Loving Liam Read online

  We have already bought our tickets to Paris, and I have been looking forward to the adventure of a lifetime with the love of my life.

  Chapter Two

  “Is there something wrong with me?” I ask my doctor nervously.

  “No,” Leslie says with a smile. “Even for a perfectly healthy woman, it can take a while to get pregnant. There are so many factors that come into play. Don't worry so much, and just keep trying! Stressing about it will only make it more challenging.”

  “But my periods are so irregular,” I tell her with a frown.

  “Have you been tracking how often you get them?” she asks me.

  “Only recently. It’s been something like every 38 to 45 days.”

  “That could still be normal,” Dr. Leslie Howard says while making notes. It’s strange seeing her like this now, in a lab coat. I haven’t visited her office for a while, since she’s usually been present at family gatherings for the past few months. “Having a cycle that’s a little longer than the average is still healthy, as long as it’s fairly regular. Have you missed any periods altogether?”

  “Yes. Earlier this year when I was in that car crash.”

  “Have you ever missed multiple periods in a row?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so. But… I was blind for quite a while, so it’s hard to say for sure. I used to start wearing pads as soon as I started to feel cramps or breast tenderness, a few days before I expected my period. I also wore the pads a day or two after I stopped feeling that sticky wetness, just to be sure.” Hesitating, I think back farther and begin to worry. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what life was like before I could see. How did I get by at all? How did I live each day, not knowing all these basic things, like whether there was blood staining my underwear?

  “Were your periods heavy or painful?” she asks.

  “Not really. Sometimes I had very light periods,” I explain, “with no pain to warn me that they were coming. That happened a lot when I was living on my own in New Hampshire, and I guess… I can’t really be sure if I got my period at all. When I was away, I couldn’t ask Carmen to check and see if I was bleeding—sometimes it just feels the same as, you know, being turned on.”

  Leslie nods and jots down more information. I suddenly feel very awkward and embarrassed talking about this, because I remember that Leslie is now dating my father. A hot blush reaches my cheeks, and I don’t need to be able to see to confirm that my cheeks are actually bright red. I just talked to my father’s girlfriend about being turned on. And she nodded. Does that mean that she has been turned on lately? By my dad? This is just way too weird.

  I am lucky that she does not even notice the topic, and continues to discuss my health. “When you came back from New Hampshire, you were very underweight. While you weren’t malnourished, simply being underweight can result in hormonal changes and missed periods. It’s called amenorrhea. Going forward, now that you can see, I want you to pay more attention to your periods and write down when you get them. Also, if you notice any pain during ovulation, around the middle of your period, make note of when that happens, too.”

  “Okay,” I say, as my worries return. What if there really is something wrong?

  “Amenorrhea occurs often in female athletes with low body fat percentages,” she explains. “You’re still pretty skinny, so I would recommend that you make sure you’re getting enough calories every day. You should aim for 2000 calories, especially once you get pregnant. Also, keep taking those prenatal vitamins and DHA—maybe even set an alarm so you don’t forget to take them. Oh, and Helen? You might want to cut back on the wine.”

  I feel my shoulders sloop in sheepish guilt. “I’ll try.”

  “Don’t try,” she says firmly. “It’s necessary that you make all the lifestyle changes you need to make now, so your body is strong before going into the pregnancy. So many women just flip a switch and decide to be health-conscious once they’ve conceived, but it’s already too late. Your body is still recovering from the damage you were doing to it before, on a regular basis. That means your body is wasting precious resources fixing itself instead of nourishing the embryo during critical stages of development.”

  I gulp at the harsh, didactic tone in her voice. She sounds like a teacher who was disappointed in my assignment because she thinks I can do so much better. She sounds like an employer who is disappointed in my work performance, and would really like to promote me if I’d just bring my A-game. She sounds like… a parent.

  “Besides,” Leslie says a little more gently, “changing habits is a massive undertaking. With the amount of wine you drink, you probably have some dependency issues. You’ll have to cut back slowly to avoid any unsavory withdrawal symptoms, like headaches, shaky hands, or insomnia.”

  “Leslie!” I say with wide eyes. “Are you calling me an alcoholic?”

  “No. I said nothing of the sort.”

  “But you and Dad went to wine country this weekend and came home with five cases of vintage wine!” I say accusingly. “You encouraged me to try a little from each vineyard!”

  “That was done strictly as a friend, and now I’m speaking as your doctor.”

  “It’s not fair,” I tell her. “Maybe you could set a good example by not drinking so much in front of me. It doesn’t make it easier.”

  “Honey, when you’ve gone through menopause, you can have all the wine you want. Personally, I reserve the right to have a few glasses and enjoy my old age with that dashing grey gentleman…”

  “Too much information!” I say quickly, trying to avoid the imagery of Dad and Leslie getting it on.

  Leslie laughs lightly. “Okay, we’ll try to tone it down a little when you come by my house.”

  Her house. The reminder that our house was partially destroyed in a fire sobers me up a little. It’s hard to believe that Grayson’s best friend was far crazier than he was and would go to such lengths to hurt my sister. It’s been several months, and insurance did pay for the repairs, but the house still isn’t ready for us to move back in. I’ve been mostly staying at Liam’s, while Dad stays with Leslie, and Carmen stays alone in her new penthouse apartment. With the house gone, we’ve all been separated again.

