulled away from the curb, my hands steady on the wheel. “But I believe it anyway.”
She didn’t respond to that. Just turned to look out the window as we drove through the Seventh Ward, past shotgunhouses and corner stores and churches with hand-painted signs promising salvation.
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that came from two people who’d spent enough time together to know when words weren’t necessary. But I could feel the tension radiating off her—the fear, the hope, the weight of everything riding on this one procedure.
“You eat this morning?” I asked.
“A little. Toast and some juice.”
“That’s good.” I glanced at her. “Dr. Beaumont said you need to stay hydrated today. After the transfer.”
“I know.”
“And rest. No heavy lifting, no?—”
“Amai.” She turned to look at me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I read the instructions. I know what to do.”
I nodded, feeling slightly foolish for hovering. But I couldn’t help it. The first transfer had failed, and the memory of her crying on the phone at two in the morning was still too fresh. I’d promised her we’d try again. And I meant it. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t terrified it would fail again.
We drove in silence for a few more minutes, the city passing by outside the windows. Then, Truth spoke, her voice quiet.
“Thank you for being here.”
I glanced at her. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. You could have just sent your driver. Or had me take an Uber. You didn’t have to?—”
“Truth.” I kept my eyes on the road. “I’m not sending you to this alone. Not again.”
She went quiet. When I looked over, she was staring at her hands in her lap, her fingers twisted together.
“Okay,” she said softly.
We pulled into the fertility center parking lot fifteen minutes later. I found a spot near the entrance and killed the engine. For a moment, neither of us moved.
“You ready?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
The clinic was quiet when we walked in. The receptionist recognized us immediately and smiled warmly as she checked Truth in. Within minutes, a nurse appeared and called Truth’s name.
Truth stood, her movements careful. She looked at me, and I saw the fear in her eyes—the same fear I’d seen during the first transfer. The fear that her body would fail again. That this wouldn’t work. That she’d let me down.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said.
She nodded and followed the nurse through the door that led to the back.
I sat in the waiting room and tried to focus on my phone. Tried to answer emails, review reports, do anything to keep my mind occupied. But all I could think about was Truth lying on that exam table, vulnerable and scared, going through this alone.
Twenty minutes later, the same nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Landry?” she said. “You can come back now if you’d like.”
I was on my feet before she finished the sentence.
