The Choices We Make by Karma Brown

happy woman at our drink date the other night—her eyes red rimmed, her ponytail disheveled and her spirit broken.
    She’d tried to cancel on me; she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to infect me, and could we do it another night? When I showed up at her place thirty minutes later, saying that unless she was vomiting or running a 104-degree fever, she was coming with me, she’d gotten dressed without another word. Ben had watched her carefully as she left the room to get changed, after which we chatted about the nonimportant stuff like work and the girls’ recent soccer game until she came back out. But I knew he was worried, like I was. The past few months had taken a lot out of her, and it was as if whatever was chewing her up inside had just showed up on the outside for all of us to see.
    Another twenty minutes and two magazines later I sat on the exam room table, waiting for the doctor. There was a knock, and a woman’s voice from the other side of the door. “Kate? You all set?”
    Lisa Kadari was a petite woman with a big presence. She had thirteen-year-old twin boys—whom she had somehow managed to birth naturally at six and half pounds apiece—golden skin and hair that hung straight down her back in a glossy black sheet. When I asked her once how she got her hair so shiny, she’d said genetics and coconut oil. So I’d gone out and bought a giant tub of the stuff, slathering it all over my hair that night. I’d woken up with an oil-stained pillowcase despite the plastic shower cap and a new pimple on my forehead. That was the end of my beauty experiment with coconut oil.
    She came in and took both my hands in hers in greeting, and I could see the remnants of a henna tattoo on her skin. “My cousin got married this past weekend,” she said, holding her hands out—her fingers splayed to show off the temporary tattoo.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” I said, noting how intricate the designs were as they wrapped around her fingers and snaked up her arm in deep brown vines and leaves and starbursts, disappearing under the sleeve of her pastel-pink blouse, which poked out from her white coat.
    â€œThank you, I agree. Now, tell me, how are things?”
    I dutifully filled her in for a minute or so on the girls and David and life before she asked, “And what can I do for you today?”
    At this question I shifted slightly, clearing my throat and looking at my toenails, which I had fairly hastily polished that morning when I realized how ugly they looked bare. My feet were never going to win me any compliments, my toes slightly wonky and nails ridged thanks to years of dance class in too-tight shoes.
    I wasn’t due for my annual physical for another seven months, and had been vague with the receptionist when I’d called to see if she could squeeze me in.
    â€œI had a few questions...” My voice trailed, and then I laughed. “I have no idea why I’m so nervous all of a sudden.”
    Dr. Kadari smiled. “Questions about what?”
    â€œAbout another pregnancy,” I replied, the words tumbling out of me quickly.
    â€œYou want to have another baby?”
    â€œNo...that’s not what I want...” Dr. Kadari’s eyebrows rose slightly as she waited for me to explain. “David’s vasectomy might make that a tad tricky.”
    â€œYes, that’s the whole point of a vasectomy,” she said, laughing with me.
    I took a deep breath and looked down at my toes again. “So, here’s the thing. I’m wondering if I’m in okay shape to get pregnant again. If my eggs are, you know, still young enough and all that good stuff.”
    She rested her hands on her crossed knees and leaned back in her chair. “Well, you’re only thirty-five and have two healthy, beautiful children,” she said. “Of course we never can tell about egg quality based on age alone, but I’d say you