  Thinking about what Carmen’s been through lately brings me back to my original goal.

  A baby.

  “Are there any tests I can do to make sure I’m fertile?” I ask Dr. Howard. “I read about AMH testing to see how many eggs I have remaining. What about Liam’s sperm count? Do you think it would be helpful to have him tested? What about DNA testing us both to make sure the baby won’t have any birth defects or abnormalities…”

  “Helen!” Leslie exclaims. “Calm down. All of that is completely unnecessary.”

  “But Carmen lost her baby,” I say in a hoarse voice. “I know that Brad drugged her, but is it possible that there was something about the baby that made it unhealthy? Something genetic, something to do with our family?”

  “It’s unlikely,” Leslie says in a soft voice. “Carmen’s baby was healthy, Helen. It was your sister who was unable to carry to full term, for a variety of reasons, physical and emotional. Stress plays a very important role.”

  I nod slowly. “Still—if there are any tests I can do at all—just to make sure things will go well. I would like to just… know something.”

  Leslie hesitates. She turns around and goes to her desk in the examination room. She ruffles through some papers for a moment, but not finding what she is looking for, pulls her phone out of her pocket. She scans through something with her thumb, and I grow anxious wondering whether she’s reading notes, emails, or text messages. I hold my breath, anticipating bad news.

  “You know, genetic testing might be a good idea,” Leslie says finally, “or more specifically, genetic counseling for you two as a couple. I can get you into a clinical trial being conducted by some of my colleagues at John’s Hopkins. After all, we do know that you are a carrier of LCA, and it might be u
seful to know if Liam is also a carrier. It is an autosomal recessive disease, which would give your children a 25% chance of being born blind if he is a carrier. But in some rare cases, your disease may be dominant, and your child could have an increased risk of being born with LCA.”

  I take a deep breath. My whole life, I’ve been aware that there was a chance that my children could also be born blind. There were times when I thought it was better to give up any hope of having kids, but those days are long behind me. “While that’s scary, it’s not my biggest concern. My quality of life wasn’t hugely impacted by my blindness. I just want to know if I’ll have a healthy baby… who survives.”

  “Then take advantage of this study,” Leslie says softly. “LCA is your way in, but they will thoroughly test both you and Liam for all possible genetic abnormalities. They work fast, too. All you have to do is send in sealed vials of your saliva, and then you’ll be able to view your information online. You can also meet with a counselor if you need more advice. The study is about the impact of genetic knowledge on couples trying to conceive, so you will have to agree to fill out questionnaires about the experience, and all the information will remain confidential.”

  I stare at her for a moment as I ponder this. “I am not sure that Liam will like the idea.”

  “For good reason,” Leslie says. “It could open a world of information that you’d be better off not finding out. Sometimes couples get so scared that they decide not to have a baby at all to avoid the risk of having a sick child, when in reality, their child might have been perfectly healthy. This information can destroy relationships.”

  I am having trouble prioritizing Liam over the health of my potential children. “Would you do it if you were in my shoes, Leslie?”

  “Absolutely. Having a healthy baby is like winning the genetic lottery. Before diving in, a DNA test could help you understand the odds of the game a little better. Just don’t get discouraged and stop trying, because if you don’t buy a ticket, you can’t win.”

  My shoulders relax and a smile settles on my face. “Okay. Sign me up!”

  “I’ll email you the information,” Leslie says. “Usually, I would only recommend the testing for a couple who already had a child born with a defect or chromosomal abnormality, but I consider you family, Helen. It’s better to be safe than sorry. Any amount of information you can gather beforehand could give you the ability to anticipate and treat problems before they even arise.”

  “You don’t have to sell me any more on this. The last time you sent a medical study my way, gene therapy cured my eyes and landed me a fiancé. It couldn’t hurt to give this one a try.”

  “Just give it some serious thought first, Helen.” She pauses and looks at me sympathetically. “Everyone has the potential for all kinds of horrible, unwanted diseases programmed into their DNA. You might go in looking to ease your mind, and it might give you all kinds of additional stress you don’t need. When you’re dealing with genetics, you never know what kind of frightening information you might discover.”

  The tone of her voice gives me a chill. “Maybe I’ll discover that I have latent superpowers?” I say hopefully.

  Leslie doesn’t smile. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Chapter Three

  Dr. Liam Larson

  “For the last time, Owen. I will not do a Magic Mike dance routine with you at my wedding.”

  “Why not?” Owen says with a pout.

  “Because it’s not going to be that kind of wedding,” I explain. “It’s going to be simple and low-key.”

  “You’re boring,” Owen grumbles between sips of his appletini. Yes, he actually ordered an appletini. At a sports bar. “Can we perform any dance routine at all?” he pleads.

  “No.”

  “Fine,” Owen says, sulking and nursing his bright green cocktail. “You’ll never go viral on YouTube with that attitude.”

