Inconceivable! Page 22

  “We’ll do whatever Hatty wants in terms of medicine and procedures. But I am not divorcing her, even if she never gets pregnant. And I forbid you to speak to her again about any of this.”

  John slammed the cue stick onto the table, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out the door.

  Astrid set a paper bag on the dresser in our bedroom. “Here’s your medicine, Madam.”

  “Thanks, Astrid.”

  After she left the room, I walked over and picked up the bag. I liked the name of the ovary stimulating drug: Overa. It sounded hopeful, and reminded me of the word “overcome.” Astrid’s name was listed as the patient, yet another layer of protection for us.

  John burst into our bedroom, his eyes huge and his mouth open.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There was an explosion at the smelter,” he said with almost no inflection in his voice.

  “The one near Kortrijk?” A sinking feeling opened in my stomach because I knew damn well there was no other smelter.

  “Yes. We have to go to Belvoir. Now.”

  On the fifteen minute drive, John gave me the details. No one had been killed or injured when a homemade bomb exploded inside one of the hallways. It went off in an area that was empty on the weekends, thank goodness. The authorities suspected an employee had something to do with it.

  At Belvoir, the public affairs staff was in overdrive. Though they offered advice, their job was to follow our decisions on how, when, and what to communicate to the public through the media. Cilla asked me and John to step inside her office.

  “Hatty, there’s already chatter on social media about the investigation you did as an intern into the environmental impact of the plant. You need to tell me everything.” Cilla had a pen and notepad in hand. We’d gone over this once before.

  I told her about the interviews I conducted and the spreadsheets I created. All the work was saved on my school laptop, which I’d returned to the university’s computer help desk. I watched them wipe the hard drive. All my handwritten notes were in a big box in storage at Langbroek.

  “It looks like the source of the social media posts is Les Valenciennes. I’m sure they feel some level of betrayal since you left them to join the institution they adamantly oppose,” Cilla said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  I hardly knew what to say. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But that doesn’t matter to them. They deal in speculation and innuendo.” She turned her laptop around so I could see it. “Look at this post from one of your former colleagues. ‘The Duchess set out to help the people of Kortrijk by investigating how the smelter is harming local residents, but the crown bought her silence.’”

  I was standing at the bottom of a ravine looking up as the wolves descended.

  ust relax, Hatty.” If only.

  John stood beside me as I reclined on the exam table. The cold instrument filled me when it reached its destination between my legs. Dr. Dreesen smiled and after a moment, removed it.

  “That’s it. You did a beautiful job.”

  If by ‘beautiful job’ you mean spreading my legs, then yes, it was gorgeous.

  “Now we wait?”

  “Yes. And you can sit up. We’ll see you back in two weeks for a blood test to see if the IUI worked.”

  She left, and John kissed my lips. “Let’s go celebrate our first and only in utero insemination with popcorn and a movie.”

  “Sure. You pick the movie. I don’t want anything mushy or sappy. Okay?”

  “Agreed. No sap. No mush. Inglorious Basterds it is.”

  Smudged cheeks surrounded me and tiny fingers tugged at my dress. We were eight days post-IUI, visiting a preschool to make a push for early childhood education funding increases. The assembly was debating federal appropriations, so we needed media coverage of our position. After John made prepared remarks to the three reporters we allowed inside the childcare center, it was play time.

  “What’s your name?” A little boy with spiky blond hair put his hand on my arm.

  “Hatty. What’s yours?”

  “Hat-EE! Do you like hats?”

  “Yes! Do you have one I can wear?”

  He turned and walked away. I looked over at John. The teacher had lined up all the little girls who wanted to see him. One of them had a tiara perched askew atop a mop of stringy brown hair. She held a baseball bat over her shoulder. She doesn’t trust this prince guy.

  “Here, Hat-EE!”

  The blond boy held a triangular pirate’s hat, which had an eye patch attached to it. I put it on, and slid the patch into place. “Arr, mateys!”

