“Has your husband ever gotten anyone pregnant before?” my doctor asked. We were trying to figure out the reason for my infertility.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. I’ll ask.” It seemed like something I should know.
On my drive home through the winding roads of Marin County, I called my husband, Nick. At first, I avoided the question by telling him about what happened that day at the restaurant where I worked — a line cook was out sick. And, oh yeah, my doctor asked if you have ever gotten anyone pregnant.
Redwood trees loomed on both sides, creating an artificial dusk. Silence.
“Hello?” I said.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Nick said. “And, uh, yes, I have. My senior year in high school.”
“Whoa, you never told me about that. Does that mean she had an abortion?”
“Uh huh, she did,” he said, his voice barely audible.
What? Four years into marriage and this never came up? “I can barely hear you,” I said, trying to sound light. “Let’s talk more later. For now, I guess I can report back that your parts seem to be in good working order.”
At home, we cooked dinner, fed the cat, drank wine, folded laundry, watched a show, brushed our teeth, and still he didn’t bring it up.
