Inconceivable! Read online

  Adela bowed her head in prayer, and guilt sat heavy on my shoulders. I was interested in the church simply as a tourist. My heart clung to my anxiety over our inability to get pregnant, crowding out everything else, including God. I remembered all the verbiage I’d learned growing up in church about “casting my cares on the Lord,” but the words now had a tinny ring.

  Instead of praying or reading the Bible, I read and meditated on the stories of other women who were trying to conceive. I especially loved reading about those who struggled for months or years, but through one method or another, finally saw those two glorious lines on their pee sticks. They were the saints, the women who had worked miracles. So, I was religious about my fertility rituals: taking my temperature every morning before getting out of bed, ensuring we had sex daily, and doing pregnancy tests as early as five days before my period was due. Instead of a rosary, I gripped that piece of lace John bought me in Ghent. Many of the delicate strands were now broken, unable to withstand so much handling.

  “Care if we move on?” Adela stood.

  “That’s fine. Did you want to light a candle?”

  We walked over to a small table. She dropped money into a wooden box and took a white tea light. She placed it in a tall candleholder, and with one hand on her belly, she lit it. Every time her hand floated to her lower abdomen, my jealousy stirred. Shh. I’m happy for them. I really am… kind of.

  “Why do you guys light candles?”

  “It’s a symbol of hope.”

  “Then I want to light one, too.” After making my donation, I placed my candle beside Adela’s. “To hope.”

  We walked around the perimeter to a small alcove toward the back where several benches sat in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Adela picked a seat and I heard her doing Hail Mary’s under her breath in Latin. I sat close by, listening to her quiet, rhythmic recitation and staring at the statue in front of us. I almost laughed out loud at the realization I was the anti-Mary. She got pregnant without a man so much as looking at her while John and I were trying all kinds of positions during and after sex to improve our chances of conception and it still wasn’t happening. And here beside me was a woman who had gotten pregnant “by accident.”

  Hey, Mary. For the record, I’m not praying to you because I’m not Catholic and I don’t believe in praying to anyone but God. And I can’t even do that right now. But, if you hear me, can you tell God I really, really want a baby? I’m asking you to do this for me because I think you get it. You know how important it is to be a mother. And I want to be a mom. I want it so bad it hurts.

  I stopped my train of thought, unsure how to end my non-prayer conversation with the statue. Adela reached over and squeezed my hand. She stood and walked away. I got up, looking at the open hands of the stone woman and simply said, “Thanks.”

  ernard, I’ll be right back,” I said, motioning toward the women’s restroom at the back of the café. My stoic guard merely nodded in acknowledgement. I was on a mission and I wanted to accomplish it before Tilda arrived for our Christmas gift exchange.

  Once inside with the door locked, I dug around in my purse and found one of the long, slender white packages. I tore it open and held the stick in my hand.

  “C’mon, baby,” I said softly as I put the tip between my legs.

  When it was saturated, I placed it gently on a flat, dry area at the side of the sink. I set the timer on my phone for five minutes.

  I finished up and washed my hands, resisting the urge to peek at the results window on the stick. Looking in the mirror, I fluffed my hair. Just as I applied a fresh bit of lipstick, the timer went off. My eyes darted to the stick. Were there two pink lines, indicating I was pregnant? I picked it up and brought it closer to my face, unsure if the faint second line was my imagination or a trick of the low bathroom lighting.

  I stopped the timer, turned on my phone’s bright light, and directed the beam at the results window. Sure enough, there was a very light pink line next to the control line. Because I was addicted to reading online discussion boards, I knew the darkness of the line didn’t matter, so long as there was a second line that had coloring; gray lines were no good. Many of the women even posted cell phone photos of their results, asking for opinions on whether their test was positive. These women were obsessed.