  The group of kids around me laughed, and some replied with their own “Arr!”

  “Hat-EE! Where are your kids?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Adrian Raske.”

  “Well, Adrian Raske, I’m not a mom yet. But when I have kiddos, I hope they’re half as cute as you!”

  I placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. Adrian smiled as a chorus of delighted squeals erupted from the other children. The one photographer we allowed inside the center clicked his camera repeatedly.

  This was our first post-bomb public appearance, and we wanted to keep the focus on the preschool funding issue. The three reporters followed the rules we set out and didn’t ask us any questions.

  As we left through a side door, we encountered a line of angry-looking reporters. They shouted questions at us because there were no rules out here.

  “Duchess, will you release your investigative work on the environmental impact of the smelter?”

  “Your Highness, will you take seriously the allegations of environmental harm in Kortrijk caused by the smelter?”

  We had extra guards with us, and we made it through the gauntlet to the safety of the waiting car with only their words accosting us.

  Prince John and Duchess Hatty Refuse to Answer Questions about the Bomb… AND, Is the Royal Couple Trying for a Baby?

  By Xpress staff

  March 9, 2015

  At an appearance this morning at Regent’s Primary School in the capital city, the first public sighting of the pair since the explosion at the Kortrijk smelter, the Prince and Duchess took no questions from reporters about the incident. They also refused to comment on the investigation the Duchess was doing on the environmental impact of the smelter prior to her marriage to the prince.

  But the Duchess did chat up the children inside. She reportedly told a child “I’m not a mom yet.” Her comment feeds speculation we may soon hear the sound of little feet running through the halls of Langbroek Palace.

  “By saying, ‘I’m not a mom yet,’ she’s making it clear she and Prince John have started trying to get pregnant,” said Anna Fetke, a historian whose work chronicles the last five decades of Toulene’s royal family. “It’s no surprise they’d want to have a baby now. They’ve been married for more than a year!”

  Meanwhile, baby watch is heating up for Prince Henri and Duchess Adela as they prepare to welcome their first child this month. The duchess was spotted shopping for baby clothes in the upscale Vrel neighborhood. Speculation over the baby’s gender continues as the due date approaches!

  ohn tapped on the door and we heard Adela’s sweet Spanish accent: “Si! Come in!”

  She lay in bed looking completely worn out but lovely as she cradled the new little life in her arms. Henri stood and hugged John. Their embrace lasted longer than I expected, and when they pulled apart, Henri was wiping away tears. We stood beside the bed and Adela pulled back the blankets exposing the scrunched up face of our nephew.

  “Oh, Adela. He’s perfect.” I swallowed hard to keep back my own tears.

  A flash of jealousy and longing ripped through my body. Henri and Adela didn’t know our first in utero insemination had failed. They didn’t even know we’d had an IUI. Raw grief lay in wait, poised to creep around the corner and hijack any thought it wanted to overtake.

  “Mum would be so ecstatic,�
� John said, almost in a whisper. I squeezed his hand.

  “Does he have a name?” I consciously steadied my voice.

  Henri looked at his brother and said, “Juan. Named for the man I admire most.”

  John’s face took on a new light. “I don’t know what to say… This is an unexpected honor.”

  Adela shifted toward me and extended the baby in her arms. “Hatty, would you like to hold him?”

  I nodded as I sat on the bed and let her place the infant in my arms. For the first time since we arrived, he opened his eyes. I pulled him close to my face and smelled the clean newness of this tiny being. Closing my eyes, I imagined I was holding my baby. The minute the thought entered my head, I pushed it away. If I let my mind wander in that direction, John would have to carry me home in a weeping heap.

  “You’re a natural, Hatty! I can’t wait for Juan to have some cousins,” Henri said, oblivious to all we were doing to make that happen. I looked up at him and smiled, intense heat radiating through my body. The hot flashes were an annoying side effect of the ovulation stimulation medication.