  I fight back a smile. I don't know why anything about him surprises me anymore. Lately, we’ve been lucky enough to have some shifts at work that finish around the same time, so we’ve been trying to uphold the time-honored manly tradition of having a drink after work. But while most of the men around us are ‘having beer with the guys’ in the true American fashion, Owen feels the constant need to thwart social convention and confuse everyone by ordering girly drinks or colorful margaritas roughly the size of his own head. Owen is simply Owen, I wouldn’t have him any other way.

  “So how small is this wedding going to be?” he asks me.

  Taking a swig of my scotch, I lean back in my chair. “We’ve narrowed it down to eight people.”

  “Eight people!” he exclaims in horror. “Liam, are you crazy? I’m almost surprised that you have room for me! Are you even inviting anyone from work?”

  “No. I don’t want to involve them in my personal life.”

  “Earth to Liam! Have you gone and become a minimalist monk when I wasn’t looking? Jesus! If you’re scared of doing seating plans, I can help,” Owen offers. “Isn’t that what the best man is for? I can cross-reference your guests with Helen's and make sure that no one wants to murder their dinner companions. It took me and Caroline a whole week to get our seating plan right.”

  “For the wedding that you didn't actually go through with?” I remind him dryly. “You're hardly the expert, buddy. The whole point is to actually get married.”

  “That’s not the point at all! The point is to celebrate. My non-wedding was still a great party; everyone had fun and danced, even if no one actually got married. Isn’t that better than a stiff, cold, mechanical signing of papers in a courtroom?”

  “Well, it’s not going to be that basic. We’re going to have flowers and some friends and family, and a nice dinner. It’s going to be sweet and memorable, but we are saving our money and our focus for having an actual successful marriage, not just an extravagant wedding to show off and compensate for our insecurities about our relationship.”

  “Hey,” Owen says with a bit of hurt in his voice. “Caroline’s dad forced me into that whole thing. I would have gone through with the wedding if Caroline didn’t want to go off and find herself.”

  “I know,” I say apologetically, “but it really was the best thing for you in the end.”

  “It was,” Owen says softly. “Things have been so easy since I began dating Carmen. Love is supposed to be easy, isn’t it? You’re supposed to want the same things. Life with someone you care about shouldn’t be a constant game of tug-o-war.”

  “Yeah,” I say softly, taking another long drink. I feel guilty for running out on Helen this morning, but these nightmares have been leaving me really shaken up. Even during my lunch break today, when I crashed for a few minutes in the break room, I somehow had the same damned dream. Always my mother, always that baby. If I could somehow avoid going to sleep at all, I would.

  “Caroline has been doing really well since our non-wedding,” Owen tells me. “She’s wild and free and happy, and experimenting with dating lots of incredibly hot women. We stay in touch, and she sends me pics. That was my one condition in accepting her becoming a lesbian and leaving me at the altar—there must be hot pics. I honestly think she’s gotten more action in the past three months than I have in my entire life.”

  “Who’s getting action?” A female voice interrupts our conversation.

  I look up to see that Helen is approaching our table, and a smile brightens my face. I stand up to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek before making room for her in our booth. She slides in to sit beside me and places a hand on my leg as she looks up at me with a bit of sadness in her dark eyes. Her eyes have always been a landscape of emotion, fast-changing and breathtaking; I pride myself on being able to discern her thoughts and feelings from their shadows and shine, long before she ever speaks. After all, I have operated on those eyes multiple times, and none should be more acquainted with them than I am. Now, it is easy to decipher that she is disappointed and worried, and once again, I feel guilty
for the way I left things this morning.

  “We were just talking about my ex,” Owen says cheerfully. “She’s having so much fun since she gave up on men and chose scissors over forks.”

  “I don’t see how any of the women in your life could not want to give up on men and become lesbians,” my fiancée says, and a wicked glint enters her eyes as her lips curl in a tiny smirk.

  “Ouch,” Owen says, clutching his heart. “I fear that may be true, good lady.”

  Helen nods gravely. “Speaking of another soon-to-be-lesbian, where is my sister? I thought you were going to convince her to join us?”

  “She doesn’t feel like leaving her penthouse,” Owen says with a shrug. “Since the event, she’s locked herself up there like a princess in a tower. I’m just lucky that she lets me climb up her hair now and then.”

  Helen is quiet for a moment as she reaches out to grasp my scotch. The glass is nearly to her lips when she hesitates and stares down at the amber liquid pensively.

  Reaching to my side, I place my hand on the small of her back. She continues to stare at my drink, and I feel the need to interrupt her reverie. “How was your day?” I ask her as I run my hand over her back. “How’s the book coming along?”

  She glances at me and sighs as she places my drink down and pushes it around on the table. “I couldn’t write because I was so stressed out. I went to see Dr. Howard, and she confirmed that I’m still not pregnant—but she did give me some interesting advice about the whole situation.”

  “What advice?” I ask her, but the feelings of dread begin to return at the mention of pregnancy. The images from my nightmare return, and I feel a little sick at the realistic sensation of holding the bloody newborn in my arms. I never had much of a creative streak, but being engaged to a writer must be rubbing off on me—my imagination is going wild.