  I placed the lid over the tip, slid the entire pee stick back into its packaging, and put it in my purse. I suppressed the surge of joy that threatened to explode from the core of my being. With Christmas five days away and our one year anniversary next month, this was the best gift I could give John. My parents were also due to arrive in two days for Christmas, so I’d get to share the news with them in person. I put my hand on the door knob and stopped. Digging around in my purse again, I pulled out the test. Just one more peek at those glorious double lines. Woot! I tucked it back in its white wrapper and dropped it into my purse. After a single fist pump, I unlocked the door and walked out calmly.

  Tilda was sitting at our table, talking in a low voice into her phone. She wrapped up the conversation, got up, and hugged me.

  “Merry Christmas, darling.” She handed me a beautifully wrapped package.

  “Oh, Tilda. Did you wrap this?”

  “What do you think? Sit. Open it!”

  I carefully pulled off the ribbons and bow and removed the lid. Nestled among white tissue paper was a fluffy green blanket. On top of it was a small card: “For the Baby King (or Queen).” I picked up the card and saw the letter “M” for Meinrad embroidered near the blanket’s sateen edge.

  Tears filled my eyes.

  “When it happens, you’ll be an amazing mum,” Tilda said. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. During our bi-weekly phone conversations, I’d alluded to my anxiety about the fact I wasn’t yet pregnant.

  I pulled the blanket from the box and skimmed my fingers through the soft material. “Thank you. It’s beautiful and perfect.”

  I folded the fabric and put it back in the box. The small gift I placed in front of Tilda was also wrapped in exquisite paper. Astrid had done well.

  “I know you didn’t wrap this.” She inspected the small box that fit in the palm of her hand and gingerly pulled off the ribbon. “Oh, Hatty!” She removed the earrings from the box.

  “There’s a man in De Haan who makes jewelry from the seashells he finds on the beach at sunset. I thought they’d look lovely on you.”

  She put on the delicate, shapely earrings. Against the dark spirals of her hair, they positively radiated.

  “How do they look?” I reached into my purse to grab a mirror. As I pulled my hand out, the pregnancy test package fell onto the table. I quickly shoved it back inside and handed her the mirror. Concealed in the unmarked white wrapper, she probably had no idea what it was.

  “Is that a pregnancy test?”

  Dear Lord. “Maybe.”

  “Are you late? Are you pregnant?”

  “No. My period was supposed to start today. Here. Look at your earrings.” I handed her the mirror, hoping to move the conversation away from my cycle.

  “Hatty, these are brilliant! Thank you so much.”

  Just then, the barista arrived and took our order. Imagining that faint pink line in my purse, I asked for decaf coffee.

  “How are things with the smelter protests?” Tilda and her boss at the assembly kept close tabs on what happened in Kortrijk.

  “Off the record, okay? You can’t tell Assemblyman Aalders about any of this.” My how things had changed. I was the one requesting off-the-record conversations.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We think the cold is keeping the protesters away for now. But when the weather’s better, John says there’s reason to believe they’re going to come out in larger numbers. He’s working with Cilla and the rest of the public affairs team on how to respond when the protests resume. Okay… Enough smelter talk. Tell me about your date last Friday.”

  Tilda went through datable men like I went through
pregnancy tests.

  “This guy is chief of staff for another assemblyman. Gustav is his name. I mean, can you see me dating someone named Gustav? So, he had one strike against him right away. Then, after dinner, he removed his front tooth. He cleaned it with his shirt, and slid it back into place.” She shook her head in disbelief.

  I guffawed. “It’s pretty ballsy to whip out your false tooth on a first date. I mean, that’s the kind of threshold you don’t typically cross until the third date.”

  “Well, I’m done with blind dates. That’s my New Year’s resolution. No. Blind. Dates.”

  When it was time for me to return to Langbroek Palace, we said our goodbyes. As she left, I looked at Bernard and motioned to the restroom. He nodded and sat back down.