  We stayed only a few minutes more, excusing ourselves so Adela and the baby could rest.

  “What do you say we go to De Haan after the IUI next week?” John asked, taking my hand in his as we descended the stairs.

  “Sure. I’ll never turn down a trip to the beach.”

  “I just think it might be good for you to be in a more peaceful setting, away from the madness that’s going to envelop Belvoir now that the baby is here.”

  As we made our way to the car, I felt relief at the thought of escaping the media frenzy surrounding the new prince. Outside Belvoir’s fence, men and women with still and video cameras were lined up, waiting for something to happen. When they saw the gates open and our car emerge, they flipped into overdrive, clicking their cameras and yelling. I blocked it out by imagining our little cottage in De Haan holding us within its cozy walls, our own protective womb.

  When our car cleared the reporters, I released a gush of air and twin tears ran down my face. John put his arm around me and pulled me close, kissing my forehead.

  y cell phone buzzed while John and I ate breakfast. It was Cilla. She asked me to put her on speaker phone after I confirmed we were alone.

  “Hatty, does the name Leisel de Vries sound familiar to you?”

  I thought for a moment. I’d met so many people since John and I had been together. I had a hard time keeping track of names, though I was pretty good at recognizing faces.

  “I don’t know. Should it?”

  “The Royal Guard arrested her last night. They think she’s involved in the bombing. When they questioned her, she told them you had interviewed her when you worked at The Morning Dispatch. Is that true?”

  Of course. Leisel de Vries was one of the women in Kortrijk. I’d interviewed her during my internship. Her story flooded my mind.

  “Yes, that’s right. She told me she and her husband had trouble getting pregnant, and they believed their infertility was somehow related to pollution from the smelter. But why do they think she was involved with the bombing?”

  “She and her husband recently had their third unsuccessful in vitro fertilization cycle. They appealed the national healthcare system’s three cycle limit. Two days before the bombing, Leisel received news the appeals board voted to deny their claim,” Cilla said dismissively.

  I nearly gagged on her words. Had my failure to follow through on my investigative story led to this? If I’d kept digging and my story had run, maybe Leisel and the others would’ve received some additional financial and medical help from Toulene’s government. The dots might not connect directly, but I felt hugely responsible for Leisel’s desperation. It felt similar to the desperation I felt every time I saw a single pink line on a pregnancy test.

  “Hatty, are you alright? You look ill,” John said, coming around the table to me.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Cilla, do you need anything else from us?”

  “No. Just wanted to find out if Leisel’s claims about Hatty interviewing her were true. Hatty, tell me one more time no one else has copies of the work you did on this story.” Cilla sounded uncharacteristically nervous.

  “No one has my work.”

  We got off the phone and I had to lie down. I’d failed a sister soldier in the fight against infertility.

  The black car sat in traffic. We were headed to Dr. Dreesen’s office for a second round of IUI.

  “When we get to the office, and you have to go do your thing, take my phone with you.” I handed it to John.

  “Why?”

  “Watch the last movie I made.”

  He pushed the home button and started scrolling.

  “Hey! Not now.”

  Bernard sat up front with the driver. I didn’t want either one of them to know what I’d done. I reached for the phone, but John was faster. He leaned away from me and hit play.

  “I can’t believe my wife is such a bad girl,” he whispered.

  “Save it for later,” I hissed. “I just thought you might like some… inspiration.” I knew he hated having to go into a room and “perform” on cue.

  “This will do nicely. Thank you.” He leaned over, kissed me, and grabbed my breast through my shirt. My eyes darted to the front. Bernard and the driver were looking straight ahead.

  I sat on the table in the exam room, waiting for Dr. van Noort to do the in utero insemination. Since our IUI last month, Dr. Dreesen had delivered her baby and was now on maternity leave. So, we put our fate in the hands of young Dr. van Noort, a Dutch man with floppy blond hair. For me, this part of the process was fast and clinical. Otherwise, it was just too weird to think about another man putting my husband’s sperm inside of me.

