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assumed it would, which was part of the reason she was so angry when he had initially refused to go to the clinic, especially since the last in-vitro cycle had failed because fertilization had not occurred. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and seeing the high color of her cheeks, Marissa realized just how obsessed she was becoming. Even her eyes looked like those of a stranger in their unblinking intensity.

Marissa adjusted her dress. She warned herself about getting her hopes up too high after so many disappointments. There were so many stages where things could go wrong. First she had to produce the eggs, and they had to be retrieved before she ovulated spontaneously. Then fertilization had to occur. Then the embryos had to be transferred into her uterus and become implanted.

Then, if all that happened as it was supposed to, she’d be pregnant. And then she’d have to start worrying about a miscarriage. There were so many chances for failure. Yet in her mind’s eye she could see the sign on the waiting room wall in the in-vitro unit: YOU ONLY FAIL

WHEN

YOU GIVE UP TRYING.

She had to go through with it.

As pessimistic as she was, Marissa could still close her eyes and envision a tiny baby in her arms.

“Be patient, little one,” she whispered. In her heart she knew that if the child ever arrived, it would make all this effort worthwhile. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking this way, but Marissa was beginning to feel it would be the only way to save her marriage.

March 19, 1990

9:15 A.M.

Walking beneath the glass-enclosed walkway that separated the main clinic building from the overnight ward and emergency area, Robert and Marissa entered the brick courtyard and started up the front steps of the Women’s Clinic. The particular color and pattern of the granite made Marissa think about all the times that she’d climbed the steps, facing innumerable “minor procedures.” Involuntarily her footsteps slowed, no doubt a response conditioned by the collective pain of a thousand needle pricks.

“Come on,” Robert urged. He was gripping Marissa’s hand and had sensed her momentary resistance. He glanced briefly at his watch. They were already late.

Marissa tried to hurry. Today’s egg retrieval was to be her fourth. She well knew the degree of discomfort she could expect.

But for Marissa the fear of the pain was less of a concern than the possibility of complications. Part of the problem of being both a doctor and a patient was knowing all the terrible things that could go wrong. She shuddered as her mind ticked off a list of potentially lethal possibilities.

Once Robert and Marissa were inside the clinic, they skirted the main information booth and headed directly to the In-Vitro Fertilization Unit on the second floor. They had traveled this route on several occasions, or at least Marissa had.

Stepping into the usually quiet waiting room with its plush carpet and tapestry-upholstered chairs, they were treated to a spectacle neither had been prepared to see.

“I am not going to be put off!” shouted a well-dressed, slim woman. Marissa guessed she was about thirty years old. It was rare in any of the clinic’s waiting rooms to hear anyone speak above a whisper, much less shout. It was as surprising as hearing someone yelling aloud in a church.

“Mrs. Ziegler,” said the startled receptionist.

“Please!” The receptionist was cowering behind her desk chair.

“Don’t Mrs. Ziegler me,” the woman shouted.

“This is the third time I’ve come in here for my records. I want them now!”

Mrs. Ziegler’s hand shot out and swept the top of the receptionist’s desk clean. There was the jolting shatter of glass and pottery as pens, papers, picture frames, and coffee mugs crashed to the floor.

The dozen or so patients waiting in the room froze in their chairs, stunned by the outburst. Most trained their eyes on the magazines before them, afraid to acknowledge the scene being acted out