  Locking the door, I pulled out the positive pregnancy test and stared at it. Again. I tilted it and checked the line from various angles. Yep, it was positive! I placed it on the edge of the sink and took out a fresh pee stick. I went through the motions and waited. There was no second line this time. Even with the help of my phone’s light, I didn’t see so much as a shadow next to the control line. Of course, I’d had plenty of coffee and water to drink, which meant my pee might be too diluted to produce a second pink line. And I hadn’t held it for a minimum of four hours. That recommended timeframe came from the women I’d “met” through the online infertility discussion sites. Despite my attempts to rationalize it, the negative test stared back at me, announcing another failure.

  My hands shaking, I dialed Dr. Cloutier’s office. I listened to the automated menu and pushed the button to connect to a nurse.

  Once I got a live person on the phone, I said, “Yes, I’m one of Dr. Cloutier’s patients. I had a positive pregnancy test about an hour and a half ago and did another test just now and it’s negative. Do I need to come in and see the doctor? What should I do?”

  “Is your period late?”

  “It’s due to start today.”

  “Your urine may have been too diluted to produce another positive result so soon after the first one. Wait and test again when you wake up tomorrow morning. The concentration of the pregnancy hormone is typically highest after you’ve held your urine all night.”

  See? You just need to hold it in and do it again!

  “What happens if I get a negative test in the morning?”

  “Nothing, unless you want to come in for a blood test to find out for sure if you’re pregnant. Now, if you are pregnant this early and have a miscarriage, there’s nothing we can do to stop it. In that case, you’d only need to come in if you had excessive pelvic pain or blood clots larger than two and a half centimeters. Is there anything else?”

  “I guess not. Thank you.” I hung up, feeling nauseated. If the beginnings of a baby were inside me, it could be dying and there was nothing I could do to save it. On the other hand, I might just need to wait and retest in the morning. It was the not knowing that intensified the gnawing angst.

  I needed to move along or Bernard would come tapping on the door to make sure no one had assassinated me while I was on the toilet. I pulled out the two pregnancy tests and held them side by side. There clearly were two lines on the first and only one on the second. I put both of them in their packages, secured them in the depths of my purse, and walked out the door.

  The next morning, I dashed into the bathroom to do a new test; John was still asleep. While I waited for the result, I lined up the two tests from the day before alongside the new one. Five minutes passed without a second line. Sometimes the tests take up to ten minutes to show a positive result. So, I waited.

  No dice.

  My fist slammed against my lips to block the loud scream I wanted to release. I bit into my knuckles, squeezing my eyes closed, and my shoulders shook. Tears seeped from between my eyelids. I fanned myself and checked the results one more time. One test with two pink lines and two tests with one line each.

  I dug out a plastic bag and wrapped it around the two negative tests before tucking them into a box in my closet. I’d toss them later when John was gone. But the positive test I kept. I brought it close to my eyes, marveling again at the double pink stripes. They were real. I found an empty make-up bag and placed it inside, unable to get rid of it just yet.

  A sensation of cool air on my lady regions reminded me I’d failed to pull up my pants after doing the test. I went to the toilet, wiped, and there it was. The telltale sign of failure, even more definitive than a negative pregnancy test: bright red blood. If it had been brown, I might have tried to convince myself it was bleeding from the embryo implanting in the lining of my uterus. But nope. This was the red carpet my body rolled out to announce the monthly arrival of dear old Aunt Flow.

  Despite my profound sadness at the turn of events, I had to get on with the day or at least go through the motions. I took a deep breath, pulled up my pants, and wiped my eyes. I didn’t want to tell John about this. There was no need to upset him.

  he door shut, and we were alone in front of the Ghent altarpiece. John arranged to have the church closed to the public for an hour while we visited. It was a huge request, asking the church to turn away tourists on a Saturday, but being a prince had its privileges.

  “Do you remember our first kiss?” John placed his hands on my waist as we faced each other, ignoring the masterpiece beside us.

  “Of course. What I remember is how you tasted. Minty, delicious. But I was in shock because I totally wasn’t expecting to lock lips with you. I thought I was here as a reporter, remember?”