  I didn’t ask John to join me for the painless procedure this time.

  Dr. van Noort worked quickly and in a matter of moments, the IUI was done. John came in afterward while I lay horizontal on the table.

  “Look at you, Wonder Woman. You can get pregnant without your husband in the room,” John said, stroking my cheek.

  He placed his hand on top of the sheet above my abdomen. “C’mon, Baby King. You’ve set the stage for a grand entrance. It’s time.”

  “Yes! This is your mother speaking to you. Get your booty in gear, Baby King. You’re late!” I laughed at my own silliness to keep from crying my eyes out.

  “Knock, knock.” I peered through a crack in the door.

  “Hey! Come in.”

  I walked into Tilda’s office in the assembly building, closing the door behind me.

  “I’m really sorry to barge in on you like this.” That’s as far as I got before my desperation erupted in hot tears. My lungs demanded air in hiccupped gulps.

  Rushing around her desk, Tilda encircled me with her arms.

  “I’m sorry. Do you know how much I hate to cry?”

  “Shh. Just breathe,” Tilda instructed, squeezing me close to her.

  I nodded and she released me. Taking a couple of slow, deep breaths, I pushed my despair into the basement of my heart as I did almost every day. An online post from a high school friend announcing she was pregnant with her second baby―morning sickness again? What a drag!―had released my sorrow from its usual hiding place.

  “Aren’t you guys leaving for De Haan today?” She handed me a tissue.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She let go and gave me a tissue. Wiping my eyes, I confessed: “I have horrible thoughts, you know. This whole infertility thing―it’s not about John. It’s not even about the baby. It’s about me being a failure.”

  “You’re not a failure. You can’t beat yourself up over this. It’s not your fault.”

  “And I have to keep up a positive front. Even to John. What if this IUI doesn’t work?” A small shriek and then more tears and hiccupping. The possibility of failure weakened any remaining shred of optimism, leaving hopelessness in its place.

  Tilda set her hands on my
shoulders, shaking me gently. “Then you’ll think of something else. This isn’t the end of the line. You’ve got plenty of time and lots of options. Have you guys talked about adoption?”

  “No. I’m open to it, but I have no idea what fresh weirdness that conversation might spawn. If I brought up adoption, John would think I’m admitting defeat. And I’m not.”

  “Of course not. Look, go to the beach and relax. When can you test to see if the IUI worked?”

  “The day after tomorrow. Will he hate me if I can’t give him children? I have one job, Tilda. One job!” I bit my knuckles to prevent more shrieks and tears.

  Tilda hugged me again. “Don’t stress, okay? That’s definitely not good. No one gets pregnant with this kind of pressure hanging over them. It’s going to be fine.”

  Yeah, right. Fine was a faraway country, inaccessible to me.

  e walked along the sandy shore in De Haan, bundled up in field jackets and knitted caps. We didn’t resent the cold because it kept the tourists at bay until June and allowed us to walk unnoticed, even on the public beaches.

  “Tomorrow’s the day, right?” John kicked a shell with the toe of his sneaker.

  “Yep. I’ve got two pregnancy tests in case we don’t believe the first one.”

  “Only two? I’m not sure I believe you. I know about the massive stash in your armoire at home. How are you feeling?”

  “Good. A little nauseated, I guess.”

  “Is that a sign you’re pregnant?”

  “I don’t know. I sometimes feel this way when I have my period.” A few days before my period was due, my body tortured me. Every month, it produced what I inevitably misconstrued as early pregnancy symptoms. Sore boobs? Check. Weird cravings? You bet. Lower back pain? Without fail. Even though I knew―KNEW―this happened every month, I still got excited when my breasts became tender and the cavalcade of other pregnancy signs made an appearance. It was a cruel deception I endured cycle after cycle.