Vital Signs by Robin Cook Page A

pleasure,” Dr. Wingate said.

Marissa hurried from the lab. She went to the elevators and pushed the Up button: What had brought her to the clinic that morning was an appointment to see Linda Moore, a psychologist.

Between the final talk with Robert the night before and his decision to sleep in the guest room, Marissa had decided to call about counseling first thing in the morning. Whether Robert went or not, Marissa. decided she needed to talk to a professional about the emotional stresses of IVF.

When she’d made the call, she thought she’d have to wait for an appointment, but Mrs. Hargrave had warned the staff psychologist that if Marissa called, she should be seen quickly.

Linda Moore’s office was on the sixth floor, the very floor from which Rebecca Ziegler had jumped. The coincidence made Marissa a bit uncomfortable. As she walked down the hall, she morbidly tried to guess which window Rebecca had leaped from.

 
     
She wondered if the woman’s last straw had been something she’d gleaned from her clinic record. Marissa remembered that Rebecca had left the downstairs waiting room with the express purpose of reading her record.
     
     
“Go right in,” the secretary said when Marissa identified herself.
     
     
As she moved toward the door, Marissa questioned if she truly wanted to go through with the appointment. It hardly took a professional to tell her IVF was stressful. Besides, she was embarrassed to have to make excuses why Robert wouldn’t come with her.
     
     
“Go right in!” the secretary repeated, seeing Marissa pause at the door.
     
     
Realizing she no longer had a choice, Marissa entered the office.
     
     
The room was soothingly decorated with comfortably upholstered furniture and muted tones of green and gray. The window, however, looked out on the stark brick courtyard six floors below. Marissa wondered what Linda Moore had been doing when Rebecca made her leap into infinity.
     
     
“Why don’t you close the door?” Linda suggested, gesturing with her free hand. She was young; Marissa guessed, in her late twenties. She also had an accent, just like Mrs. Hargrave.
     
     
“Have a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment,” Linda said.
     
     
She was on the phone.
     
     
Marissa sat down on a dark green chair facing Linda’s desk.
     
     
The woman was rather petite, with short reddish hair and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her phone conversation was obviously with a patient, and it made Marissa uncomfortable. She tried not to listen. But it was soon over, and Linda turned her full attention to Marissa.
     
     
“I’m glad you called,” she said with a smile.
     
     
Almost immediately, Marissa felt glad too. Linda Moore struck her as being both competent and warm. Encouraged by Linda, Marissa. soon began to open up. Although Linda saw patients with a wide variety of problems at the Women’s Clinic,
     
     
Marissa learned that a good portion of her practice involved IVF. She understood exactly what Marissa had been going through, perhaps better than Marissa did herself.
     
     
“Basically, the problem is a Sophie’s choice,” Linda said halfway into the hour.
     
     
“You have two equally unsatisfactory possibilities: you can accept your infertility without further treatment as your husband is suggesting and thereby live a life that is contrary to your expectations, or you can continue with the IVF which will lead to continued stress on yourself and on you; relationship, continued cost as your husband has pointed out, and continued stress for you both with no guarantee of success.”
     
     
“I’ve never heard it put so succinctly,” Marissa said.
     
     
“I think it is important to be clear,” Linda said.
     
     
“And honest.
     
     
And being honest starts with yourself. You have to understand what your choices are so you can make rational decisions.”
     
     
Gradually, Marissa began to feel more comfortable about revealing