  “I do. I’m glad you didn’t slap me or run screaming from the church. Happy anniversary, love.”

  One year of marriage. Wowsers.

  After a make-out session in front of the altarpiece, we walked down the street arm in arm. Every shop window displaying baby clothes caught my eye. A physical ache rose up in my chest as I thought about going in and picking out organic cotton onesies for our baby-to-be. It didn’t matter I wasn’t yet pregnant. I would be soon, by golly, and I wanted to nest.

  After passing the fourth baby clothing boutique, I told John to wait. A small bell jingled a welcome as I went inside. The ancient hardwood floors had an attractive luster, making the tiny clothes on miniature hangers seem even more delicate and luxurious. A light green sweater caught my eye. I took it from the rack, walked to the counter, and paid for it. Cash, of course. Didn’t want to leave behind any evidence.

  When I emerged from the shop, John smiled. “Find something you like?”

  “Yes. It’s darling.”

  I pulled the sweater from the bag, realizing how reckless this was. If someone recognized us and saw me with baby clothes, it would be international news within minutes. But the streets weren’t crowded and no one was paying attention to us. We were unremarkable in our winter coats and hats.

  “Baby King will love it,” John said, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

  Sitting in front of my wardrobe at Langbroek, I held the sweater, marveling at its impossibly small size. The fabric felt soft against my cheek. I placed a light kiss on the garment before I wrapped it in white tissue paper with reverence and placed it in a plastic storage bin. The container also held the baby blanket Tilda gave me for Christmas, a pair of white crib shoes (Astrid placed the online order in her name), and my childhood copy of Goodnight Moon. Mom didn’t ask any questions when I asked her to mail it to me. But I was pretty sure she knew I was in baby mode.

  As I slid the storage bin into the floor of my wardrobe, I remembered the other treasure I’d put in there last summer and my curiosity grumbled. I decided to make time to read a little more in Princess Beatrix’s journal. I decided to wait to tell lohn about it because I was afraid I’d no longer have the opportunity to read it. That seemed horribly selfish, but I never knew his mother. Reading her journal allowed me to get to know her through her own words rather than John’s memories. I was eager to read more.

  r. Dreesen will be ready to see you in about fifteen minutes. Would you ple
ase just wait here?” The nurse left us alone in the waiting room. Our guards stood in the hallway.

  John screwed up his lips on one side; he looked torqued. He never had to wait for anything or anyone.

  I adjusted in my chair, creating a loud series of squeaks. I looked at my phone and the date jumped out at me. Adela’s due date, March 22, was rapidly approaching.

  “Adela’s getting close, you know?”

  John didn’t look up from his phone. This is why I almost never talked about the infertile elephant in the room. It was a miracle he was accompanying me to the doctor this time.

  “Why can’t I be happy for them?” I asked because I really wanted to know.

  “Because you aren’t happy for us. We seem to be stuck, and they’re about to cross the finish line.”

  Get off your blinking phone and look at me!

  “It hacks me off,” I said. “They didn’t wait to have sex until after they were married, and now they’re being rewarded with a baby. I’m an awful, terrible person for feeling that way.”

  The door opened. “Hatty? John?”

  Our first names. Nice touch. We stood and followed the nurse down a bright hallway with taupe walls.

  Our attorney Lars Franke visited this doctor’s office last week and took care of the necessary paperwork, adding an extra layer of privacy protection on top of the country’s already-strict patient confidentiality laws. Having the medical staff sign additional confidentiality documents was a routine matter anytime a member of the royal family needed to see a specialist. That, and we always had our appointments after hours. Because we were seeing an OB/GYN who specialized in infertility, we really wanted to keep this on the down-low. In fact, John had asked Lars not to mention our appointment to anyone in the family.

  The nurse led us into a spacious, neat exam room. “Dr. Dreesen will be right in to see you.”

  John sat stiff and upright in the chair. When we were alone, I took his hand. “Thank you for coming with me.”